I was 17 years old.  Money was tight, as it had been for years now.  Since I was 17, my mom decided it was time for me to start paying rent.  I was ok with that.  December 1st, I paid my rent. (I honestly don’t remember how much. I’m sure that’s a lesson in and of itself).  I was happy, because I figured that would give me a paycheck or two to get gifts for my family. And I did.  I bought gifts for everyone.

On Christmas Eve, I had some friends, and my girlfriend over.  My mom asked me for my December rent.  I told her I had already paid it, and a fight ensued.  She was screaming, I was screaming.  She didn’t know there were gifts from me under the tree.  She was telling me I was too tied up with my girlfriend at the time.  She said that all I did was spent money on weed and my girlfriend.   I told her she had a horrible memory, and I already paid.  I told her if she could stay sober, her memory would be better.  *POW*.  Fist across the face.  It’s how I was punished growing up, and I learned at a young age to never hit a woman.  I didn’t budge.  I stared her in the face and said, “Do. Not. Hit. Me. Again.”  *POW*.  Another one, and another one.  At this point it was flurries.  I did not budge.  When she stopped, she was staring at me.  I turned my head, and spit on the wall, and I saw it.  Blood.  Blood was running down the wall.  I felt the warmth on my face.  I grinned.

“You can’t hit me anymore, I’m bigger than that now.”

“GET OUT, and don’t come back!”

I reached into my back pocket at took out my money.  I don’t remember how much it was, but I remember it was everything I had.  I threw it at her, and left.

I went and got into my friends car, and we drove off.

I had nowhere to go.  I was destroyed.  Not because I had nowhere to go, but because my mom threw me out on Christmas eve.  My heart hurt.  My friend, Katie called her mom, they had a conversation, and she hung up.  She looked at me and said, “We have a spare bedroom.  You can crash at my house tonight.”

I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t really have a choice.  I said, “Thank you.”

When we got to her house, I was able to assess the damage.  My eye was swollen, and my lips were all bloodied.  I had dried blood running down my face.  I was a mess.  Her mom showed me my room, and gave me some of her older sons clothes. (That were like, XLs, cause dude was like 6 feet tall.) We hung out for a little while, and I retired to bed, they told me that breakfast is at 10:00 every Christmas.

Christmas morning, I slept in.  I remember hearing the family get up and go downstairs, but I didn’t want to intrude.  I stayed in bed, replaying the events that had taken shape the night before, and cried.  I imagined my family opening up my gifts, without me.  I imagined my mom talking about me, and no one saying anything because they were scared.  I felt empty.

Around 9:55, I got up, got decent, and went downstairs.  Everyone looked at me, wished me a Merry Christmas, and offered me breakfast.  I sat down at the table and we all ate.  About halfway through the meal, Karen, (The mom) got up, walked over to the tree and picked up 4 gifts.  She carried them over to the table, and put them in front of me.  I didn’t know what to say.  ”Merry Christmas, Andy.”  Everyone was smiling huge.  I cried.

The night before, when I went to bed, they went out, found a store that was still open and bought me gifts.  The essentials.  Socks, beard trimmer, Shirts.

I remember that day so vividly.  I remember how happy everyone looked when I was getting a gift.  I remember being blown away by the ‘family-ness’ that was present that day.

The smallest gesture made my entire Christmas a little easier.  For that, I will always be thankful.

On a side note, Karen was able to be present for my baptism some 8 years later.  I often wonder if she knows that she very possibly planted the first seed.

This is a re-post from last year.  I hope it helps you remember what is important in your life, as we approach a season that has been warped into something completely different than what it was meant to be. 

My parents took us out to dinner.  This wasn’t unordinary.  Though it had slowed quite a bit in recent months.  I never really questioned why, I just assumed they were busy.  We were sitting in the restaurant, and had ordered, and my dad asked us, “Have you ever heard the story of the Gift of the Magi?”

Obviously, being pretty young, none of us had, so we all shook our heads.  He told us about the man and his watch, and the girl and her hair, and all the stuff that lead up to the ending.   He asked us what we thought the moral of the story was.  None of us had really good answers, so we just sat there, clueless.

He proceeded to tell us that there is a lot more to Christmas than getting gifts.  He told us that being with people you love, and knowing you’re loved is important.  He told us that sometimes, when life gets tough, the most important thing is knowing you’re surrounded by people who love you.  He told us that, this Christmas wouldn’t be like other Christmases, because he had lost his job.  He told us that we would have a meal, and be loved, and he, with tears in his eyes, told us that he hoped we still loved him.

We ate our meals and went home.  Our tree was up and stockings were hung, and honestly I don’t remember feeling differently at that moment.  I didn’t know what the weeks, months, or years were going to bring, which, I guess is why I carried on doing my own thing.  I don’t remember much about how that Christmas went, I do remember sleeping in.  I remember women from the school bringing us blankets and ‘necessities’ for our gifts, and I remember being really embarrassed about that.  I remember a woman bringing dinner over, and I remember none of us liking it, because it wasn’t mom’s cooking.

After living out what God had in store for me and my family the next 10-15 years, I can say it wasn’t easy.  I can say it’s hard to tell your friends you didn’t get anything.  I can say, it’s nice to have friends who understood.  I can say, even with all of our disfunction, it was nice to have a family.

What I wouldn’t give, to wake up this Christmas, with my wife and my daughter and head over to my mom’s house and listen to her scream frantically about how she’s been slaving all day to prepare a meal, to have Andrea taste my mom’s cooking.  What I wouldn’t give to see Adrienne, my sister, who passed 9 years ago. or Matthew, who, up until he died 8 years ago, we spent EVERY Christmas together since I was 6.

It wasn’t until all of the loss in my life, or even until this very moment, in writing this out that I truely understood what my dad was saying that night at the restaurant.

Gifts are cool to get, and a really good excuse to get together.  But love.  Love is what makes it all worth it.  The value of a gift is not the price tag.  The value of a gift is as deep as the love of the person who gave it.  The gift isn’t the object at all.  The gift is the love.  Christmas defies all logic.  From the birth of a baby born of a virgin, to a disfunctional family establishing a love so deep that it hurts the very core of my being.

Do me a favor this year.  Give love.  I don’t care how you do it, but make sure everyone in your life knows they’re loved.  There will be a Christmas where you will wish you could.

Merry Christmas ladies and gents.

It’s no secret that sometimes, I let my temper get the best of me.  My wife may argue, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. 

When Andrea was about 7 months pregnant, I was tasked with putting together our daughter’s crib (every dad’s right of passage).  Andrea was out, maybe at a baby shower, and I decided I’d put it together and surprise her.  I unpacked the box in the living room, and started the search for my tools.  I could not find any.  When Andrea and I got married, she got a ‘tool kit’ that was wrapped in cheetah print paper, and had purple feathers glued to it.  Enter bad mood. 

So, here I am.  Sitting on the floor of our living room, trying to make sense of this ridiculous instruction manual, with cheetah print, purple fluffy tools, pieces of the crib falling over as I tried to stand them up, getting so frustrated that I could feel the temperature in my face rising.  Slowly but surely, I’m piecing this crib together, and I thinking about how happy Andrea is going to be. (truth is, she’d been asking me to do this for a minute now.) Still frustrated, I screw in the final screw, and sigh a sigh of relief.  I stood up and took a step back to admire the masterpiece that meant I was officially a dad.  I checked everything, and even slid the drop side up and down a few times to show off my incredible craftsmanship. 

I went to the kitchen to get a drink.  There truely isn’t a better feeling than taking that breath, letting it out, and not being frustrated anymore.  I decided I was going to put the crib in Gemma’s room, and make it look nice for Andrea.  I unlocked the wheels, and rolled it to the hallway. 

As I approached, I got an uneasy feeling in my gut and felt the frustration growing again.  Once I hit the hall, my fears were confirmed as I realized, there is absolutely no way this crib was going to fit through the hallway, let alone make the turn into Gemma’s room.  I screamed.  I wanted to punch something.  I couldn’t hardly breathe.  I was so mad, I thought my heart was going to explode.

I took the crib apart, piece by piece, to try to strategically leave as most of it together as I could.  I ended up in the hallway, stuck between the door and the hall, with cheetah print, purple fluffy tools, sweating, with a half assembled crib, stuck.  Absolutely stuck.

I eventually ended up taking the entire crib apart, and reassembling the crib. In the process, slamming my finger in part of it.  Gemma’s crib was assembled in her room. *Sigh*.  Success.

The thing is, looking back, that’s one of the coolest memories I have.  It’s funny.  It’s really really funny.  It symbolizes, not only the moment I realized my life would never be the same, but also the moment I realized that I was, in no way, ready for a baby.  It was the moment I realized that I had a lot to learn.  It was the moment I realized I was scared.  It was the moment I saw a room, for a baby that I would love and take care of for the (at least) next 18 years.  That was the moment everything changed.

I don’t remember the frustrated feeling.  I don’t remember the angry words that came out of my mouth.  I only remember the feeling.  And looking back, all I can think is, life is too short to be pissed off all of the time.

So, while I sit here, about a year and a half  later, (having taken that crib apart and put it together again, and getting equally as mad) still with a short temper, still struggling to change, still struggling.  Hearing my wife tell that story to soon to be moms and dads, laughing hilariously,  I think of this moment, and it gives me a grain of clarity.   Clarity that may change me.  Clarity that I can hopefully embed into my life, my soul, my being, my memories. 

Don’t be mad.  It really isn’t worth it.

My mom and I fought a lot.  I mean…. A LOT.  When I was 17, I found out that my dad was not my ‘bio-dad’.  It didn’t seem to effect me too much. 

One day, my mom and I got in a huge fight.  Typically when we did this, my dad would drag me to his Jeep, and he would drive around and tell me some story that he felt made sense to the situation.  I hated it- looking back – I loved it.  On this particular day, my dad took me, we got into his jeep and started driving.  The drive started off rather silent. 

My dad said to me, “What are you thinking?”

I said very angrily,”I’m thinking you’re an IDIOT!.  Mom is cheating on you!  Everyone knows it!  And you’re so stupid, you sit by, and let it happen.  The guy is living with us!  You’re so stupid you don’t even realize it!”

My dad was quiet for a minute and I couldn’t believe it.  I thought I had silenced my dad.  I was beside myself.

“Son.”

Oh boy.  Here we go.  All of his long talks started off with, “Son.” I guess I hadn’t silenced him after all.  And then, he said something that has stuck with me forever.

“Son.  I’m not an idiot. I know what’s happening.  BUT. When you were a baby I looked you in the eyes, and I made a promise.  I promised that no matter what happened, I would never leave.  I promised that I would take care of you until the day I die.  If I leave, I have no legal rights to you, and that would be breaking my promise.”

Wow.  Wow.  That’s the day I learned what I man is. 

Now. Things are a bit different.  My mom is dead.  My dad is crippled, and for all intents and purposes, cannot take care of himself.  I have to do a lot of things for him.  He’s pretty demanding.  He needs stuff, and a lot of the time I have to help.  To be perfectly honest, a lot of times it’s frustrating and inconvenient. 

I’m sure a lot of people don’t get it.  Why I drop what i’m doing to go help.  And I understand that.  On the surface, it doesn’t make sense.  But, the thing is.  No one else was in that white jeep that day.  No one heard the raw, honest emotion in his voice.  At that moment, I knew that no matter what happened, I would be safe.  Not by someone who ’had’ to say that, but by someone who loved me so much he made a promise to never leave, and kept that promise.

There has not  been once sentence that has effected me, or stuck with me more than that in my entire life.

I’ve been really focused on me.  The heavy stuff on my heart.  Can I just say that being a husband and father is the most amazing thing in the world!? [sthumbs=1599|1598|1597|1591|1595|1593|1587|1594|1589,144,3,n,center,]