There was this long pause. Then Dad said with a familiar sternness in his voice, “Oh for God’s sake, Mary. What in the Sam Hill do you want that for? You’re 40 years old!” I paused, feeling embarrassed. But I was also determined.

“Dad, I remember how good it felt when we were little and cuddled up next to you on the couch while you read The Night before Christmas. I can still remember how strong your voice was, how safe I felt, and how well you acted out all the different sounds and voices. I’d really appreciate your doing this. Since I’m 2500 miles away and not coming home for Christmas, it would be great to have you with me.”

      Dad said, with a little more softness and some incredulity, “You mean you want me to read just like I did when you were kids, with all the bells and whistles and everything?”

      “Yessssssss! Just like that!” I said enthusiastically.

      Again, he paused for a long time. Then he said, “I’ll buy you the book.”

      I heard the finality of his decision in his voice and resignedly said, “Okay. Talk to you on Christmas.” We said our “I love you’s” and hung up. I was disappointed but tried to understand. I assumed I was asking for too much sentimentalism from a 76-year-old bear, and that, in his mind, this was a foolish request for a grown daughter to ask. Maybe. Maybe not. All I knew was that each time I talked to Dad, his voice sounded more and more tired, and I was beginning to accept that the question was no longer if, but when, the day would come that I wouldn’t hear his laugh anymore.

      On Christmas Eve day, a small, brown, recycled padded envelope with lots of staples and tape arrived. My name and address were written in architect’s lettering with thick black magic marker, my dad’s unmistakable hand. Inside was an audiotape with a handwritten label, “Twas the Night b4 Christmas.”

      I popped the tape in the recorder and my father’s words roared, “Twas the niiiiiiiiiiiiiiight before Christmas when alllllllllllllllllll through the houwwwwwwwwwwwwse,” just like when we were children! When he finished, he went on to say, “And now I’m going to read from The Little Engine That Could.” I guess Dad had another message in mind when he included a favorite childhood bedtime story he had read over and over to us when we were small. It was the same story we read to Mom when she was dying of cancer three years earlier.

      The tape continued with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing, “Silent Night,” our family’s favorite Christmas Eve sing-along song. And then, “Oh Come All Ye Faithful”…with more favorite songs until the tape ran out.

      I went to sleep feeling safe and sound that Christmas Eve, thanking God for giving me another Christmas miracle with my dad.

      The following May, Dad passed away unexpectedly. No more phone calls every Sunday morning asking me, “What was the Gospel about today, Mary?” No more “I love you’s.” But his voice lives on…and continues to remind me that I can do what I put my mind to; that I can stretch emotionally for someone else, even when it’s difficult. That’s the power of love.

      I saved the tape as a surprise for my sisters and brother and their families for Christmas the following year. My youngest sister called and left a tearful message on my voice mail that said, “Mary, I just got the tape. Did you know that on the tape he said it was December 19? That’s today! While I was in the living room and put on the tape, Holden (her two-and-a-half-year-old son) came running out from the kitchen full steam, yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘Mommy, Grampa’s here! Grampa’s here!’ You should have seen him, Mary, looking all around for Dad. Dad was here.”