Send Me an I Message

My dad was a minister in the United Methodist Church, though not in the way most people would think. From the time my brother Paul and I were kids through high school, he chose not to serve a local congregation. He didn’t want us growing up as preacher’s kids or “sons of a minister.” Instead, he buried himself in his doctorate at Northwestern University, often locking the door for hours at a time to work on his dissertation. We weren’t allowed to interrupt. To us, it wasn’t a big deal—we just got used to it.

But my dad had another job too, one that felt a little like a scene out of Pulp Fiction. Within the Northern Illinois Conference, when congregations went off the rails—an affair, money gone missing, conflict tearing people apart—he was sent in to put things back together. He was the Wolf. Calm, direct, and unafraid to deal with the mess.

Because of that role, he was constantly learning new techniques at retreats and training seminars. And when he came home, Paul and I became his test subjects. One lesson stuck with me: send an I message. If I asked something sideways—like, “Are you using the car tonight?”—my dad wouldn’t let it slide. He’d stop and say, “Send me an I message.” Which meant I had to look him straight on and say, “May I use the car tonight Dad?”

At the time it was annoying. Painful, even. But looking back, that practice hardwired me into being direct. Sometimes my family teases me for it. My wife has called me “obtuse” more than once. But the truth is, it’s easier—clearer—to just ask for what you want or say what you mean. My dad didn’t just teach me that; he drilled it in.

Here’s the thing that keeps coming to my mind: Greenland sharks, the namesake of our group, often carry a parasite on their eyes that blinds them. They still swim strong and live for centuries, but half the world stays hidden from their view. I’ve realized I can be a little like that too—sometimes blind to what I really want to say, or softening the truth with half-questions instead of just being clear.

That’s where my dad’s I message practice still challenges me. Looking someone in the eye and saying, “Here’s what I need. Here’s what I feel. Here’s where I stand.” It’s not natural for me, even though I was trained in it young. I still stumble, still get called out for being too direct or, at other times, not direct enough.

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But I keep working at it. Maybe that’s what being a Shark is about—swimming forward even when the view isn’t perfect, and trying, day by day, to see a little more clearly.