Christmas was a quiet affair when I was growing up. There were just my parents and me. I vowed that someday I'd marry and have six children， and at Christmas my house would vibrate with energy an love.

　　I found the man who shared my dream， but we had not reckoned on the possibility of infertility. Undaunted， we applied for adoption and， within a year， he arrived.

　　We called him our Christmas Boy because he came to us during that season of joy， when he was just six days old. Then nature surprised us again. In rapid succession we added two biological children to the family - not as many as we had hoped for， but compared with my quiet childhood， three made an entirely satisfactory crowd.

　　As our Christmas Boy grew， he made it clear that only he had the expertise to select and decorate the Christmas tree each year. He rushed the season， starting his gift list in November. He pressed us into singing carols， our froglike voices contrasting with his musical gift of perfect pitch. Each holiday he stirred us up， leading us through a round of merry chaos.

　　Our friends were right about adopted children not being the same. Through his own unique heredity， our Christmas Boy brought color into our lives with his irrepressible good cheer， his bossy wit. He made us look and behave than we were.

　　Then， on his 26th Christmas， he left us as unexpectedly as he had come. He was killed in a car accident on his way home to his young wife and infant daughter. But first he had stopped by the family home to decorate our tree.

　　Grief-stricken， his father and I sold our home， where memories clung to every room， and moved away.

　　In the 17 years that followed his death， his widow remarried； his daughter graduated from secondary school. His father and I grew old enough to retire， and in December 1986 we decided to return home.

　　The streets were ablaze with lights. Looking away from the glow I fixed my gaze on the distant mountains， where our adopted son had loved to go in search of the perfect tree. Now in the foothills there was his grave - a grave I could not bear to visit.

　　We settled into a small， boxy house， so different from the family home where we had orchestrated our lives. It was quiet， like the house of my childhood. Our other son had married and begun his own Christmas traditions in another part of the country. Our daughter， an artist， seemed fulfilled by her career.

　　While I stood staring toward the mountains one day， I heard a car pull up， then the impatient peal of the doorbell. There stood our grand-daughter， and in her gray-green eyes and impudent grin I saw the reflection of our Christmas Boy.

　　Behind her， lugging a large pine tree， came her mother， stepfather and ten-year-old half brother. They swept past us in a flurry of laughter； they decorated the tree and piled gaily wrapped packages under the boughs.

　　"You'll recognize the ornaments，" said my former daughter-in-law. "They were his. I saved them for you."

　　When I murmured， in remembered pain， that we hadn't had a tree for 17 years， our cheeky grand-daughter said， "Then it's time to have one！"

　　They let in a whirl， shoving one another out the door， but not before asking us to join them the next morning for church and for dinner at their home.

　　"Oh，" I began， "we just can't."

　　"You sure can，" ordered our granddaughter， so bossy as her father had been. "I'm singing the solo and I want to see you there."

　　We had long ago given up the poignant Christmas services， but now， under pressure， we sat rigid， in the front pew， fighting back tears.

　　Then it was also time. Our granddaughter's magnificent soprano voice soared， clear and true， in perfect pitch. In a rare emotional response， the congregation applauded in delight. How her father would have relished that moment.

　　We had been alerted that there would be a lot of people for dinner - but 35！ Assorted relatives filled every corner of the house； small children， noisy and exuberant， seemed to bounce off the walls. I could not sort out who belonged to whom， but it didn't matter. They all belonged to one another. They took us in， enfolded us in joyous camaraderie. We sang carols in loud， off-key voices， saved only by that amazing soprano.

　　Sometime after dinner， before the sunset， it occurred to me that a true family is not always one's own flesh and blood. It is a climate of the heart. Had it not been for our strangers who would help us hear the music again.

　　Late， our granddaughter asked us to come along with her. "I'll drive，" she said. "There's a place I like to go." She jumped behind the wheel of the car and zoomed off toward the foothills.

　　Alongside the headstone rested a small， heart-shaped rock， slightly cracked， painted by our artist daughter. On its weathered surface she had written. "To my brother， with love." Across the crest of the grave lay a holly-bright Christmas wreath. Our No. 2 son， we learned， sent one every year.

　　As we stood by the headstone in the chilly but somehow comforting silence， we were not prepared for our unpredictable granddaughter's next move. Once more that day her voice， so like her father's， lifted in song， and the mountainside echoed on and on into infinity.

　　When the last pure note had faded， I felt， for the first time since our son's death， a sense of peace， of the positive continuity of life， of renewed faith and hope. The real meaning of Christmas had been restored to us.

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