(written Dec. 24, 2014)
Six years ago, Mom and I went out to spend several days with you after Christmas. It was the beginning of “our story,” not just our family's memoirs. It was the beginning of the story of getting to know the man behind the gifts, kind words and annual Christmas letters.
When I first came up with the idea to collect stories of Dad's family, it was because I had a quest to know everything I possibly could about my own dad. Wrapped up in the incredible gift of hearing story after story about Dad, was the gift of knowing his brothers. You were my go-to-brother when I had a question. You must have cringed when you opened up email after email, question after question asking for clarification on the answers you provided.
We wrote a lot. We talked many times. You came to my home and allowed me to do you the favour of being your host.
In all the times we spoke, you rarely spoke of yourself. You would talk of your friends. And, boy, do you have friends! You have kept in touch with people you worked with and come to know. You never broke the connection. Your friendships go back decades upon decades.
Then I thought of our first Christmas card exchange. Of course! You would keep in touch with anyone who took the time to keep in touch with you. Where there is a reciprocal exchange of words, whether it is once a year or every week, the seed of friendship is watered and nurtured so it has the opportunity to bloom whenever the sun may have the chance to shine down upon it. You, the horticulturist of our family, planted many seeds along your way.
You aren't able to “tend your garden” this year. You, for the first time since I have known you, are tending to yourself.
It must have been an excruciating year for you. Yet you kept doing what you had done all the years that preceded this one and just kept moving forward; still thinking of others, still doing for others. Then you broke. We all have our limits. You reached yours this year.
You are still my hero. I wrote your Christmas card and mailed you a small piece of my heart. You may or may not remember it this year. You have a lot of other things on your mind.
I peek into my mailbox each day, wishing I could see your handwriting on an envelope. I know it won't be there. But I feel it in my heart. You would be showing up in my mailbox if you could be.
I brought out your card and letter from last year and reread them this morning. The small things. Realizing you spelled my youngest son's name with a "C" instead of a "K" and correcting it (with a notation in the margin). You took note of these small nuances of life. Your letter was anything but a form letter. It was to me, and to me only.
You spoke of "how much ground we covered,” your very kind way of referring to the fact I had talked your ear off when we went out for supper when you last visited. You made a gentle reference to the great restaurant I found for us. I took the wrong turn and we ended up on a very, very long detour to what should have been a very short trip.
"You remember everything," you have told me time and time again. Oh, my dear uncle, it is you who has set the bar. It is you who has an eye for noticing the subtleties within people, within life and within the actions of those you encounter, who remembers so much.
You speak to the “little things.” Even now. Even when I spoke to you a few days ago, you thought to ask about my "young guy" and you asked about my middle son's farm. Even now. You have so much to contend with at the moment, yet you are still seeing and hearing far beyond the surface of what a person says. You spoke to my cousin about a reaction you saw in her when she didn't say a word. Even now.
I have placed last year's card up in my tree in a place of high honour. It is exactly the place where I hold you within my life. I am sending you my hope and wishing it could make a difference. You have truly made a deep and lasting impact upon me, our family, your friends and the world around you. You have planted many seeds along the way. It is time for you to bask in the autumn sun and reap the rewards of a garden well tended.
Be well, my dearest uncle. Maybe next year I will find your handwriting in my mailbox. I am full of hope. Always have been. Always will be.
(Update: Dec. 6, 2015 — When I phoned to ask my uncle’s permission to publish this very personal story, before he even knew the purpose of my call, the very first words he told me upon hearing my voice was, "Well, you will never guess what I was just doing as you called! I have just addressed an envelope for a Christmas card to Colleen Crawford!" So much can change in a year, a month or even a day. Never lose faith.
