In the spirit of the season, a personal tale from beyond: One part Alfred Hitchcock and one part Iyanla Vanzant.

After our wedding ceremony, in June 1999, my husband, Andre, and I were living the high life, for a minute at least, being chauffeured in a limo, off Ocean Road in Narragansett. We were trying to get to the remote spot that we had scoped out for pictures. Only the driver had taken a wrong turn.

Thanks to Andre's misdirections.

Maybe. Or maybe not.

"Stop the car," Andre said, mumbling something about having to get a hat.

I waited patiently, wondering if I had scared him away already.

(Not really. Seven years would give a brother an idea of what he was getting into.)

When he returned, he was casually clutching a Minnesota Vikings cap. Let me be clear. We live in New England. Patriots country. Some thirteen hundred miles from Saint Paul. This was not an item you'd see casually discarded on the grass.

We did know a hardcore, lifelong Vikings fan, however. Andre's father. Who had passed suddenly two months earlier from a stroke.

And what did Andre's dad, Nate, say to us when we told him we were getting married?

"Wherever I am, I'll be there."

And indeed he was.