Christmas! What thoughts tumble through your mind at the mention of the word? For me, the holiday season has always brought gingerbread swirled with icing, gifts beneath a fragrant tree, and the soft glow of Advent candles. But clinging to it all is the memory of the first Christmas -- the appearance of an angel, the mysterious star shimmering above Bethlehem, and a tiny baby cradled in a straw-filled manger.
When I was little, winter was a time to bundle up and endure, face turned grimly toward the fierce wind. Christmas, snow-forts, and sledding were bright spots that made the long months bearable.
Then, at the age of eleven, I went to a home-school ski day at Mont-du-Lac. When I saw the bunny hill, stretching out like an endless slope, my hands grew moist inside their mittens. I slipped more than I slid, chafed my hands on the tow-rope, and left the chalet with more than one bruise. But the next week, I returned -- and the next, and the next -- until winter melted into spring. As the seasons flew like snowballs, Mom and Dad joined my sister and I on the hills. We purchased equipment, bought Spirit Mountain passes, and spent a week skiing the slopes of Montana. Now, winter isn't long enough, and we count both days and snowflakes until the chair lifts start to run.
By the time the next issue is mailed, the season of numb fingers, hot chocolate, and swinging chair lifts will be here. Until then, God bless, and Merry Christmas!

-- Amy Beth Roe