As the Christmas carol asks, 'Do you see what I see?'

It’s often said life imitates art, and that’s fine in the abstract, but when there’s literally “no room at the inn,” you have a problem.

Such was the case on a Christmas Eve more than 30 years ago.

But before I tell this story — one I’ve doubtless told before — there is one thing you must understand or else the magic cannot happen.

Mom was dead.

She passed away on a bitter, biting New Year’s Day, leaving behind her husband and three children, all of whom knew the end was near but were hoping some kind of miracle might save her.

The cold truth is it was something just sort of remarkable, a testament to her love for us all and her dogged determination, that she managed to hang on past Christmas Day, not wanting us, perhaps, to carry that memory with us as long as we might live.

Dec. 25, after all, is a date of birth, of new hope, of faith renewed, not at all supposed to be a reminder of what was lost and mourned.

At least that’s the way I’ve always imagined Mom’s last week.

When she was gone, when her brave battle had ended, my family entered a very dark time, each of us left with our own memories, doing our best to keep the good times alive, not dwell on the past.

But that wasn’t easy — no, not by any reasonable expectation. The loss of a parent is always difficult, no matter the age of those left behind. I was 25, the eldest of us three, and though I worked hard at my job, did my best to maintain a healthy relationship with my girlfriend and tended to my apartment as well as I could manage, there were days, sometimes weeks, I couldn’t shake the numbness, times when I struggled to remember how to smile.

All that changed when my brother and his wife told us they were expecting their first child and that the due date was Christmas.

I cannot adequately describe the sensation that befell me, the feeling that the sun had suddenly appeared after three years of being hidden behind an impermeable wall of clouds, the sheer relief that after being obscured by shadowy uncertainty, life and all its possibilities had suddenly, wonderfully begun a new chapter.

All that summer every day seemed to possess sharpened outlines, reality honed into a deeper appreciation of all that was out there, as if clarity had somehow nudged aside uncertainty and all its doubts.

By the fall that focus intensified, and I tried to write better, to be a more attentive boyfriend, to raise my spirits in the service of others, aiming to be a good friend, a more dutiful son, a kinder brother.

But the early onset of winter proved to be challenging, and I remember thinking scattered flurries just after Halloween portended the kind of December that might rewrite history. Having grown up in Ohio and attended college in Northern Indiana, I was all too familiar with the muscular menace of Alberta Clippers and their attendant meteorological nastiness of black ice and whiteouts.

All the while I held close to my belief in a higher power, one that, while not necessarily theological, was nonetheless merciful, a source for good luck, bestowed especially on those most in need.

It was, after all, Advent, a time of anticipation, of glad tidings.

My niece was born Dec. 17, a little ahead of schedule but, like her uncle, who was due on St. Patrick’s Day and made his appearance in late February instead, I chalked it up to her being blamelessly impatient, eager for life outside her mother’s womb.

My father, my sister and I planned to leave around noon on Christmas Eve, heading west, hoping to beat the worst of the winter storm that was predicted to involve freezing rain, followed by significant snowfall accumulation and subzero temperatures.

Alas, Dad’s Audi, in which we were riding, chose that day to achieve maximum petulance, refusing to heat up, forcing us to turn around and head back north with the idea of switching cars back in town. Unfortunately, my Mustang’s passenger side door was nonfunctional, owing to a dent caused by, let’s just say, bad luck.

This left my sister’s sub-compact, a spirited sedan the size of a breadbox, into which we crammed ourselves and our suitcases. By then we had lost two precious hours of travel time, putting us squarely in the crosshairs of an utterly unwanted winter fury. As the driving surface became more and more slippery and the snow turned from dancing flakes into a more sinister hindrance, the sun set, and the landscape, once Currier and Ives-like, turned wicked.

That plucky Escort did yeoman’s work, and my sister was a hero, keeping it between the white lines of the dicey interstate, but by the time we exited onto a county road, just 20 miles from my brother’s place, a state highway patrolman stopped us in our tracks.

“Road’s closed up ahead,” he said. “You’ll have to turn around.”

“And go where?” I wondered to myself, knowing we were hardly alone when it came to travelers seeking shelter from the storm. Sure enough, the first few hotels we tried were booked solid, but with no alternative, we pressed on, hoping for a lucky break.

Eventually, we found a place that had one last room available, and even though that meant the three of us would have to somehow make do with a single bed, we gratefully took it.

In those pre-mobile phone days of the early '80s, it wasn’t until after we’d checked in and unpacked that we were able to contact my brother and his wife, who’d been expecting us for a few hours.

Christmas Eve had always, always, always been a Dewey affair, the one day of the year we’d get together, and to have us turned away, after coming so far and getting so close, seemed grossly unfair. Adding to our disappointment was the fact that the newest addition to the family was waiting, just down the highway, to be held and welcomed to the world was almost too much to bear.

Then Dad pulled a fifth of Kentucky’s finest from his bag, which helped lift our spirits, and as the disappointment ebbed and the bourbon flowed more freely, we began to count our blessings.

The next morning broke in blinding sunshine, made even brighter by the white stuff, but the highway crews had been at it all night, thus ensuring safe enough passage despite a few axel-deep snowdrifts my sister negotiated with admirable aplomb.

Yes, that was a Christmas Day for the memory banks. We were welcomed with hugs and a hearty breakfast, even as the baby slept, unaware of our presence amid all the unopened presents. When she was alert and we got our first look at her, I had no idea what to do.

I’d never held a child that small, and even if I had, I’d have been worried I might drop her. She was just a week old, after all.

But when I bent down to pick her up and she looked at me, initially shy but soon curious, I felt one of those smiles spreading across my face, the kind that occurs only once, maybe twice, in a lifetime.

“Hello, little one,” I whispered, thinking of my mother and knowing she was watching. “Thank you for being here.”

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where there’s always a Christmas story yet to tell.