Without You

What I said in December 2007 rings true: I love my dad, and my dad is a windbag. That's why I'm like my dad. That and we both miss one another, especially when holidays roll around. His Hallmark Christmas sounds beautiful, but not because it's without me. It's because it's just the type of Christmas to make my dad almost love Christmas. He has snow, while I'm having a delightfully green and dry (for the Maritimes, anyway) Christmas. He has tons of family around, visits from his in-laws and female children, while it's just the four of us here. He sits on his laptop wondering if I'll respond to his infamous annual missive and, as usual, I'll take the bait.

Three reasons I'll take the bait:

1) Our Christmas letter is still saved on this very machine, safely awaiting me to print more than one copy and to send them out. See, I'm not just like my dad; I'm also my mom. If you walked into her dining room today, I guarantee you there's a card for you somewhere, just waiting to be sent. She's extremely thoughtful. She just has a quirk of writing out cards and letters without sending all of them. Me, too. One of these years, Natasha will tell me she's taking over the Christmas letter. Until then, you're unlikely to receive ours on time. (Ours was finished before Natasha's birthday, by the way. It's really that I simply need to remember to send them.)

2) I almost always take my dad's bait. It's one of the things he likes about me, I'm sure. :) Reality is that my dad is a lot of fun, if a mostly-honest writer. He's extremely, uniquely smart - something I think I'm glad to see manifesting itself in our older daughter. She's an Erskine through and through, so much so that I regularly ask Natasha, "Do you think we're up for parenting this child?" He's had every experience in the book, from professional musicianship, to teaching university students, to consulting with state and federal governments on Internet business, to running an Internet business, to singing, to conducting, to writing, to publishing, to crafting stand-up comedy routines, to completing more degrees than I am aware of, to parenting six children, to preaching, to motorcycling, to do more things than I can even remember off the top of my head. Somehow in the mix of all that, he had the time and thoughtfulness to share his heart and mind with us. He's probably the way I think, laugh, and dream like I do, though I think my sense of humor comes from my mom. He's the reason I believe that anyone can do anything. He's the reason that I love Christmas, ironically enough. He's also the reason I like to tell stories, even if I offer a different perspective than his. (Maybe it's that I like to find stories worth telling on their own, independent of my creative license.) :D He's the example I had for loving my family, and I hope with everything in me to adopt most of what he offered us. He's also the reason I question things and wonder how much around us is "as good as it gets," or whether things can be different. He's the reason I'm an idealist, too. Our talk is different (his can be snarky, mine too often pie-in-the-sky), but in the end, we both want the same things for people and the world. We both want to see people free to realize their fullest potential, a world in which we can all embrace and live in liberty. He's the reason I am so convinced about Jesus, despite how frequently Christians try to make Jesus look bad. He's also the reason I have about two dozen "Dear Dad" letters like his written in my mind. Since the motorcycle ride in November 1998 when he told me his time was limited, I've mourned and remourned the loss that hasn't happened almost every day. His is a life worth celebrating, and that is why I stand my ground and call him "Big Fish." That movie was 100% about my dad, though the creative minds behind it didn't know it at the time. (Interestingly, the main character in "Big Fish" looked a lot like my grandfather Erskine, from whom my dad inherited all these fishy traits.) I will always celebrate my dad's life, today and on the day I'll write my final "Dear Dad," the time I'll actually have to mean it. I wouldn't change my dad being a windbag, overly-talented, too-smart-for-his-own-good, too-charming-for-everyone-else's-own-good, self-proclaimed-curmudgeon-who's-secretly-an-idealist, Christmas-loving, Big Fish for anything. Neither will I stop calling it how I see it. That's what I was raised to do. (Oh, and Dad, since I know you read this now, appealing to my spiritual side will only make me more likely to be honest about how I see it, so better luck next year.)

3) My dad's phone seems to be off or possessed. I've tried calling him (and, therefore, the family) for Christmas a couple of times with no luck other than a strange buzzing sound. Dad, either turn on your phone or get out the anointing oil. You might have a Hallmark Christmas without me, but that won't happen here without you.

LE