It was an ordinary, early-December day. A wisp of snow teased the asphalt driveway, as if deciding whether to stick or not. I noticed the box hugging the front door as my car edged toward the garage.

There was nothing special about the box I plucked from the porch, except it was addressed to me from a cataloguer I had never purchased from. Deciding it must be an early Christmas present, I left it on the kitchen counter, thinking it best to have my husband retrieve the contents in case the present wasn't wrapped.

But the gift was wrapped, and typed on the tag was a message that startled and surprised us both. It read, "To Nan, with love from Dad R."  "Dad R?" I queried, reaching for the tag to confirm what my husband had just read. So like my father-in-law to plan ahead, I thought, feeling the raw sadness grip my heart. It was only a few months since his death; not long after Mom R had died.

Gingerly we placed the present where the tree would soon stand, wondering together what he could have possibly sent. On Christmas morning, it was my father-in-law's gift that remained unopened until the ceremony of shared memories and love had been exchanged among our family, savoring stories about his wit, his storytelling, and his gruff outside with a marshmallow inside.

Right before I opened his present, I told our son the story of the first time I met his grandfather. Brought home to meet my future-in-laws, I was intimidated by the military careerist with lightening retorts and I couldn't tell if he was kidding. But by the end of the evening, I was still holding my own with this man whom I would soon grow to love.

When we left Dan's parents that night, I did what I did when leaving my own parents - I hugged them goodbye. And his father, clearly startled by my outward sign of affection, awkwardly hugged back. Once in the car, I learned that hugging wasn't the normal ritual in the Russell home. But, from that day on, it was mine. And eventually it became Dad R's, too.

Inside that box I discovered that sometime before his death, my father-in-law had selected a piece for my collection of music boxes. Twelve intricately painted porcelain horses mounted on a two-story carousel. I see his love every time I see that carousel.

But in the scheme of things, that's not the only place I see his love. It lives in the generosity of my husband, in the wit of our son, in the orientation of my sister-in-laws, and in the lives of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

There's a condolence card my husband keeps on his desk that reads, "Memories are like stars in the dark night of sorrow. May time soften the pain until all that remains is the beauty of the memories ... and the love - always the love." That's the message sent in a box by my father-in-law that Christmas eleven years ago. It's the love - always the love that lives on.

(c) 2007 Nan S. Russell.  All Rights Reserved.

Author of Hitting Your Stide: Your Work, Your Way (Capital Books; January 2008). Sign up to receive Nan's free monthly eColumn at www.intheschemeofthings.com

More of Nan S. Russell's work can be read at www.nanrussell.com