A Simple Christmas

by Mike Huckabee

  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.

  12.

  Rewards

  July 15, 1996, was like Christmas in July in a very real way. On that day, I was sworn in as the forty-fourth governor of Arkansas after having served as lieutenant governor for three years. I had been elected to serve under the Democrat governor Jim Guy Tucker in 1993 and reelected in 1994 for a four-year term that I didn’t get to finish. In late May, Governor Tucker had been convicted of felonies related to the Whitewater scandal and had agreed to step down from his office on July 15. Just minutes before I was supposed to be sworn in, Tucker called me to say he had changed his mind and did not plan to step down after all. This was after seven weeks of transition during which I had prepared to assume the governorship and the state had scrambled to facilitate the changeover. To top it off, the Capitol was overflowing with people who had poured in from around the state to watch the swearing in of the new Republican governor. All hell broke loose. For almost five tumultuous hours, there were two men—one Democrat and one Republican—claiming to be governor. To make matters worse, the state police and the National Guard were rendered useless because they weren’t sure who their boss was. The Democrats controlled the House 89-11 and the Senate 31-4, and yet even they realized that Tucker’s actions could sink their party, as the anger and outrage that had started in the Capitol had begun to spread throughout the entire state. Tucker finally relented, resigned unconditionally, and I was sworn in at 7:00 P.M.

  As much as I lament the fact that I didn’t assume power in a normal, peaceful, and celebratory way, the event was a blessing for me. First, my unlikely and sometimes awkward political journey had taken me to the governor’s office, and second, the misconduct of my predecessor meant that the very Democrats who dominated the state were willing to give me—the third Republican governor of Arkansas in more than a hundred years—a fair chance.

  Of course, just as the joy and excitement of Christmas morning eventually give way to the challenge of cleaning up the mess you just left under the tree, my celebrations upon assuming office were short-lived. After the first few days of adulation and adoration from the good people of Arkansas, the reality of the job took hold. Being governor is hard work, and it’s not a five-day-a-week, nine-to-five job. You have to be on duty 24-7 because a tornado, a prison escape, or the death of a thirteen-year-old boy being held in state custody doesn’t always happen during banking hours. But even though it’s demanding and challenging, being governor is absolutely the best job imaginable if you are truly interested in changing things and having an impact on society, which is exactly what I wanted to do.

  And of course, despite all the hard work, being governor does have its perks, the best being the accommodations. The Governor’s Mansion is unlike any other home. Living in it is like living in a very nice bed-and-breakfast where you never have to check out. You are surrounded by people twenty-four hours a day, and there’s never a moment when you’re completely alone. State police and security detail guard your home at all hours of the day and night. Cameras watch every inch of the property within the gates. If you leave your bedroom in the middle of the night, you always have to make sure you’re dressed because there’s always a chance you will bump into someone—even at 3:00 A.M.—whether it’s a staffer or a group of several hundred people attending an event. But despite the lack of privacy there, the governor’s mansion offers every possible convenience. The staff is charged with the task of attending to chores and errands so that the governor and his family can go about their business without the hassle of doing laundry, shopping for groceries, or ironing. I had spent my entire life worrying about money and working hard just to get by. I’d even had to sell my prized guitars just to buy a washer and dryer. Never in my life had I imagined that I’d ever have someone who was hired to do all of my laundry for me!

  Even Christmas was an official affair. During the holiday season, the Governor’s Mansion serves as the center of activity for the state and plays host to an almost nightly schedule of events, parties, and tours from Thanksgiving until New Year’s Day. It’s difficult to separate a private “family Christmas” from the public “citizens’ Christmas,” and after the first year, my family and I gave up on having a separate “family tree” in the upstairs area where the bedrooms were and instead used one of the several trees that adorned the public spaces downstairs.

  Since the earliest days of our marriage, Janet had collected manger scenes that she used to decorate the house. Her favorite was a very large one made of olive wood that we had purchased on one of our many trips to Israel, and during Christmas in the Governor’s Mansion, we placed this on a large table in the conference room. She made it her tradition in the mansion to display all of these manger scenes each year. She considered it her way to add a personal touch on the otherwise “official” Christmas decorating process.

  Every year, a wonderful group of women volunteers from around the state came to help decorate. They gave several days of their time and much of their care and love to helping make the Governor’s Mansion a special and beautiful place at Christmas. No matter how many times I saw the tastefully and carefully planned decorations, I was still in awe of their simple yet stunning beauty.

  My entire life, I had searched for the perfect home—first as a newlywed, then as a new father—but during my time as governor, I realized that home is about more than just four walls and a roof. It’s about family. Even though I was living in the Governor’s Mansion, it was never my house. I didn’t own it, and I knew that one day I would be forced to move out. I spent a decade sitting on furniture I didn’t own, dining off dishes that weren’t mine, and eating food I hadn’t purchased or cooked. But my wife and three kids made it feel like home, especially at Christmas.

  My family spent more years and celebrated more Christmases in the Governor’s Mansion than in any other residence we’d lived in for thirty-five years. Each year was special and marked by a beauty and comfort we hadn’t experienced before. That ended with my last Christmas as governor.

  My ten-and-a-half-year term came to an end in January 2007, and so the Christmas of 2006—complete with the traditional staff, cabinet, and state agency holiday events—was much more nostalgic and emotional than any before. The pace and pressure of my term had certainly taken its toll on my team, and photos from the last few months of my term reveal just how much we had weathered. We all certainly felt a genuine mood of satisfaction and fulfillment for all we had accomplished over the past decade, but the sense of finality was marked by deep sadness among our staff.

  While my family, my staff, and I tried to soak in each moment and savor the memories, we were also faced with a looming deadline to vacate the capitol and the Governor’s Mansion. We had determined back in 1996, at the very beginning of my term, that we would do everything we could to make sure this transition was as smooth as possible. I had assumed office in the midst of chaos and confusion, and I had promised myself that I wouldn’t force my successor to deal with the same thing.

  When I walked into my office on my first night as governor, I was shocked and appalled by the mess waiting for me. The previous administration had left no files, records, or even phone books behind, and the only thing that remained was a half-full drawer of papers for our legal counsel. There were no records of appointments, no budgetary records for any state office, and not even instructions on how to use the phones. We were able to get records of appoi
ntments from the secretary of state and budget information from the finance and administration department, but for everything else we had to start from scratch. It was a petty thing to do, and it meant that I had to spend a good chunk of my early days in office just trying to get organized, when I should’ve been running the state. I wouldn’t let the next guy suffer through that.

  But despite my attempts to facilitate a smooth handover, certain journalists and opponents began to accuse me of destroying hard drives and office computers. In fact, I did have the hard drives from several of the computers removed and destroyed, but only after my staff and I had salvaged all records of transactions, budgets, appointments, and important correspondence that my successor might need. The procedure we followed was not only authorized and recommended by our department of information services but based on federal guidelines for information protection. In many cases, state-owned computers were sold to outside parties, and if files weren’t sufficiently scrubbed, hackers could obtain sensitive information—even medical records and Social Security numbers—that, if dropped in the wrong hands, could lead to privacy violations or lawsuits against the state. We made sure all pertinent records and information got passed to the new administration and even placed funds in our budget to help cover costs of the transition and vacated our offices earlier than required so the new guys could come in without a hiccup.