Dear Readers, I hope you enjoy this Christmas story which I originally shared several years ago. This memory still moves me.

In the waning afternoon sun on a Christmas Eve many years ago, my daughter, husband, and I anticipated a snowy drive to Buffalo from Angola, where we lived with my husband’s father. As the gloomy afternoon wore on, snow began to fall. Not the fairy tale, picturesque snow of maudlin Christmas movies, but big, fat, serious snowflakes that rapidly coated Albeeville Drive in front of our house, and weighted down the tall spires of evergreens lining it all the way to Lakeshore Road, a tricky route even in good weather.

The phone rang shrilly, disturbing my anxious thoughts as I watched the snow piling up in marshmallow mounds in our yard. My sister’s voice crackled through the phone wire.

“Are you going to try to make it?” Susan asked.

“How much snow do you have there?” I asked anxiously.

“It’s starting to pile up, but the radio said that the south towns were getting a blast of lake effect snow. You know, we want you to come, but…” her voice trailed off.

We’d never missed a Christmas Eve at the Joyces’. It was part party, part dance, part feast, and just plain fun. Everything and anything happened on our Christmas Eves: square dancing in the front hall as my sister played the piano, singing Christmas carols, a frenzy of gifts, hugging, crying, saying ‘I love you’, and of course feasting on great food. We topped the evening off by trudging through the snow to Midnight Mass at St. John’s church. Sisters and brothers traveled from miles to gather in our parent’s home—even keeping this tradition long after both of our parents died. I wanted this Christmas Eve to be no different.

I muttered a little prayer under my breath as I went outside to assess the situation. It soon became clear that we were staying put that evening. I looked up into the nighttime sky, a swirl of snow, as hot tears of disappointment stung my eyes. I couldn’t even see across our two-lane road. A phone call from Dan’s brother, a New York State Trooper, confirmed the diagnosis. He warned us to stay home; they were pulling the state troopers off the roads until things improved—probably sometime after midnight.

So here, we were, stuck in Angola, for what should have been the most festive night of the holiday season. Worse yet, I really needed a break from taking care of my father-in-law, whose brain was ravaged by Alzheimer’s disease, changing one of the most creative, vital people I have ever known into a child in a man’s body. To make matters worse, when I went to the pantry to try to invent a makeshift meal, all we had, other than the holiday turkey and side dishes, was some frozen pizzas.

I put together a hurry-up meal of frozen pizza, salad, and our Christmas cookies.

 We all sat down to dinner, surrounded by the soft glow of our charming Christmas tree, and munched on the pizza and salad. We then topped it off with the festive cookies Brenda, our daughter, and I had decorated so lovingly.

The snow continued to fall, blanketing the house with silent winter coziness. We put holiday music on the record player and exchanged gifts.

Grandpa Joe, as we called my father-in-law, delighted in the winter hat and gloves we gave him, putting them on and insisting on wearing them all evening. He took great pleasure in sharing his box of Danish cookies with Shadow, his ancient black Labrador.

We found ourselves laughing and exchanging funny stories. Could it be? Was Joe a little more aware that evening? I’m not sure, but I do know that the snowstorm that night was part of God’s great plan for my family and me.

Fast-forward another year. A different Christmas Eve, crisp and clear; with roads that were easily traveled over as we hurried into Buffalo to my sister’s home. This would be the first Christmas that my father–in–law was no longer with us. The impromptu Christmas Eve from the year before was, indeed, Joe Glascott’s very last Noel. What a blessing that we were able to spend that last Noel with my beloved father-in-law, Joe.