A Simple Christmas (21 page)

It was August 24, 1965, my tenth birthday. So far my birthday and VBS had been very disappointing, and I wasn't prepared for them to get any better. The pastor of the church, Clyde Johnson, came to our class and talked to us about “knowing Jesus.” I couldn't really figure out what all that meant, but as he talked, I was so concentrated on what he was saying that I felt as if everyone else in the room had been dismissed and I was there alone. He told us that God knew everything there was to know about each of us. That both scared and excited me. It scared me to think that God knew not just my public words and actions but also my private thoughts. But it excited me to contemplate the idea that the Creator of the universe was actually aware of my existence and, more important, cared about me. I knew that most people in my little hometown didn't know who I was, but the fact that God did was rather overwhelming. Pastor Johnson asked us to raise our hands if we wanted to pray and ask Jesus to come into our hearts. I felt certain that if I lifted my hand, he would call me out and I would be put on the spot and likely humiliated. So I didn't raise my hand, but I snuck in by keeping my hand down but my heart up and prayed the prayer anyway. And though no one else heard me, God did, and I was overwhelmed with a sense of His presence. It wasn't just my physical birthday that day, but my spiritual one as well. In many ways, it was like Christmas, because I received the ultimate gift from God, and I learned that Christmas was all about God's coming to us—not our coming to Him.

The church I attended during my childhood was the Garrett Memorial Baptist Church in Hope, Arkansas. It was a small Missionary Baptist church, which is different from Southern Baptist mainly in denominational structure and the fact that Missionary Baptists tend to be stricter and frown upon everything from dancing to “mixed bathing” (this meant boys and girls couldn't swim together or shower in the same stall, which really would have been scandalous) to “modern music.” They lightened up somewhat on the music in later years, but their basic formula was “Get saved, go to church while you live, and go to heaven when you die.” There wasn't much discussion about my faith transforming my daily life in terms of my actions or attitudes toward things except for the external activities like going to church, giving tithes, and singing hymns.

During my early teen years, the church hired a youth director who was supposed to create programs that catered to the youth and kept us interested in church. We actually got to play guitars, sing music that sounded closer to what we listened to on the radio, and talk about things that actually mattered to us, like dating, war, drugs, and career choices. This made me willing to go to “big church,” so I started going to the Sunday night services because that's when the youth activities were held.

When I was fifteen, I was selected to represent Arkansas at the Hugh O'Brian Youth Foundation Space Seminar at Cape Kennedy, Florida. One student from each of the fifty states and ten from foreign countries were invited to spend a little over a week at no expense at Cape Kennedy to train with astronauts, learn about the space program, and become “Space Ambassadors.” While there, I was stunned to find out that most of the other students lacked even a basic belief in God and that most of them were at the top of their class and among the brightest in their state. I came back from that event with a new awareness of what a small world I had lived in and within a week had dedicated my life to Christian service.

I told my parents about my decision, and the next week, none other than my own father came to church for the first time I could ever remember. He said, “If my son is going to do church work, I guess I had better at least go myself.” And with that began a new chapter for him and for the rest of the family.

Whatever had kept him out of church before was forgotten, and now nothing could keep him away. He had a hard time understanding the King James Version of the Bible, but my sister, mother, and I bought him a Living Bible, which is a modern-language version that reads more like a daily newspaper in simple, easy-to-understand language.

For the first time in my life, my parents sat together in church, and soon church became the center of their social lives as well as their spiritual lives. It was so strange to see my father going to church that on Sunday mornings I sometimes wondered, “Who is this guy hurrying around the house telling us to get ready so we won't be late to church?”

Over the next few years, I saw my father's spiritual life grow. Slowly but steadily, he came to learn what it means to “follow Jesus,” and while those of his generation were generally not overly vocal about such personal things as faith, he became very expressive about his faith. He didn't talk about it too much or buttonhole people on the street, but his actions changed and truly reflected service and sacrifice. Without grudging, he gave with increasing generosity to the church and to special needs he knew about. He was the first to volunteer to mow the lawn of a family whose head of household was ill or to help someone who had to move furniture or to sit with a sick person at the hospital to relieve an exhausted family member.

As my sister and I graduated from high school, moved on to college, and married and started our own families, my father continued to be increasingly active and involved, which proved that he wasn't simply “doing the church thing” for our benefit but was doing it because something genuine had happened to him that had changed his life.

As my sister and I were growing up, my dad really wasn't able to teach us much about faith, trust in God, or preparing for eternity. That all changed at Christmas of 1995.

In 1983, my dad had suffered a heart attack and had had to undergo heart bypass surgery. That was a real turning point in his life as he faced his own mortality in a profound way. From that point forward, he truly felt that every day was a “borrowed day,” and he seemed to have a renewed sense of how temporary life is and a determination to make the most of it. One by-product of the experience was that he truly believed that every Christmas was his last one, and each year from 1983 forward, we had to listen to his annual declaration that “this is probably my last Christmas with you guys, so I want to make the most of it.” He was so convinced that each Christmas was the last one that we joked among ourselves that this Christmas was the tenth annual “last Christmas” for Dorsey Huckabee.

In 1995, we finally had reason to believe him. He had called us just two days before Christmas and calmly and soberly told us that he had been to the doctor and been told that a melanoma that he had had removed thirteen years earlier had returned and that it was already spreading. There was no crying or whining or complaining on his part. In fact, he was rather matter-of-fact about the news and just wanted us to know that there really wasn't much to be done about it and that he probably only had months left to live.

After all the years of his announcing to us that this was his “last Christmas,” this time, we knew it probably really was.

I think there is, for most of us, a sense that Christmas makes us think about our own mortality. If a loved one has died during the year, we can't help but think of the empty chair at the dinner table or the familiar greeting, perennial gift, or other tradition that is missing. We ponder to ourselves what impact our absence would have on the family if we weren't there next year. Because Christmas is the one day of the year that we typically share with our extended families, the loss of a member creates a verydefinite void and a painfuland poignant reminder of the changes that will be permanent.

After all those years of joking about my father's perennial “last Christmas,” there was nothing to laugh about this year. The only member of the family who seemed to be handling it with complete equilibrium was my dad. It was almost as if he were relieved that after years of wrongly predicting his demise, the odds of his hitting it right this time were pretty good. My mother had been in very poor health since January of 1992, when she suffered a brain aneurysm and subsequent stroke. She had slowly regained many of her functions and facilities but was never the same. With this news, it was apparent that they would need to move into an assisted-living facility, as she needed daily care that he could no longer provide.

The fact that he was losing his health, his home, and his life seemed not to have an effect on his demeanor, other than to give him more of a reason to try to keep the rest of us cheered up and optimistic. He reminded us in every conversation that he had lived a good and blessed life and was so very grateful for the years he had had and the joy he had received from seeing his kids grow up, get through college, and have families of their own. We all wanted to comfort him, but he would have none of it—he wanted no sympathy and refused to let us get all weepy and sentimental. He was determined to face this demon head-on and beat it not by outliving it, but by not letting it ruin the time he had left.

Janet and I had gone through her cancer, but it was obvious from the beginning that this was an untamable monster that would take out my father's body, but he was determined that it wouldn't take out his soul. For the next three months, as his body weakened, his faith strengthened. I found myself amazed that this same man who wouldn't even set foot in church for the first fifteen years of my life, and who even as an adult had been somewhat guarded and timid in his outward expression of faith, was now abounding in encouragement as he truly exhibited what it was to “walk through the valley of the shadow of death” and “fear no evil.”

With each phone call or visit with my father, I could tell he was physically declining but advancing in his hope and optimism. He had no illusions of getting well. This was not the kind of man to cling to an unrealistic hope, and he openly told us that he knew he would die soon. His only concerns were for my mother, my sister, and me. He reminded us daily that things were fine with him and that he only regretted that he didn't get to live long enough to see his grandkids grow up and get married.

I was lieutenant governor of Arkansas at the time, having been elected in a special election in July 1993 and then reelected in 1994. In 1996, I had announced my candidacy for the United States Senate for an open seat vacated by Senator David Pryor, and I was leading in all polls and seemingly on my way to victory. The governor, Jim Guy Tucker, had been indicted and was awaiting trial on felony charges related to the Whitewater investigations led by Kenneth Starr. I was confident that no Arkansas jury would ever convict a sitting Democratic governor of anything, especially if the person who would take the office was a Republican. That's why I proceeded with the Senate campaign.

My dad told me, “Son, I wish I were going to live long enough to see you become governor.” I told him that he would have to live a very long time, since that didn't appear to be in the works, and I explained to him that even though Governor Tucker was facing trial, it didn't seem likely that he would be convicted, and even if he were, he'd probably refuse to resign until he had exhausted his appeals. In a rare moment for my dad, who seldom tried to instruct me in the nature of politics, he smiled and said, “You will be governor. I just won't be here to see it.”

He was right about both.

He died on the last day of March of 1996. He had requested that I speak at his funeral service, which I did. I was reluctant to do so because I knew that it was going to be hard to control my own emotions, but it was the last thing he had asked me to do for him and it was the last time I would be able to honor one of his requests.

On July 15, 1996, I was sworn in as the forty-fourth governor of Arkansas. Jim Guy Tucker had been convicted in late May and announced that he would resign on July 15. I decided that it was my duty and responsibility to fill the remaining two and a half years in the governor's office rather than continue the pursuit of the Senate seat, and so I withdrew from the race in order to devote myself to the job of governor. The state needed stability and continuity in that office; otherwise we would have had four different people hold the office within a four-year period.

I often wished so very deeply that my dad could have lived another one hundred days to see me become governor. He had taken me to hear a speech by then-Governor Orval Faubus when I was eight years old and Faubus was making a rare appearance in our part of the state. I never forgot what he told me. “Son, I'm going to take you to hear a talk by the governor. You might live your whole life and never get to meet a governor in person.” Little did he know I would become one.

I would have loved for my dad to spend at least one night in the Governor's Mansion, because it would have been such a treat for him. That Christmas, our family gathered at the Governor's Mansion to celebrate. We were all there—my sister and her family; our kids; my mother. Only my dad didn't make it, but we left an empty chair at the table in his honor.

On the day I was sworn in, one of my longtime friends from Hope said, “Mike, I sure wish your dad could have been here to see this.”

I said, “I believe he did see it. And I think he saw it from the best seat in the house.”

I now can laugh when I think about my dad's warning of his imminent demise each year at Christmas. In fact, I laugh at a lot of things when I remember him. But when I think of the Christmas that really was his last, I don't laugh, but I don't cry either. I smile in gratitude not only for a father who gave me life and did everything he could to teach me how to live but also for all he did to teach me how to die. It's easy to leave behind a legacy when you're a governor or when you're famous and everyone knows who you are. But my dad was a simple man, and he left a legacy behind him through his faith, hope, and compassion that I will hold with me for the rest of my life. And even on his last Christmas, he was able to see the joy and happiness that God had blessed him with. He made it a great Christmas. A simple Christmas.