Yesterday, Pam and I had our last Christmas gathering. Things started last Thursday, when we had supper at Smokey Bones with Pam’s biological father and stepmom, Jim and Ann, and then went to see the movie version of “Phantom of the Opera.” They had seen the stage play four times, including the Michael Crawford/Sara Brightman version.

My parents, along with my brother Rick’s family, came to the Christmas Eve service at Anchor. We arranged the sanctuary seats in a circle, with the grand piano in the middle, and mostly sang carols. I played the piano. Dorene had told me that their two-year-old son, Cameron, is fascinated by piano playing. I would occasionally look in his direction and see him staring intently at me. It always made me smile. Pastor Hallman gave a nice Christmas devotional. At one point, he asked the congregation to name their favorite Christmas movie. My smart-aleck brother Rick said, “Die Hard.” We all laughed.

After the service, we went back to our house, and Stu and Joyce and their four kids, along with assorted friends/girlfriends/boyfriends, soon arrived. It was a fun evening. Mom made her famous noodles. Christmas Day itself was rather uneventful, except that I watched the Lakers/Heat and Pistons/Pacers games.

Then yesterday, after church, we went to Pam’s brother’s place around South Whitley. We had a gift exchange. But the main event was watching the Colts game, where Peyton Manning beat the touchdown record in what was truly a thrilling game. Jim had a big-screen TV, so that was nice. Pam’s Mom is in California, so the only contact with her was by phone. I’m sure she missed getting together with her family over the holidays.

For my first nine years, when we lived in Indiana, we always went to Elgin, Ohio, to spend a day at Grandpa and Grandma’s place on Christmas. My aunt and two uncles and their families would be there, along with my best friend in the world, my cousin Mike. Those were great times. Of course, Grandma always had great food. But then there were the presents we always received from Grandpa and Grandma.

One year, they got each of us three older grandsons–me, Mike, and Brad–a “Johnny Seven.” That was an awesome, and bulky, toy gun that fired seven different things (grenades, missiles, etc.). The two middle grandkids, Stu and Trent, each got what was called a Monkey Gun. It only shot one thing, a yellow missile, but it shot it hard. Our Johnny Sevens, by comparison, merely lobbed missiles, and you could take a hit fairly well. But if you got hit by a Monkey Gun, it really really stung. We had raging battles in Grandpa’s utility room (I can’t believe we didn’t break something), but we older kids were deathly afraid of the Monkey Guns wielded by the young pipsqueaks. How humiliating!

I loved those Christmases. But we moved 500 miles away to Pennsylvania in 1966, and four years later we moved to Arizona, so those special Christmas gatherings with relatives came to an end.

Stu’s kids, now all out of high school, were fortunate. Every Christmas, they were together with their two uncles and grandparents. I, likewise, cherish those get-togethers, the latest version of which occurred on Christmas Eve. It won’t last forever, because Stu’s kids will eventually marry and move to parts yet unknown. But for now, things are as they should be. Especially since I’m able to spend Christmas with Mom and Dad, who remain healthy. What a blessing!