Merry Christmas dad, for all that you did for me

When I was a small boy, I could never quite understand why my dad, God rest his soul, was always so tired on Christmas morning. For me, it was the day of sparkle and splendour that came just once a year, and every moment was to be relished and cherished to its utmost.

My mum would come into my room late on Christmas Eve and tell me not to go to sleep. “Keep your eyes open Mike, stay awake.” It was reverse psychology in a cockney accent. I was asleep within moments. I would awake briefly at around 1:30 a.m., and in that twilight assumed it was Santa at work. I wanted to wake properly and see him, but I was just too tired.

Now I know that the early morning jolt was not Santa’s sleigh on the roof, but dad’s cab in the garage. Because he was only paid when he worked, and because he always took Christmas Day off so as to be with his family, my dad worked as late as possible on Christmas Eve. It was a hard job, and the last place he wanted to be the night before Christmas was driving people around from their drunken parties. But if the presents were to be bought, if the meal was to be provided, if Christmas Day was to be with his wife and children, there was no option.

As soon as I woke up on Christmas Day, usually around 6 a.m., I made out the magical form of the sack at the end of my bed, bolted out of the blankets, carried the sack into my parents’ room and screamed at them that Santa had been. Mum understood, but dad always seemed a little reluctant to join in. And truth be told, I resented him for it. After he died, there was a lot for which I felt guilty, and in its own relatively harmless and entirely understandable way, this was one of the things that for some odd reason kept knocking around in my head.

Dad had given of himself, given all that he could, and had seldom if ever been truly appreciated for his sacrifice and his love.

Fast forward to Christmas Eve 10 years ago. My wife and I had just put the sacks by the children’s beds. We had to wait until they were asleep, but it was easy. I had time off at Christmas, I was a journalist rather than a cab driver, and life was not so tough. I got into bed, my mind wandered and I found myself crying. My wife asked me why. I explained about my dad and how I had never told him how he made those Christmases so wonderful.

So what of He who gave the ultimate sacrifice, whose love and devotion to us is not only taken for granted, but often mocked and insulted? Jesus died on a cross so that all of us could spend eternity with the Father of everything and everyone, and we are about to celebrate His birthday. Yes, I know that it was probably not in December, but that is hardly the point. We commemorate the event itself and the date is largely irrelevant — this is about salvation, not chronology.

He knows we will stumble, be ungrateful, forget the pain and the anguish, be swayed by our feelings and weaknesses, need to be cleansed and forgiven. He knows and understands, because He loves us beyond our understanding. Indeed the very love that my father gave to me was a ripple of that great love given to all of us by God. What is good and loving and true in you, me, my father, is the fruit of God’s romance with His creation, His creatures, us.

Don’t be frightened by the foot-soldiers of the war on Christmas — their guns are empty, their gunpowder moist. Instead, bow your head and bend the knee and thank God for His Son. Magic enters the world in the form of a tiny babe. Praise Him, with all praise. Oh, and as for my dad — I am sure, now, that he knew how grateful we were.

Thanks dad, I love you. Merry Christmas.