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Vicki Monroe's SpiritBlog Archive December 9, 2007 Being a young girl growing up, I was always home, living quietly at the beach because the summer people had long closed up their cottages for the cold winter months. My summer friends were gone, too, which meant for a long and boring Christmas break. Being one of five children, and coming from a middle class family, my parents always did their very best to make the holidays special, even when money was so tight they lay awake wondering how they were going to fulfill all of our Christmas wishes. It never was a disappointment when we woke up Christmas morning and found our tree bursting with gifts, some I knew my parents would be paying off for months to come. It wasn't until after I graduated high school that I had time and money to spend on the holidays. It was exciting going to the mall, looking at the wonderful things I could now afford, not just for my siblings but more importantly my parents. It somehow meant a lot to me that they get something back that I never could have given, or at 18 didn't realize that gifts come in many forms, and don't cost anything, I was still naive about that. That Christmas I went all out, and purchased a lovely ring for my mother, and a watch for my father, I felt such pride when they opened their gifts. Yet... it wasn't the joy I thought I would feel. They were happy, and loved their presents, but the look on their faces, it just didn't add up to what I thought it would. It wasn't until the following spring that I found out that my father was really hurting for money. Cutbacks and a raise in gas prices and utilities really put a strain on his income, and all five of his children were still living at home, one commuting to college, another just going in. I was happy working and planning my wedding for the following fall. On one particular day, I walked home for my lunch break, finding my dad was home, sitting in the living room crying, he was talking to my mom. The automobile he had recently purchased, a 1973 Chevelle which we thought was a good car, was becoming a problem because he just couldn't keep up with the payments! I never let my parents know I entered the house and heard their conversation. I went back to work, and thought long and hard about how and what I could do, if anything. I don't know about you, but seeing my father with tears in his eyes was always such a terrible tear to my heart and I hated to see it above all things. I decided that day to approach my father that night, acting as if I knew nothing at all. "Dad", I asked. He looked up from the television he pretended to be watching, worry furrowing his brow, and asked him, "I think it's time I got a car, do you think someone would give me a good deal? I don't know much about cars." My father's expression never changed, and it was almost as if I could hear his thoughts, and he didn't know what to do. Should he offer to let me buy the car that he couldn't afford, or allow me to search on my own, with his aid, for something else? I asked him then, "Are you planning on doing anything with the Chevelle? I noticed you haven't painted it yet, and I like the car, it runs well (so my future husband Bret had told me)”. "You want the Chevelle?" he asked surprised. "Why would you want the car? You can look in another area for a car?" I waited a moment or two before answering. "Yeah I know. But I have driven this car, and Bret told me he could fix it up, it's in really good condition. I would pay you for it." Then I saw what I had hoped were tears of joy, and they were. My dad stood up and said, "Listen, I will let you buy the car, but you need to know that I can't afford it," his voice was shaking and I acted dumbfounded, "Really? Well, I didn't know that. Can I buy it?" My dad hugged me, not just a normal dad hug, like getting a watch at Christmas time, but a hug of genuine thanks, and love, of helping, and giving. He sold the car to me for a very reasonable price, and I then mentioned that I would be paying rent from now on. It only seemed fair, I lived there, was working full time, and my mother shouldn't have to do all of my laundry and feed me without me giving back, so that was settled, too. I realized later that summer in my new car, freshly painted, and beautiful that the gift of giving wasn't merely how you would feel, but to allow a person to keep their dignity, their pride, it was so much more than anything you can give to another. I was proud of my father, he was my hero and my friend, but more importantly he taught me to be proud of who I was, and even though he didn't ask for help that day, I know he appreciated it, just by his love and understanding. And, to this day, my Christmases have remained a time of giving hope, pride, confidence, and above all the knowledge that it's okay to ask, to need someone, one day you may need them, and asking isn't quite so difficult when you know it would be a favor returned. I hope you enjoyed a small piece of this story of my dad, and how Christmas came in July of that year. No snow, lots of sunshine, summer tourists out in full force, and a new beginning for me and my parents. It made me realize Christmas comes everyday of every year, and to give without judgment and praise, that is the greatest give anyone can give. Dad, wherever you are in this vast universe, I remember you, and I love you. I feel you around us, and know you are there, loving us as much, if not more, than when your body lived. You are the spirit of Christmas, each and every day. In Light, Vicki This website and text copyright © 2007, 2008 Vicki Monroe. All rights reserved. |
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