Long-time readers of my blog (all three of you) may remember a post I wrote a few years ago about the inflatable Winnie the Pooh yard ornament I'm forced to put up each year around this time. For those of you who aren't familiar with it, and don't care to read my old post, I'll post the introductory paragraph; it sums up my feelings about it fairly nicely.
What you see before you is a representation of all that is wrong with the Modern Western celebration of Christmas. An eight-foot inflatable Pooh Bear dressed as Santa Claus and sitting on a honey pot. I hate this thing. I hate everything about it. It embodies everything I hate about the mass-produced, commercialization of the celebration of the birth of my Savior. As much as I dislike the plastic Jesus of the modern manger scene, at least it pays tacit homage to the incarnate Christ. This bit of made-in-China holiday mirth, on the other hand doesn't even hint that Christmas is anything more than a time to line the pockets of the world's retailers. The worst part is that this picture was taken in my own front yard.
My wife's father bought Pooh for us as a family gift in 2003 and, while I was polite about it and thanked him for the gift, I never liked it much.
Over the years Pooh and I have made peace, of sorts. My daughters love him, so I tolerate him. I wait as long as possible before I put him up and take him down as soon after Christmas as I can, but like it or not, he has a place of honor in my front yard each year.
Last Saturday was the day we brought out all the Christmas decorations and began the process of decking the halls of our home. While I'm a bit of a Grinch about some of the modern mistreatments of Christmas, I dearly love the holiday, the season, and the cause of my celebrating. Christmas is my favorite time of the year, without exception.
But still, there's the whole issue of Pooh.
I knew it was coming- the point when one of my children would ask about him. I was prepared to play it off, to stall, to find a way to delay the inevitable.
"Mama, when is Daddy gonna put Pooh Bear up?" my oldest daughter asked.
I grumbled noncommittally as I fiddled with a string of lights.
"Daddy doesn't much like, Pooh." my wife answered.
"I do!" chimed my middle child.
"So do I," replied my wife "he helps me remember my Daddy."
I stood up immediately, without a word, and went to retrieve him from the garage.
I had misunderstood Pooh's significance all these years. It's not about commercialism or avarice. It's about remembrance. My father-in-law died in 2007. My wife lost her Daddy.
I wept as I pulled my inflatable nemesis out of storage and began to set him up. I want my children to remember their Daddy- always. I realized in that moment that when I grumble, complain, roll my eyes, and scoff at his gift, I diminish and dismiss his memory.
Now I understand.
Pooh will be with us as long as I can keep him together. I'll tape him, patch him, sew him, rewire him- whatever it takes.
Stand tall, Pooh.
Stand proud.
Stand in remembrance; of Leon, of Gramps, of Daddy.