This is isn’t so much a Christmas story as it is a story about my family. I come from a German Catholic family with eleven kids, four girls and seven boys. My parents were always strict, loving and very direct with the way they raised us. My father , in particular, was a true patriarchal son-of-an-immigrant who ruled with an iron hand.

As my dad got older, he seemed to soften his rough exterior, searching for ways to re-connect emotionally with his adult children.

One year, at Christmas, his best intentions were laid to waste by a book he compiled with much affection and very little planning.

It seemed that for the past thirty years, my dad had been writing a year-end letter to each one of his children. Of course, none of us had ever seen these letters or even knew that they existed. As a holiday treat, for the first time ever, my dad compiled all of these letters into a wondrous collection of fond memories, good wishes and heartfelt love for each child… or so he thought.

Christmas Eve came that year as it always does, with family gathering together to share in the warmth and glow of the season. My father wore his Santa hat and anxiously handed out wrapped rectangles to each one of his children as their spouses and their own children looked on with wonder and delight.

Everyone oohed and ahhhed over the beautifully bound books that had been distributed. My dad was beside himself with great joy and satisfaction. Many hands quivered as they creased back the spine to indulge in the prose of praise and thanksgiving that surely awaited the eyes of each anxious reader.

And so the crowd read on…

There are those moments in life, maybe at outdoor wedding or a major league baseball game, where everyone is happy, full of joy and feeling the warmth of human companionship. Then, people see the skies darken as the clouds roll in. Everyone knows a storm is brewing and they must soon seek shelter elsewhere.

This was one of those moments.

The smiles on his children’s’ faces slowly turned into looks of confusion. Could they really be reading what they were reading? Spouses pursed their lips and furrowed their brows. Did he actually write this? Without warning tears began to flow. Yes, people starting crying! No one said a word as the crowd continued to read on.

Within minutes, my dad’s moment of glory turned into utter defeat and he didn’t know why.

The answer was right in the letters. Instead of words of wisdom and praise, a prescriptive narrative of disappointment and judgment wafted up from each page, filling the room with an uncomfortable smell.

It seems that though my dad had written each one of these letters over the past 30 years, he never re-read them when he compiled the book. Some kids got off easier than some of the others, but everyone took a beating in some form or another.

What made it worse was that everyone got to see everyone else’s dirty laundry. This book had opened up Pandora’s Box of family secrets, along with a scathing annual review of each of our lives.

It was bad, real bad. There was even a section written about the spouses (before they were spouses), cautioning some of the children NOT to marry them. There was judgment against unwed mothers, mental health and the improper lifestyles of his children. This was definitely not a light read. If there was a consistent theme for the entire novel, it would have been, “Here’s How You Have Disappointed Me This Year,” with each of our names subtitled for each chapter.

Suffice to say, that Christmas Eve ended early. After digging deep enough into the book, couples and their children began to make their way to the exits. My dad sat alone in the kitchen, wondering what the hell had just happened.

I wish there was a happy ending to this story, but there isn’t. Time has made the story more funny but still sad. Most of my brothers let the whole thing roll off of their backs and chalked it up to dad being dad. But a few of my sisters still won’t talk to him — it hurt that much.

Ultimately, it all came down to this: HE NEVER READ THE BOOK. If he had read it, he might have thought twice about reproducing it or at least only given the letters to each respective child. But he didn’t. In fact, he still hasn’t read the book, though I encouraged him to on many occasions. When I did, he always responded, “I don’t have to read them, I wrote them!”

In effort to make peace within the family, my dad contacted each of us and asked for the book back. I told him I destroyed mine, which I did. My wife and I read it and then shredded it to avoid having our kids read about the sordid past. He was able to get a few books back but not all of them.

My angry sister said she was going to keep it until my dad died… and then throw it in his coffin.

So the Christmas Book of Shame lives on in infamy. No one gathers at my parent’s house for Christmas Eve anymore and my mom and dad are relegated to visiting the houses of those children that don’t begrudge them.

If there is a lesson here, it might be this: In writing, when you change the context of your work, you change the meaning. Lastly, we control our thoughts only until their spoken or written down, after that they are no longer within our control.

So, there you have it, Merry flippin’ Christmas.