Larry (who works in a rehab centre for teens) gave his charges the assignment of writing their life story in 28 words.

So they get the assignment. Due on Wednesday at 5:30. We gather in the group room and they all have their “28 Word Life Stories” in their hands. They’re smiling, but questioning: “Why does Larry have a trash can next to him?” They start to read. What they have written is pure manure. They did the assignment but they didn’t DO the assignment. They read their stories; I scoff, take their papers and wad them up and throw them in the trash. I told you it was easy to complete but hard to master. 90% of the entries make it to the trash bin. Most of the assignments began with “I was born in…went to school at…” YAWN! After the first few assignments get shredded the kids start wadding theirs up before they get a chance to read them. I send them back to the drawing board.

Phase Two: “I want your ENTIRE life summed up in 28 words! I want to feel your life, know your life, live your life!” Now the sweat starts to pour. “This guy’s serious!” You’re damn right I’m serious! I want you to boil your life down to 28 words, and I want to know you after I read your words. Know YOU!

Phase Three: They BEG to write more words. They plead, “I’ll write 280 words, 2,800 words! PLEASE don’t make me do a 28 word life story!!!” That’s like throwing gasoline on a fire. “To your rooms!” The next sound I hear is a lot of paper crumpling.

He shares some that didn’t make it into the trash and encourages readers to leave theirs in the comment section. This one hit me.

I was alone in the womb. I am alone now. In the inbetween I have survived with the skill of being invisible. Especially to myself. Even to God.

If you like to give this a try, his comment section is open. Here’s mine.

Born yelling, still yelling, tripping time after time in anger. Lying wound weary, I know that hand. Cringing, I turn toward Hope, we wait, now and beyond time.