Away in a Manger
One afternoon about a week before Christmas, my family of four piled into our minivan to run an errand, and this question came from a small voice in the back seat: “Dad,” began my five-year-old son, Patrick, “how come I’ve never seen you cry?”
Just like that. No preamble. No warning. Surprised, I mumbled something about crying when he wasn’t around, but I knew that Patrick had put his young finger on the largest obstacle to my own peace and contentment — the dragon-filled moat separating me from the fullest human expression of joy, sadness and anger. Simply put, I could not cry.
I am scarcely the only man for whom this is true. We men have been conditioned to believe that stoicism is the embodiment of strength. We have traveled through life with stiff upper lips, secretly dying within.
For most of my adult life I have battled depression. Doctors have said much of my problem is physiological, and they have treated it with medication. But I know that my illness is also attributable to years of swallowing rage, sadness, even joy.
Strange as it seems, in this world where macho is everything, drunkenness and depression are safer ways for men to deal with feelings than tears. I could only hope the same debilitating handicap would not be passed to the next generation.
So the following day when Patrick and I were in the van after playing at a park, I thanked him for his curiosity. Tears are a good thing, I told him, for boys and girls alike. Crying is God’s way of healing people when they’re sad. “I’m glad you can cry whenever you’re sad,” I said. “Sometimes daddies have a harder time showing how they feel. Someday I hope to do better.”
Patrick nodded. In truth, I held out little hope. But in the days before Christmas I prayed that somehow I could connect with the dusty core of my own emotions.
“I was wondering if Patrick would sing a verse of “Away in a Manger” during the service on Christmas Eve,” the church youth director asked in a message left on our answering machine.
My wife, Catherine, and I struggled to contain our excitement. Our son’s first solo.
Catherine delicately broached the possibility, reminding Patrick how beautifully he sang, telling him how much fun it would be. Patrick himself seemed less convinced and frowned. “You know, Mom,” he said, “sometimes when I have to do something important, I get kind of scared.”
Grownups feel that way too, he was assured, but the decision was left to him. His deliberations took only a few minutes.
“Okay,” Patrick said. “I’ll do it.”
From the time he was an infant, Patrick has enjoyed an unusual passion for music. By age four he could pound out several bars of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries on the piano.
For the next week Patrick practiced his stanza several times with his mother. A rehearsal at the church went well. Still, I could only envision myself at age five, singing into a microphone before hundreds of people. When Christmas Eve arrived, my expectations were limited.
Catherine, our daughter Melanie and I sat with the congregation in darkness as a spotlight found my son, standing alone at the microphone. He was dressed in white, with a pair of angel wings.
Slowly, confidently, Patrick hit every note. As his voice washed over the people, he seemed a true angel, a true bestowed of Christmas miracles.
There was eternity in Patrick’s voice that night, a beauty rich enough to penetrate any reserve. At the sound of my son, heavy tears welled at the corners of my eyes.
His song was soon over, and the congregation applauded. Catherine brushed away tears. Melanie sobbed next to me.
After the service, I moved to congratulate Patrick, but he had more urgent priorities. “Mom,” he said as his costume was stripped away, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
As Patrick disappeared, the pastor wished me a Merry Christmas, but emotion choked off my reply. Outside the sanctuary I received congratulations from fellow church members.
I found my son as he emerged from the bathroom. “Patrick, I need to talk to you about something,” I said, smiling. I took him by the hand and led him into a room where we could be alone. I knelt to his height and admired his young face, the large blue eyes, the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks, the dimple on one side.
He looked at my moist eyes quizzically.
“Patrick, do you remember when you asked me why you had never seen me cry?”
He nodded.
“Well, I’m crying now.”
“Why, Dad?”
“Your singing was so wonderful it made me cry.”
Patrick smiled proudly and flew into my arms.
“Sometimes,” my son said into my shoulder, “life is so beautiful you have to cry.”
Our moment together was over too soon. Untold treasures awaited our five-year-old beneath the tree at home, but I wasn’t ready for the traditional plunge into Christmas just yet. I handed Catherine the keys and set off for the mile-long hike home.
The night was cold and crisp. I crossed a park and admired the full moon hanging low over a neighborhood brightly lit in the colors of the season. As I turned toward home, I met a car moving slowly down the street, a family taking in the area’s Christmas lights. Someone rolled down a window.
“Merry Christmas,” a child’s voice yelled out to me.
“Merry Christmas,” I yelled back. And the tears began to flow all over again.
常常感动
在圣诞节前一个星期的某个下午，我们一家四口人挤进自己家的小货车去送货，车后座忽然轻声地传来这样一个问题：“爸爸，”我五岁的儿子――帕特里克开始问道：“我怎么从来没见你哭过呢？”
就是这么唐突，没有前言，没有任何的预示。我感到很错愕，当他不在旁边时，我自言自语地琢磨着哭泣这一话题，但我知道帕特里克那小脑袋已经发现了我心灵深处的一道屏障，那道屏障使我无法获得内心的平静与满足，像一道难以逾越的壕沟，把我从充满人性感情的喜悦、悲哀和生气中隔离开来。直接一点说，我就是不能哭。
其实这种情况并不是只发生在我身上。我们男人已经接受了这种信念，坚忍克己才是力量的体现。在人生道路上，我们总是抿着僵硬的上唇，丝毫不让自己有任何的感情外露，内心的情感不知不觉中已枯竭。
成年后的大部分日子我都在与消沉沮丧抗争。医生都说我的问题主要是生理上的，所以他们给我作药物治疗。但我知道，我的病根在于我多年来对愤怒、悲哀，甚至是欢乐等情感的压抑。
但这似乎也很奇怪，在雄性主宰一切的世界里，在男人处理感情困扰时，酗酒和消沉是比痛哭流涕更安全的方法。我只是希望这种耗损人精神体力的情感障碍不会传给下一代。
所以，第二天，我带帕特里克去公园玩，在架车返家途中，我对他的好奇表示了谢意。流眼泪是件好事情，我告诉他，无论对于男孩还是女孩。哭泣是当人们悲哀时，上帝拯救他们的方法。“我很高兴，在你觉得伤心的时候，你都能哭出来，”我说，“有时候做爸爸的比较难以表达他们的情感。我希望有一天我会做得更好。”
帕特里克点点头。事实上，我对此不抱什么希望。但圣诞节前的那些日子里，我祈祷着无论如何也要揭开我那尘封的感情了。
“不知道帕特里克是否愿意在平安夜的礼拜仪式上唱《远处的马槽》这首圣诗呢，”年轻的教堂主持在我们的电话留言里问道。
我的妻子
