I must confess to being disappointed with how few memories I have of Christmas with my Father. I wish that I had more. I would like to know what he liked about Christmas. What traditions did he most admire? Did he like eggnog? What types of cookies? Fudge? Did he like trimming the tree? Did he put lights out around the house? What did he think about mid-night mass? I’m guessing he might have had biscuits and gravy on Christmas morning but I don’t know. I don’t have enough memories about him at Christmas. Can you share – please? Tell me a story about Ray at Christmas. Give me this gift.
And for you… two Christmas stories of Ray - from me.
When I was a wee boy. Five, perhaps six. December was upon the land in upstate New York. A new young family in a suburb. Snow fell deeply and hushed the world and delighted the spirits of child and adult alike. The world sprawled out before me new and inviting. Christmas was just a day or so away. I charged into the waist deep snow. Endlessly I played, straining, wading, swimming, floundering, pressing on without restraint. It seemed like it was all day. More than a day - we played my friends and I, in the deep fresh snow. A deep and deserved rest ensued for strained and exhausted muscles.
On Christmas morning my small limbs protested. They would not work again – they pained me so. They had had enough and rest was imperative. How is a boy to make his way to the foot of the Christmas tree? My father lifted me from my bed and into his strong arms and transported me to the base of the Christmas tree. There I encountered presents I cannot recall, but the memory of being carried there will remain till my dying day.
There are just a few other memories, but I share this last one.
I try to teach my children that no amount of frustration, discomfort, anger, or sadness gives one the right to treat another with anything other than respect and love. This is a hard lesson. It doesn’t come to us naturally. It will take decades to sink in.
Some day I may share with them the following story of Ray at Christmas to help them with this lesson. My Father was a gentlemen. A true gentlemen is not inconstant. It is an essential character. It is a principled stance of being in the world. I knew this about my father and still I was reminded again on December 24th 2007. As he moved with certainty and swiftness toward his death he was a gentleman. Although he was in pain and faced the ultimate frustration of death that could not be forestalled any longer, he was sweet and kind to the nurse who aided him. He spoke kindly to him. Please… and thank you, Jin (his nurse). I was so impressed, and yet unsurprised.
And what were the last words I heard my father speak to me? At 11:47pm December 24th 2007, my father awoke. He awoke from a morphine slumber at the edge of death. He awoke as one does after having slept through the alarm. Ahh!! I’m late there is much to be done. I have overslept!
Becky and I were at his side.
He seemed agitated. He wanted to get out of bed. He was dying but he wanted to get out of bed – he was confused, but he motioned to get out of bed. He had not been out of bed for many hours.. days? But up Up UP he arose, in the darkness of night. In an urgency and desperation incomprehensible to us. He arose and we held him by his arms by his sides – and onto his feet out of his bed he came! Standing a last time – standing on his feet – A MAN.
And then, he turned quietly, a gentleman, and to each of us and anyone else near he said “Merry Christmas”. These are the last words my father spoke. In spite of everything his heart was filled with charity and grace and he wished us, the world, Merry Christmas.
And in the morning he was gone.
Daddy, Thank you for holding on until I could see you and say good-bye.
