I am Third

My father is a mesmerizing preacher. The timber of his voice – the cadence, the pauses, the passion. Almost at will, he can bring his congregation to tears, or fill them with joy, with the power of his words.

I remember a sermon he delivered over thirty years ago when I was just a teenager. “I am Third” was the title. The message was this: God came first; his family came second; dad came third.

My dad has lived that message his entire life. A life of service. Always putting others ahead of himself.

I’m not sure I ever understood the sacrifices my mom and dad made until I became a parent myself. The mantra for the first 45 years of my life may well have been “I am First.”

I read when I wanted. I wrote when I wanted. I ran when I wanted.

In many ways we all create our own worlds. I created one that accommodated me. Christmas is a good example. Every December, without fail, I watched the movies that I wanted to watch: It’s a Wonderful Life, A Christmas Carol, the Sound of Music.

Our three-year old daughter doesn’t share my interest in Jimmy Stewart, Ebenezer Scrooge or Julie Andrews. I don’t think I’ve watched one of those movies, start to finish, since she was born.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss those movies, and a bit of the freedom they represented.

But I don’t ever want that freedom back. Because not one second of those movies – not a single frame, or a song, or a performance, can ever top the joy of sitting next to a little girl as she watches The Christmas Chronicles on Netflix. The happiness in her face matched only by that I feel within myself. Relishing the moment.

Every day I recognize my good fortune, how lucky I am to have all the blessings I have in my life.

That doesn’t mean I don’t miss running at will, reading dozens of books a year, and writing daily. I still read, write and run. But often that occurs between 3:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. Trading sleep for passions. Embracing the darkness of early mornings. Stillness. Introspection.

With Christmas over, and New Years looming, this is a time for introspection. To take stock of the year that is passing and set goals for the year yet to come.

Immediately, my I am First, mind takes over. It happened yesterday. I wrote down ambitious running goals. A sub-40 10k in the spring, a 50 miler in the summer, and a personal best and Boston Qualifier marathon in the fall. In my head, my I am First head, that is how the 2020 running year would play out. I crave those times and those distances.

I also recognize those times and distances don’t matter.

I want to be a better person. To be of service to others. To my family. To my wife Sonja, who never puts herself first, always working for us – for Molly, and for me. Sonja deserves some I am First time of her own.

I want to be calmer on the inside.

I want to be a better dad. Every day feels like a work in progress – a struggle between knowing when to discipline, how to discipline, and when to let a child be a child.

I want to be better at my job. To strive daily to work with the passion and commitment that led me to be a cop in the first place. More than twenty years ago.

It was well over twenty years ago when I heard my father’s sermon “I am Third.”

My dad has always lived his life in third place.

In 2020, I want to be more like my dad.

Easter 2017.JPG

… That’s my dad, Molly and my mom.  Easter 2017.  One of my favourite pictures ever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s That Time of Year

I got mad at a barista last week.

It’s my own fault. I should have known better than to go into a Starbucks in early November. A couple days after Halloween, a couple days before Remembrance Day.

I just wanted coffee. I did not want the Christmas music playing on the loudspeaker. I did not want the green “Holiday” cup.

I told the very pleasant young woman getting me my coffee that I knew it wasn’t her decision, but I couldn’t believe they were playing Christmas music.

She responded, “It’s that time of year.”

I snapped back, “No it’s not.”

It’s November.

November is supposed to suck. Everywhere in Canada. Bitter winds. Driving rain. Long nights. Short days. Cold. Snow. Awful.

Appropriate weather in the lead up to Remembrance Day. Bleak and depressing. We suffer through it in our heated homes and comfortable cars. And imagine the mud and misery of the trenches. The horror of battle. We bundle up and take our families to cenotaphs on November 11th. We shiver, and maybe wish that the wreath laying didn’t take so long. And then we see veterans. Old men, resplendent in their medals. Marching. Sometimes crying. And we are humbled, thankful and blessed.

It’s that time of year.

Time to suffer through November together.

Instead we’ve let companies cheapen Christmas by dragging it backwards into early November. The earlier Christmas comes, the less special it is.

Christmas is special because it’s fleeting.

And it comes on December 25th. That’s Christmas.

I’m not talking about religion here either. For tens of millions of people, the world over Christmas is special because of family and tradition, meals and music, parties and friendship.

And gifts too.

If there was no December 25th, there would be no Black Friday. No Boxing Day sales. No billions and billions of dollars spent by consumers, fueling our economy.

Not only have we allowed companies to extend Christmas into November, they exploit the hell out of December 25th without having the courage to call it Christmas.

There is no such holiday as Holiday.

It’s that time of year.