Grandkids for Christmas

By Mimi Greenwood Knight

The deepest wishes of the heart find expression in secret prayer.
~George E. Rees

I was ten and my little sister was seven, the babies of a family of fourteen. Seven of my siblings had flown the coop, but my brother Wayne was the only one with kids. He and his wife had just been transferred across the country to California. Mama was looking at her first Christmas without little ones in the house. We all prayed she wouldn't be too sad, yet we suspected she was a bit depressed, though she didn't let it show.

On Christmas Eve we sat talking about my little nieces, wondering what they were doing. We imagined how empty the next day would be without them ripping open presents from Santa. When we couldn't stand it any longer, we called and passed the phone around, asked them if they'd been good girls and what they hoped Santa would leave under their tree. Mama busied herself in the kitchen, no doubt praying, as usual.

That's when our Christmas miracle began. We lived on a busy state highway in south Louisiana, on a section of road called Dead Man's Curve. The sound of screeching tires and smashing steel was not unusual to us. Many strangers found refuge on our living room couch while waiting for an ambulance, a tow truck or a family member to rescue them. Once a man died in my dad's arms on our front lawn, after being hit by a car as he walked along that treacherous road. My father, an ordained minister, baptized him there.

As we hung up from talking to our nieces, we heard the familiar sound of tires screeching. We held our breath, then heard an earsplitting crash. We bolted for the front door and rushed to the road. An eighteen-wheeler had plowed into a station wagon holding a young couple and their two little daughters. The truck was on its side in the ditch. The station wagon had crossed the road and a ditch, then landed inches from a row of trees. The truck driver and the young family crawled from the wreckage. Amazingly, no one appeared hurt, but the truck and car were going nowhere except the junkyard.

Someone stopped the traffic. Mom and Dad hustled everyone into the house, called the police and Mama started warming dinner. Next thing I knew the truck driver was gone. I guess someone picked him up. But the family was stranded. They were on their way to Mississippi to spend Christmas with elderly grandparents who were too old to drive and pick them up this late at night.

Within five seconds we all fell in love with the precious girls. The older girl was three just like my older niece, and the baby a few months younger than our little one. Mama rocked the baby to sleep and Daddy read Christmas stories to the girl until she dozed off in his lap. My sister and I offered to sleep on the den floor and give them our beds.

Mama scrounged around in her closet, found some toys, wrapped them and stashed them under the tree. Long after we drifted off to sleep ourselves, Mama's sewing machine whirred away making a painting smock, a dress and a pinafore for the older girl, a Christmas apron for the mother, and a bonnet for the baby. She wrapped up a handyman how-to book for the daddy and some of her popular homemade cheese straws.

When we woke up, Dad read the Christmas story from the Bible, then the three-year-old placed the figures in the manger, just like we did when we were that age. Everyone was amazed at the presents. The young couple was shocked to find something for them too.

About midday on Christmas, someone came from Mississippi to pick up the little family. We hugged goodbye and thanked each other for the wonderful Christmas we shared.

For many years after that, the family visited regularly every Christmas Eve. When their grandparents died and they no longer traveled to Mississippi, they stayed in touch, sent Christmas cards and even visited every few years. We marveled at how the girls, and later their little brother, grew.

There have been plenty Christmases since then. Now I spend them with my own four kids. There've been other miracles too. But I'll never forget the year God sent my mama grandkids for Christmas.

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Cookie Cutters Are for Cookies

By Cheryl Kirking

Most of us are like snowflakes trying to be like each other, yet knowing full well that no two snowflakes are ever identical.
~William E. Elliott

"He is such an easy baby because his mother was happy during her pregnancy."

"He was a fussy baby because his mother was tense when she was pregnant."

"She's such a shy child because her older brother is so overbearing."

Have you ever heard similar attempts to explain a child's personality? Environmental circumstances, such as birth order and parenting styles, certainly play a role in affecting behavior. But my triplets, although raised in the same environment, were born with very different personalities. Although we can do a lot to shape our children, we also need to recognize that they come to us not merely to be "molded," but to be "unfolded" — to bring out the best in each child's unique personality.

My two boys and a girl were born within minutes of each other. In the early years of their lives, they shared a bedroom, wore each others' clothes, ate the same food, came into contact with the same people, listened to the same stories and music, and breathed the same air. Because they happened to be part of a four-year medical study of premature babies, evaluations revealed they were also very similar in their physical and cognitive development.

Yet their personality differences delight and sometimes amaze us! While I strive to be consistent and fair, they each have different wants and needs that I take into consideration. I've learned that a "cookie-cutter" approach to raising kids doesn't work, and it isn't fair to my children to try to fit them into the same mold.

For instance, when my kids were four years old, they decorated gingerbread man cookies at Christmas time. Three pairs of little hands were washed. Three little aprons were tied around three excited "bakers." I divided the cookies equally and placed dishes of colored frosting, gumdrops, candy sprinkles, and M&Ms on the table, then gave them each three gingerbread men to decorate.

Fun-loving Bryce immediately began slathering frosting with wild abandon, cramming as many candies on his cookies as possible. This bothered Sarah Jean, who likes things more controlled. She began wailing, "Mommy, make him stop! He's using all the candy up. Stop him!" I quickly intervened, dividing the candies equally.

Meanwhile, thoughtful Blake hadn't yet begun his decorating.

"Blakey, how are you going to decorate your cookies?" I asked.

"I don't know yet," he said. Analytical by nature, he needed time to think about it.

"Blake," I said, "you can decorate them any way you want to. There's no right or wrong way to decorate cookies."

"Will you help me get the face right?" he asked.

"Honey, you can do it. There's no right or wrong way to decorate a cookie."

"But I want it right!" he insisted. So I guided his hand with mine, and we carefully made the eyes, nose, mouth, and hair.

"Now you decorate the body." And he did, with a single yellow M&M "button," perfectly centered on his gingerbread man.

"Don't you want to put anything more on your cookie?" I asked.

"No," he said. "I want to wipe my hands now so I can go play Legos."

"What about your other two cookies? Don't you want to decorate them?"

"Nope," he answered happily. "I like this one!" And off he scampered to his "work" of building with his Legos. After all, he had created his perfect cookie; to make any more would simply be redundant.

"I'll take his candy," Bryce immediately volunteered.

"No, Mommy!" Sarah Jean squawked. "Divide them!"

Three peas in a pod? Hardly.

My children have shown me that every child is a unique individual, a miracle that can't be duplicated. Each has been given a separate body, personality, and soul, divinely chosen. Each is a holy miracle of God.

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Planet Zirconia

By Sioux Roslawski

There are many sham diamonds in this life which pass for real, and vice versa.
~William Makepeace Thackeray

When we got married, Michael was a restaurant manager. I was a struggling student and a single mother, so our wedding was pieced together like a puzzle. A simple, on-sale gown for me, a rented tux for him, and a flower girl's dress for my daughter, Virginia, made by a family friend. The reception was at a neighborhood hall with cheesy linoleum and stained ceiling tiles. We tried not to look too closely at some of the details. The food was catered by us — the bride and groom — cooked up in our shag-carpeted apartment: roast beef slices rolled up au jus, tubs of mostaccioli, and chafing dishes full of green beans.

The rings we exchanged on that September afternoon were thin bands. Going shopping, we had settled on the cheapest ones. My band slipped on right next to my engagement ring, which Michael had picked out the year before. It was adorned with gems from "the planet Zirconia," as my husband would jest, and it became a running joke. There was no way we could afford diamonds, not even diamond dust.

Okay, so not all the pieces fit together to create a perfect picture. But at the end of the day, we were married, our friends and family had enjoyed themselves, we didn't run out of food, and my five-year-old daughter only lifted up her dress once during the ceremony.

And over the years, we stayed at nose-just-above-the-water level. After I finished with school, I became a third-grade teacher. Michael worked, too, but our goal was never to make loads of money. What money we did make went into Virginia and then Ian, our son. Soccer leagues. Music lessons. Braces. College loans. We started in a "starter home" and never left it. We began with simple gold bands and were still stuck with them, even though we tossed jokes back and forth for the next couple of decades.

"You know, one of these days I'm gonna get a rock on my finger to make up for all this aggravation!" I'd throw at him after he did something hardheaded.

"Well, actually, the stones from Zirconia are in higher demand than diamonds," Michael would claim. Since I was never really that enthralled with diamonds, it didn't matter. I liked my simple gold band. I didn't feel like I was missing out on anything.

When our 25th wedding anniversary rolled around, the two of us went out to dinner. It was a low-key celebration because my mom was in a rehabilitation center. Our son was away at college. It seemed silly to spend a bunch of money on a big party just to mark something we already knew: We had weathered lots of storms but were still together.

A few months later, we were at my in-laws' house, opening Christmas gifts. Earlier that morning, I had unwrapped some books and a sweater from Michael. Not expecting anything else from him, I was surprised when he handed me a plain, business-sized envelope. When I opened it, I read a lovely poem with such sweet sentiments about our twenty-five years together.

So blown away by the sentimental words, tears started flowing down my cheeks. I didn't even pay attention to the end of the poem, where it said that I should ask what was "hiding" in Michael's pocket. When he prompted me, "Ask me what's in my pocket," I blubbered the words. Out of his pocket emerged a small box — and in the small box was a diamond ring.

Even though I never wanted a diamond, after twenty-five years, it mattered to him. In his mind, it was important to mark the anniversary with a grand gesture.

When I look at the ring — in a unique setting to mark our quirky relationship — I try not to think of what that money could have been spent on instead of an expensive piece of jewelry. I try not to think of how overrated diamonds are. When I look at the ring, what I see clearer than anything else is how we've arranged the puzzle pieces over the years. Sometimes, we've had to search for the right pieces, to the point of almost giving up. Sometimes, we've had to jam the pieces together, forcing them to fit. But in the end, we've made it work.

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Class Picture

By Harley Hay

The true gift of friendship is the gift of yourself.
~Author Unknown

I walked to South School every day with Glen, who lived in a broken-down house — more of a shack really — down the street from me. We'd join up on our way to school, kicking rocks down the sidewalk in the fall, throwing the odd snowball in the winter, floating little matchstick boats down the gutter rivulets in the spring.

We never said much to each other. Glen wasn't much for words. He had been held back a grade or two in school, and he was much taller and bigger than the rest of the kids in our third grade class.

He always seemed to be a bit embarrassed, scrunching to fit into the little desk in Mrs. Lougheed's class. Or sad. Maybe he was just sad. All I know is sometimes when I'd look at him across the room, struggling with his reading or his arithmetic, my heart would hurt a bit.

Glen loved one thing more than anything else — his dog, Blackie. A big old black Lab, as quiet and gentle as Glen himself. Outside of school the two were never apart. Maybe that's why Glen seemed sad in school. He missed Blackie.

Often Blackie would walk Glen and me to school and then make his way back home by himself, and often Blackie would be there all by himself at the end of the school day, waiting to walk us home again. Those were Glen's favorite days. And mine too.

Blackie wasn't supposed to be at the school though. Glen's mom had been told that dogs weren't allowed on the school grounds, and Blackie didn't have a license or even a collar for that matter. I don't think Glen's mom could afford stuff like that, or if she could, she wasn't the kind of person who would worry about dog licenses and such.

One perfect spring Wednesday I looked out the classroom window to the playground when the school bell rang and saw Blackie sitting in the schoolyard, in the shade by the baseball diamond, thumping his tail in the cool grass. Like only elementary school children at recess can, we rode a wave of excitement out the classroom, floating through the boot room, a torrent of goofiness gushing out the school doors, barely touching the ground.

Glen made a beeline for Blackie, me right behind him. We were both instantly rewarded with a woof and a lick, but Glen was worried. He told Blackie to go home, that he wasn't supposed to be there, that he would get in trouble. But the big old black Lab wasn't going anywhere, and when he decided on something, there was no budging him.

By this time, most of our class had gravitated over to see Blackie, to pet him and rub his big old square head, kneeling down for a hug, hoping for a lick on the cheek. The most popular girl in the grade, Penny Bond, was on the receiving end of a mighty slurp when we heard it.

The gravel crunched as a van pulled up right beside us, near the baseball diamond on a narrow driveway behind the old school building. Nobody ever drove on that gravel — except the dogcatcher. He had a bright orange van, and pretty well every single kid at South School hated that van. To this day I don't like that shade of orange.

"I have to take the dog," said the dogcatcher as he got out of the van. "Move away now kids, go play over there."

He gestured with a big pole toward the playground equipment. The pole had a loop of rope on it. It looked like a noose to me.

"Come on now kids, I gotta take the dog. Go play now." He was still keeping his distance, but nobody moved. Blackie woofed. Glen kneeled beside Blackie, hugging him, blinking back tears.

"He's my dog," said Glen. "It's okay, he's my dog, Blackie."

But the dogcatcher just took a step toward us, slowly swinging the pole with the noose on the end. "I don't see a license on this animal. He doesn't even have a collar. I have to take him to the pound, kid. If he's your dog, you can claim him there and pay the fee. He ain't allowed on the school grounds."

"But, we don't even have a car," said Glen, trying really hard now not to cry in front of all of his friends. He didn't want to say that his mom didn't have the money to get Blackie out of the pound. He didn't want to say it, but we all knew what happened to dogs that nobody claimed from the pound.

The dogcatcher wasn't listening. He took another step toward Blackie, and Glen started to cry and suddenly, somehow, we all stood in front of Glen and Blackie. We stood between them and the dogcatcher.

And then Penny Bond grabbed my hand, and I grabbed someone else's hand, and somehow we all linked together, and we were forming a circle — a huge circle of gritty third grade kids, arms outstretched, building a human fence around our friend and his dog.

It was one of those moments. One of those moments you know you'll always remember, even when you're old. Especially when you're old.

We stood there in our circle, Glen and Blackie in the middle of that circle, the dogcatcher outside of the circle, not exactly sure what to do. Nobody said a word. All you could hear was that Glen had stopped crying.

We would have stood there forever if it weren't for Mrs. Lougheed. Somehow she was out the back door of the school and calling to the dogcatcher. They stood over by his ugly orange dogcatcher van, Mrs. Lougheed doing most of the talking.

We hung onto our circle even harder now, and then something amazing happened. The dogcatcher got into his van and drove off. He didn't say anything to us at all; he didn't even look over at us. He just drove away.

When all the cheering and hugging and crying died down, Mrs. Lougheed got us settled down back in our own classroom, Blackie sprawled in the corner at the back of the room, snoozing away contentedly for the rest of the afternoon. I think it was Glen's happiest time in school ever.

Glen and his dog and his mom moved away that summer, and I never saw them again. But if you look at our old black-and-white class picture, beyond all the silly smiles and goofy hairdos of proud and shiny eight-year-olds, if you could look beyond the frame, you'd see what I can see: an old black dog curled up just outside of the class picture not very far from the biggest kid in the class.

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Loopy Love

By Kara Johnson

If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything.
~Mark Twain

"And then, they took me into the intimidation room where they... they pulled out this big scary machine and started to torture me," he said as his eyelids drooped slowly again. I held his hand and brushed my fingers gently over his forehead and back into his hair.

"That must have been so scary, honey!" I said as I winked at the nurse checking his vitals. "You're so brave, sweetheart."

My husband Jim had gone in for a medical procedure and was now in the recovery room waiting for the anesthesia to wear off. He was normally strong, coherent, and rational, but today he was a groggy, grown man sitting like a toddler, wrapped in a blanket with both legs out straight. His tennis shoes were untied and dangling off the bed and he had both hands wrapped around a 7UP he was happily slurping from a bendy straw.

When I first walked into the recovery room, he was mimicking a fighter pilot with his arms out — floating over a terrain of twists and turns, dipping his head to go down into valleys and then nodding his chin upwards toward the hospital ceiling to fly over the imaginary peaks.

Every five minutes or so, he'd ask how I was, wondered about the dog who happened to be waiting in the car, expressed his deep desire for pizza, and told me about a nurse who apparently had very hairy arms. Each round of questioning brought him a step closer to consciousness as I assured him once again that the dog and I were both fine, pizza would be the first stop on the way home, and it wasn't nice to talk about someone's arms that way.

Internally I giggled at his imaginative and expressive stories and secretly wished I'd brought the video camera so he could laugh along with me once he finally came back to earth. His ability to make me laugh, even in the most trying circumstances, has been a form of anesthesia that has served to ease some of the pain felt over the years from lost loved ones, unexpected illness, and a multitude of other nuisances life has thrown our way. It has been a glue formed by a mixture of secret stories, inside jokes, winks across a crowded room, devilish smirks in the middle of dinner with the grandma, and endless silly pranks.

Though generally his teasing and trick playing are benign, I wasn't so sure about the effects of the medications he was under at the moment. So far, the anesthesia had been a truth serum, rendering useless any filtering devices that would have normally kept his random and sometimes inappropriate and socially awkward comments in check. For a moment I worried that it wouldn't be long until he started in on how much weight I'd gained since we got married, how horrible of a cook I'd turned out to be, or any of the other countless quirks I contribute to the marriage.

But he never mentioned any of that. Instead, he jabbered for a while about pizza and the dog and then remarked that the scrubs one of the nurses was wearing were so blue they hurt his eyes. I tried to shush him, but he turned towards me and mentally stopped dead in his tracks.

"You are so beautiful!" he exclaimed through the glaze in his eyes. I started to blush and then noticed a shade of worry suddenly panning across his face. He leaned close and whispered, "Am I a good husband to you?"

"Oh, honey." I smiled, feeling a piece of my heart melt. "Of course you're a good husband! I could never ask for anyone better," I promised.

"Are you sure? I mean, I don't ever want to sell you short," he said.

Then, with intense concentration, he grabbed my hand and pulled me close to him. I bent down and waited expectantly for another heartfelt sentiment. He thought deeply for a moment and then said, "You know, on second thought, I think I'd like a milkshake instead of pizza." He mused, sitting back and falling into his trance again.

"Sure, sweetie." I laughed and thought I should have seen that one coming. "We can get you a milkshake."

Though he doesn't remember anything from that day, I will always look back and smile when I think about it. We left the hospital with more funny stories than I can count, but what sticks with me a few years later is the fact that even the most powerful drugs couldn't keep him from pronouncing his care and concern for me. When his inhibitions were lowered and the verbal filter was broken, he was still gracious, kind, and compassionate towards me. Amidst the conflict between a milkshake and pizza and imagining airplanes and intimidation rooms, deep down in his core, there was a man who still cherished me above all else.

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Voice of an Angel

By Joyce Sudbeck

Mother, the ribbons of your love are woven around my heart.
~Author Unknown

I made it through Thanksgiving. I was relieved it was over. It wasn't easy, but I was so busy with food preparation and getting the house ready, I had little time to lament Mom's not being with us.

Now, I was going to have to face Christmas. It was going to be harder than anything I have ever faced before.

Mom had succumbed to colon cancer the previous January. I had lived through the first Thanksgiving without her and now I faced the first Christmas.

It was the first weekend of December. I tried to muster up the courage to visit Mom's grave to decorate. I had visited her grave on her birthday, Easter, Mother's Day, Memorial Day, during the summer, and earlier in the fall. I had only missed two months all year. Somehow, my heart wasn't in it now. I couldn't bear the thought of standing there mouthing the words, "Merry Christmas, Mom," to a stone. I began to cry every time I thought about it.

I let the first weekend of December pass without making myself go there. The cemetery was over an hour's drive. This provided a ready excuse. I was just too busy shopping and getting the house ready.

Back at work Monday morning, I knew I was dragging my feet. I would, eventually, have to face the music and go. Mom deserved it.

That next Saturday, we had unexpected company. Some friends from out of town were visiting their parents and stopped by for an early lunch. The day was shot by the time they left and we cleaned up.

Sunday, I went to late mass and wasn't quite feeling up to par. I told myself I didn't feel like driving all that distance. Another weekend had passed. I was feeling guilty about not having any decorations on Mom's grave but I knew she wouldn't expect me to go out when I wasn't feeling well.

Only one weekend left. I had so much wrapping and food preparation still to do. Our children, their spouses, and our three grandchildren would be with us Christmas Eve. They always spent Christmas Eve with us and went to their in-laws' homes on Christmas Day.

I had always spent Christmas Day with Mom, and it transported me back to my childhood. With Mom, I was the child, not the wife, the mother, or the fifty-year-old grandmother. Now all that was gone. There was no going back to my childhood. There was no Mom.

The last weekend and the last chance to decorate arrived. How would I be able to get through this? I was depressed. I cried at the drop of a hat. Again, I let the weekend slip by and made up more flimsy excuses. Since it had snowed a flake or two, I thought "inclement weather" — yet another reason not to go. The streets were barely wet.

It was Monday morning. I took Monday and Tuesday off from work to try to get caught up with the wrapping, cleaning, decorating, and baking Christmas cookies. This year I felt more overwhelmed than ever. I slept fitfully at night. I was more fatigued every day. I couldn't shake that sorrow deep inside.

I hadn't finished our laundry over the weekend. I had one more load of clothes. I began filling the washer around 7:45 a.m. My husband left for work and I was alone. Gloom wrapped around me like a shroud. My eyes began to fill with tears. As I was starting to load the washer, suddenly, I felt weak.

All at once, my head began filling with the words of a poem. I dropped the clothing I had in my hands and they fell to the floor. I frantically reached for the pencil and paper we kept by the telephone. I began to write the words down as fast as they came. It was like I was possessed. When I finished, I had filled two sheets of paper. The poem rhymed and flowed nicely, as if I had deliberately composed it. Well, I hadn't. I read over what I had scribbled down.

It was at that moment I was certain where the poem had come from. Straight from heaven. I had no doubt that my mom was comforting me as she had so many times since I was a child. Here are the words that came in that sudden rush:


FROM MOTHER
The somber figure stood before,
The marker of cold stone,
She felt such pain, her loved one lost,
She stood crying, all alone.

Then, a voice spoke softly to her,
Like the voice of an angel in prayer,
"Do not weep for me, not ever my child,
For you see, I'm not really there.

My soul is at rest, peace and joy are mine,
So wipe those tears from your face,
Go on with the living, who share your life,
Take them in your loving embrace.

I will never truly be lost to you,
Because of the love we hold dear,
Dear child, love never, ever dies,
Isn't love what has brought you here?

The light of God's love, shines on us,
And with Him, we're never alone."
The voice was fading, just like it began,
To a low and whispering tone.

The somber figure lifted her eyes,
The sun had come out from above,
Slowly she walked away from the grave,
Her heart filled with lasting love.

I quickly finished the laundry, and got ready for my journey. I felt renewed and eager to do what I had put off for so long.

I had a beautiful bouquet of poinsettias, edged in gold, with holly leaves and berries. I couldn't wait to place it in Mom's vase.

On the drive to the cemetery, a panorama of fifty wonderful years I had with Mom flashed through my mind. I was no longer daunted by prospects of another encounter with her grave. I felt gratitude, instead of sorrow, knowing that God had richly blessed me with a loving, kind, and caring mother. A mother who was still comforting me from beyond the grave.

That Christmas was quite different for us, but a good Christmas overall. It wasn't sad or overshadowed by gloom and regret. Yes, we remembered Mom — only in a completely different way than I had anticipated.

At dinner Christmas Eve, the family sat and recalled all the good times we had shared with that wonderful lady who filled our lives with love and all those happy memories.

Thanks, Mom, you've always been there for me.

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Uncle!

By Bruce Mills

October is not only a beautiful month but marks the precious yet fleeting overlap of hockey, baseball, basketball, and football.
~Jason Love

I was one fortunate kid, let me tell you. Growing up in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, we never worried about traffic jams, unless you counted the deer crossing areas, or the occasional lineups to buy pastries at the Finnish bakery. The air was clear, the lakes cool and clean, and the scenery spectacular. If it weren't for the mosquitoes, you would have thought you had already made it to heaven.

Summers were spent playing baseball, and winters belonged to basketball. I loved those two sports with a passion that couldn't be matched, and spent many a day as the hero of my imaginary teams. And then one winter my father dug a hole in our back yard.

"What's Dad up to?" I asked Mom on a cold November day. He had borrowed a backhoe and was digging a very large hole behind our house.

"He decided he wants to put in an ice rink for the winter," she explained, with a bit of a sigh.

Well, my father never did anything small. This rink was nearly the size of a stadium facility, or at least if looked like that to my eight-year-old eyes. Dad got the volunteer fire department to come out and flood the area, and we had one of the biggest patches of ice short of Lake Superior. Coincidentally, that Christmas Santa brought us all skates as presents.

After getting over the initial wobbles (and cutting open my brother's lip with my blade on a bad fall), I started to really like the rink. Then Dad came home with some hockey sticks and a puck, and a new winter sport was born in our family. I found that this was not only a lot of fun, but using the stick really helped out my beginner's balance on the skates. I loved hockey!

But alas, basketball beckoned. My little town was crazy about basketball — even won two state titles back in the fifties — and there wasn't a local hockey team to be found within reasonable driving distance. So the hockey gear was stuffed into the back of my closet, and rarely considered. The ice rink was eventually filled back in, and my father moved on to building a ski lift down our back hill, which is a story for another day.

Years passed, and I went away to college. It wasn't until I arrived at Michigan Tech that I learned that they had won the NCAA Hockey Championship the previous year. I guess you could say that the locals and students were a bit excited. I didn't have a choice — once again hockey ruled the day! My roommate turned out to be a raving lunatic of a hockey fan, and he introduced me to the finer art of his own pre-game warm-up. We would stand behind the net and shove our faces against the glass, and as the practice shots ricocheted off the glass next to our heads, we tried to see who could last the longest without flinching.

Man, did I ever love going to those hockey games! We had a great scorer on the team named Zuke, and my favorite fan sign read, "Jesus Saves. But Zuke scores on the rebound!" Once our archrivals came to town, and a huge brawl broke out before the puck even dropped to start the game. It was the most incredible fight I ever witnessed. The officials just let them go at it until they all finally got too tired to keep swinging their arms. Everyone was fighting — even the goalies were pummeling each other. Well, as much as two men in all that protective gear could actually pummel. And once again, I loved hockey!

Then life happened, and I moved away from my beloved Michigan once I graduated from college. In Denver, the Broncos and football ruled the sports scene. Later, in Salt Lake City, it was the Jazz and the NBA. Hockey? Forget it!

Then I did something I never imagined in my life. I married a Canadian! And once again, hockey came back into my life, this time for good.

Looking back, it seems that each time I shoved hockey aside in my life, it found a way to creep back in. Now I stand up and scream like a crazy man, especially watching the Stanley Cup. I love the action, intensity and grace of the game. I love the speed, passing, checking, penalties, pain, fighting, scoring and winning. Yes, I'm an American with little experience playing the game, but I sure can appreciate the incredible skill of those who do.

So hockey, to you I say "Uncle." As much as I tried to ignore you and put you out of my life, you kept coming back, again and again. And for that, I thank you. Baseball? Too long and slow. Basketball? It's okay. But hockey? Now you're talking. Drop that puck and let 'er rip! What could be more wonderful?

I wonder what my wife would say if I start digging up her flower beds this fall?

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