Daddy and the Christ Child

My dad drank.

For twenty-three years.

Non-stop.

I am the youngest of six kids. At the height of Daddy's drinking “career,” he was a devoted alcoholic. Name an ugly, violent, horrible thing that an alcoholic Aries might perpetrate, and he did it. Since this is a Christmas story of sorts, I won't belabor the fact with details. Picture the most harrowing of alcohol-fueled behaviors and you might come close.

And then there was the man inside the alcoholic. The person that was Daddy.

It was hard to get to know that man. Not only was he shielded by several layers of maladaptive, alcohol-hazed behavior, he was a walking contradiction.

Daddy fiercely loved his America, and unashamedly defended her at every opportunity. He also held deep spiritual beliefs, and expected us to do the same – with the small exception of attendance at church. He apparently didn't consider going to meetings on Sunday as part of his spirituality – but we kids had better go. (Besides, church was a wonderful refuge from home for a few hours a week. It was fine with us!)

You learn a lot from an adult in authority who can't even cope as well as you can by first grade. You learn to avoid behaviors that prompt negative responses. You learn to agree even when everything within you screams that it's wrong. You learn to listen – if for no other reason than self-preservation. And, you learn that even the most bizarre behavior (or disorienting “presentation”) sometimes contains little droplets of truth. You observe, you anticipate, and you learn.

Despite all of the unpredictability, all of the pathology (that we considered “normal life”), and all of the blatant weirdness, there were unforgettable moments of depth and revelation. Sure, we had to be mighty patient to wait for one of these moments, but as it turned out they were worth the wait. Maybe not the price, but the wait.

Christmas now, decades after Daddy's death, still carries some scars, and some priceless treasures. It's hard to watch anyone drink at a Christmas party and not worry - no matter how briefly - about the possible effect on that person's family. Yet, it's impossible to hear or read Luke Chapter Two without remembering Daddy. I think my brother put it best when he once said to me, “Only Dad can jump up from a drunken stupor, and yell that 'It's time to read the Christmas Story, damn it!' and really mean it to be sincere homage.”

Luke 2:8-14King James Version (KJV)

8 And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

9 And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

12 And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

Nine times out of ten, he couldn't say those last fourteen words without a catch in his throat and a tear in his eye. We sat in hushed silence for a few moments after he read that passage every Christmas Eve, amazed by the tremendous transformation we witnessed in Daddy, and the reverence of those minutes. He loved the Christ Child, and I think he also loved the Promise that He brought.

He loved it so much that, when I was seven, Daddy woke up one morning and decided to stop drinking. Yep, just like that. He crawled out of that bottle, shook himself off, and began living. He didn't know that he would have only another decade in which to make up for lost time, but he lived as if he did know it. He learned new trades, graduated with a Doctorate in Tax Law, became an outstanding community leader, and worked for his living. He raised fruits and vegetables. He became one with Mother Earth. He talked to us sometimes as if we were people. He lived. It was impressive.

No, it was a miracle.

And so it is, that every year, when I read or hear Luke Chapter Two, I think of Daddy. I think of transformation. I think of miracles. Whether you are Christian or not (I never figured out if Daddy was or not), there is a miracle in the Story itself. The mere idea that a person can change, repent, and be loved again is, in and of itself, a blessing beyond description. It can pull a man out of a bottle. It can bring hope to the hopeless. It can become a catalyst for any number of miraculous events.

This year, watching A Charlie Brown Christmas with my beloved son Jonathan, I once again remembered Daddy suddenly waking from a whiskey-induced coma, demanding the Bible, and announcing, “It's time to read the Christmas Story, damn it!” And a small smile crept from my lips to my eyes as I told my son, “Your Grandpa was one of a kind. He would love you with all of his tattered heart.” Then we hugged; and, for a moment in time, I became my father. For I couldn't finish those last fourteen words without a catch in my throat and a tear in my eye – grateful for second chances, and for a conundrum of a man I still call “Daddy.”

And, for a little baby in Bethlehem of Judea, whose story – whether you believe it or not – brings a priceless promise.