Michael Colson
In my fanciful wanderings the other day (read: driving on I-5) I caught myself contemplating why it is that all children are smarter than their parents. No doubt this is a critical piece of some evolutionary argument akin to the assertion that no boy is ever shorter than his mother.
Similarly, I have two (yeah, that’s right, only two) observations about this. The first is practical. Why is it that I feel stupid only when the younger crowd is doing the talking? The second is personal. If I was Mr. Smartsy-fartsy in comparison to my own dad, how come when I was talking to him I felt like a fool? When I posed this conundrum to Fr. Gay looking for the sage answer, he reminded me that, like baldness, this trait probably skips a generation. So much for faith.
Yet, there is value in pursuing this point from a more esoteric perspective, and that brings me to Christmas. I think dads and mothers instinctively know that the little bleeders are sharp as tacks, quick witted and bred to hammer onto points beyond the dreams of their DNA providers. In my case, since my dad hailed from West Virginia, that would include pretty much everyone from McDowell County. Since the film "October Sky" came out, I’ve found it’s OK to tell people where your kinfolk come from. That is, if you still have your own teeth.
But I digress. The fact that the old guard knows they’re going to be in second place faster than you can say, "Chrysalis causes worms to fly" demands actions. That is the best reason I can give you why we give them all the "ho ho ho, better not shout, naughty or nice routine" right from the get-go. If we delay for even one season, they’re apt to jump right into the driver’s seat and start devouring the want ads instead of the comics, or take over making payments on the house. What would a kid do the first decade of his or her life without someone to pay him to shed teeth, bring candy baskets to help harvest teeth, or just plain leave a proverbial ton of stuff under the tree?
Wham! I’ll tell you what they’d do. They’d find out good and fast that the magical mystical tour of duty known as childhood isn’t all that different from being an old fart. And that is just not acceptable!
So it’s crunch time. I never did catch Santa Claus kissing my mom, affectionately known as "Donna Geane the Soul Queen." Oh, I heard a bunch of rustling around downstairs, the odd curse word that always echoed when hand tools were being used, and my older sister Donita catching hell for threatening to spill the beans. That is if she didn’t get a lava lamp or permission to stay out all night at a church youth group function that just happened to be on the same night the Who was playing in town.
So, all told, I am sure I knew pretty much what I know today. That Father Christmas is alive and well. And like so many stars in the sky, we may not be as sharp as the up-and-comers, but we sure do know enough about milking the magic out of so wonderful a winter pageant.
And isn’t that the real miracle after all? That "unto us a child is born"? I’m sure my Father would have seen it just the same way. A miracle indeed, worth all the effort.
Michael Colson is chaplain for Naval Station Everett. He has a doctorate in clinical psychology and sociology/human services and gives motivational speeches to a variety of groups.
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