Father Christmas

As a child, my family celebrated Christmas Eve with my mother’s side and early the next day we would drive less than a mile and spend Christmas Day with the Davis relatives. The celebrations were very different, primarily because my mother’s father was a joy filled man. His laughter could be heard throughout our home as he told stories of Christmas past. He was the foundation for our family. As we gathered around the Christmas tree in the basement of our home, my grandpa would quietly sneak away. The distraction of deciding which present my brother’s and I would open first helped fill the time as he prepared himself. Time would pass, and then we would hear sleigh bells coming down the basement steps and we knew that he was here; around the corner of the room came Santa Claus. He was dressed all in red and white and carried his bag of toys. It wasn’t till years later did I question why Santa wore the same thick black rim glasses that Wild Thing wore in the movie Major League. It didn’t matter, Santa was here and being the youngest I always was first to sit on his lap and share with him what I wanted for Christmas. Santa sat down on the couch and I crawled up into his lap. I could smell Old Spice aftershave on his face as he leaned over to hugged me. He asked every year if I had been a good boy and I would sneak a look at my mom to make sure she would confirm “Yes”, and I nodded my head. Every year Santa always knew what I wanted as he reached into his red velvet bag and pulled out an electric car race set. I would hug him tight not wanting him to leave and eventually jump down from his lap so my brothers could take their turn. 

After he finished delivering his toys, Santa would sit back on the couch and just watch. As an adult with my own children, I know now what he was doing. He was soaking in the memory of the joy he brought to our family and the many gifts that we had. We were farmers, schoolteachers, mechanics and students but it didn’t matter to my grandpa, he only wanted to see our lives filled with happiness. It was such a simple idea, one that has been lost by the many troubles of this world that overwhelm us. I never thought I would find another Father Christmas, the standard that my grandpa had created for me as a child. 

Almost twenty-five years ago, I said “I Do” to my wife. I married a beautiful woman, one filled with an amazing joy for life. Through the years I have watched the birth of my four children. Our family moved into our new home two weeks before our second child was born, we would liver in this amazing house for the next eighteen years. There we told stories around campfires in the summer and fall, slid down the golf course hills in the winter, and got covered in the mud in the spring when the melting snow ran off and filled the creek in our woods. By the time our oldest started second grade, every Saturday afternoon one of our kids was playing in some sporting event at school. My wife made sure that gameday was a family affair. My twin daughters would put on their cheerleading outfits that my wife bought for them and at the age of three years old they stood on the sidelines cheering for their older brothers. This family event was not just limited to my wife and I, for when I married my wife I also married into her family. 

Over the years, I have heard so many horror stories of the in-laws. The experience of suddenly having an additional opinion to the decisions that need to be made by a married couple can add stress and contention that can lead to bitterness. Sometimes it can feel as if there is someone watching your parenting and judging you. It is hard enough to be in unison with your spouse when decisions need to be made, but having another voice providing input can derail many marriages. Sides are chosen and no one feels like they can win. 

With the recent change in my father-in-law’s health, I find myself reflecting on the things that this man has brought to my life. From the initial time I picked up his daughter for our first date, he stood back in the shadows. My mother-in-law was there at the front door greeting me and warmly inviting me into their home. Bob came out from the kitchen with the warmest smile and shook my hand as if to say, “I approve.” I left on that first date with my future wife as Bob stood on the porch making sure I did not speed off and that I signaled at the corner. 

As I fell in love with my wife, her father’s greetings remained the same, a strong handshake and a warm smile. He was there on the porch of the first home I bought before we were married. It was not his approval he was showing me, but instead he was showing me his strength. It is hard to explain how in silence someone can be heard so clearly. He knew that I would always take care of his daughter, and she would be safe. That is really all he wanted me to know, like that first summer evening when I first met him. He wanted to be sure that I would not speed away putting her in danger and he had to see for himself that I was clear on where I was going, did I signal my turns.

Maybe it was his years as a truckdriver. He had never in his forty years of driving been in an accident on the job. He drove from Minneapolis to southern Wisconsin for many years. Through the storms of summer and ice riddled roads of winter, he had never lost control of his rig. He expected the same of me. I was going to be carrying the most precious cargo for the same forty plus years, his daughter. He would tell us about his drives and how he always helped with the load before his drive, even though it was not part of his job description. He would work hand in hand in the warehouse driving the forklift, loading his truck and caring for those around him. He put in the extra effort to help those around him every day, and he expected me to do the same every day for his daughter. I know now that he wanted me to look at every day as an opportunity to lighten her load in this drive, we call life. When the wedding day came, and I stood waiting for her to come to the front and stand with me, her father walked her down the center row and hugged her and then turned to me and with that same handshake and warm smile I had seen over the past two years, he gave me her hand.

Children came, first our oldest son and then another son and several years later, our twin girls. The home I had first bought in Minneapolis became too small for our growing family and we made the move to the country. We moved into a home that had been built in the 1930’s. The landscaping had never been updated and almost everything was overgrown. The biggest eyesore was the three very large pine trees growing directly in front of our new home. They towered over 60 feet tall and were only thirty feet from the front door. They were giants blocking views from every front window. The weekend came and there came Bob in his pickup. He walked up to the door and greeted me with his smile and shook my hand, and said, “We need to take those trees down.” He then walked over to the bed of his pickup truck and grabbed one of his three chainsaws and began climbing up the first tree. He climbed until I could not see him anymore. His wife stood next to me at the base of the tree yelling up at him, “Bob, you be careful. You will get really hurt if you fall from that tree.” Up he climbed until he reached the top. The chainsaw fired up and we quickly moved out of the way. The top of the tree crashed down through the branches. Then the noise of the saw stopped, and Bob climbed down further on the tree.  Then he cut another section of the tree. Then there was silence. I yelled up at him, “Is everything ok?” My wife walked down the driveway to see if he could see him and she gasped and yelled, “Dad, be careful!” She could see her father sitting on top of the notched tree. “I can see downtown Minneapolis from here,” he yelled down at the three of us, “And the entire lake.” The chainsaw fired up again and slowly piece by piece, Bob took the tree down. He took a break and then continued to on the next two trees. By the end of the day, we had open views of the lake in front of our home. 

Over the last twenty-five years of married life, my wife and I have had to face many challenges, trees in our life that blocked our view from what our life was meant to be. My father-in-law has always been there with his chainsaw in hand. Whether it was the many miscarriages my wife endured before the twins were born or the many times that I sped off and did not use my turn signal, he was there to lift us up and begin to cut away at the struggles we faced. He taught us both that we sometimes need to just sit and enjoy the view and the moment, even during the struggles we faced. He never judged me, nor did he ever offer an opinion. His hand was always outstretched to me and his smile reaffirmed my decisions. He was there at every game, every concert, any event that involved our children had. And as they grew and we struggled for control like all parents do, Bob would smile, and in his silence, he told us that he knew that we were doing our best.

Each weekend we would gather as a family for Sunday dinner and Bob and Shirley would be there. Bob would make the most perfect apple pie no baker could duplicate. The slices of apple would be so thin that I wondered how he did not cut his fingers slicing them. The homemade pie crust would melt without even chewing. As our children got older, the slices became smaller as their favorite pie became apple. I am not sure that they knew how much love went into each slice of that pie. It was Bob’s way of silently telling each of us how much he loved us. The pie tin would go home empty and the next weekend Bob and Shirley would walk in with a warm apple pie.

At Christmas the tray of homemade cookies was larger than any one family could ever eat. Each of the kids had their favorite and my father-in-law would just stand there watching as their little hands made their way through the tray. The gift of love was poured into each cookie. He would work for hours with his wife making sure that no one’s favorite were left out. He even knew that I had my favorite, spice cookies. Over the years, the number of spice cookies on the tray grew so that I too would have my ample share. Christmas was not about the gifts under the tree, but instead about the love that came on that tray each year. 

And when my wife and I made the decision to move our family to Southern California, there was Bob helping for months sort through the eighteen years of things we accumulated. He never questioned why we were leaving, never raised any kind of objection. I know that is was not easy for him to see his only grandchildren moving a thousand miles away, but he only smiled and encouraged the two of us. He put himself, his needs into the shadows. The loading truck arrived and just like he had done for so many years, he was there helping the strangers load the bed of the truck.

My father-in-law’s health will improve, I pray every day for healing. But now, I want him to know how much I love him. He has always been a father to me. He has become Father Christmas for my family, something I never thought I would find again after my grandpa died. He trusted me with his most important possession. I only hope that I have not let him down and he is proud of the family we have raised. I want him reach out his hand and shake mine and smile at me. I will then know like that first night on the porch that he approves as I drive away and turn on my signal for what lies ahead.