Over the years, my wife, Sue, expressed interest in renewing our wedding vows. It was not something she talked about frequently, but she brought it up on such special occasions as weddings or anniversaries.

Like most macho men, I believed that once was enough. But as time passed, since it still seemed important to her, I began to relent: "Honey, I might consider it someday, but only if it's just you and me - maybe on vacation somewhere." (I really didn't need an audience for something like this.)

Then, four years ago, Sue had a cancerous mole removed from her leg. The diagnosis: malignant melanoma.

My attitude at that time was that the mole wasn't so bad. After all, it was removed and the cancer was gone. I knew little, however, about this cancer's ability to resurface.

In November, Sue found a new lump on the same leg as before - it turned out to be a swollen lymph gland - and the biopsy again revealed malignant melanoma. Sue went in for surgery and had numerous lymph glands removed from her leg and abdomen. The doctors had good news: The cancer had not spread beyond the two lymph glands - the one that was swollen and one next to it.

One week after Sue's diagnosis, however, her father was diagnosed with cancer - not the best week my wife has ever had.

In December of that year, like every year, I struggled with what to get my wife for Christmas, but even more than usual. Sue always said that she wanted "something personal." When the cancer returned, it made me think long and hard about what our future might be like. I wondered about what I might get her for Christmas that would be personal, show her how much I loved her and express what she means to me and to our family.

I'm the kind of guy that thinks of grand things I would like to do for my wife but rarely gets around to doing them. That year I really searched my soul - and the thought of renewing our wedding vows suddenly took on more meaning. This was a way to show her I truly wanted to do it all over again.

Then I thought of the verse "In sickness and in health" and began to cry. I'm glad I was alone.

Even with all Sue had been through - and maybe because of it - she wanted to host Christmas Eve at our house this year. It was only going to be a small group of relatives. It seemed to me that this would be the perfect time to renew our vows, so I recruited Karen, my sister-in-law, to help me. I called everyone and told them to come two hours early. I said I had a surprise for Sue but didn't tell anyone what it was. I didn't want this gift to be spoiled.

I called on our neighbor, Jean Partridge, a justice of the peace. We had never really stopped and talked or gotten to know one another, and I hoped she would be willing to come over on Christmas Eve. She said she was busy that night and had to arrive at her daughter's house by six o'clock. My heart sank. As I turned to walk away, Jean asked, "Why do you need a justice of the peace on Christmas Eve, Don?"

"I want to get married to my wife again," I answered. "It's a surprise wedding." I hesitated, then asked, "Do you think you could marry us at four o'clock and still be on time for your daughter's Christmas Eve celebration?" I told Jean what the ceremony meant to me and would mean to my wife at this particular time. I told her about Sue's health problem. I explained all this so in case I started to cry, she'd understand why. After that, she said that she might have to toss down a shot to calm her nerves before the wedding, too.

"I'll be there at four," she smiled.

A great wave of joy swept over me. I had found a way to show how much I loved Sue - and this time, instead of just thinking about it, I was going to make it happen.

I finally found something unique and meaningful to give my wife on Christmas. The only other people I told were Sue's parents, since I really wanted them to be there. When they heard the plan, there was only silence on the phone for a few long moments. Then Sue's dad, who had his good and bad days due to his own illness, declared in an emotional voice that he would be there no matter how he was feeling.

I realized that I also needed fluff - or should I say, some schmaltz - all the details that women think of and men usually don't consider. I had my youngest son, Shaun, get a song off the Internet - the same song that was played in church when we were married twenty-three years earlier. Sean made a CD for me so I could play it when she walked in the door. Oh, and flowers - I got a wristlet for Sue, a flower for my lapel and two poinsettias for the mantel. And I got a cake, champagne, glasses, boxes and boxes of Kleenex, and disposable cameras. I even bought some special rings.

In the flower shop, a small snowman statue caught my eye. I picked it up and saw that it was some sort of jewelry holder. This snowman had a small sign he was holding and on that sign was the word "hope." I thought how perfect it was, and my eyes welled up with tears again. I've been crying a lot, lately, for a macho man.

That afternoon, everything was in place. Karen, my sister-in-law, took Sue out to visit a sick relative. When she returned, she looked puzzled to see everyone at our home two hours early. After all, she had to get the food ready for our guests.

"What's going on?" she asked, a little upset.

The rest I'm going to leave to your imagination.

Just picture this: Our wedding song begins to play, people are taking pictures of Sue and me, and the tears and champagne are beginning to flow.

And I said, "Honey, Merry Christmas. I love you. Will you marry me again tonight?"

Some of the lowest days of my life came shortly after my husband's death. While still grieving, I came face to face with the reality of raising our four children alone. The funeral was over, friends and family gone. It was the kids and I, each of us grieving as our ages and personalities allowed. One son angry, the other quiet; one daughter demanding, the other mothering. And somehow I was supposed to deal with it all. I was supposed to give the sole direction, the lone understanding and single wise responses.

While at the bottom of this inadequacy well, my sister arrived. She'd planned it that way, saving her visit until everyone else had left. Within hours, the closeness we had shared in the past came flooding back. She let me talk and cry but also helped me begin doing things. We got my kids returned to school, and then started tackling projects. We started with my closet since its half emptiness constantly reminded me of my now-gone husband. We decided to install a closet organizer, so I could add my sweaters and other clothes to fill it up.

Things didn't go well. While she held one end, I'd try to install and hammer the other. Nothing fit. As we improvised, things got worse. Then in the midst of our frustration, I noticed the picture on the organizer's box. A two-dimensional woman smiled back from it while she single-handedly installed what my sister and I were failing to do. While still holding up my end, I said, "Hey Jeanne, look at that picture. I wish!"

She took one look at the woman and said, "Yeah, right. She's even wearing a dress." That's when it happened. Somehow the whole situation turned into a joke.

Every fumble we made, every board that slipped, every screw that refused to twist brought us back to the perfect lady on the box and made us laugh. We laughed until the tears came. We laughed until we had to drop the organizer and run for the bathroom.

It was the first time I'd laughed in weeks.

That laughter happened fifteen years ago, yet I remember it as if it happened yesterday. It changed nothing, yet it changed everything. My kids were still grieving. I was still hurting, overwhelmed and inadequate. But when I hugged my sister good-bye, I knew God had used her to give me a miracle. For in the hard months following her departure, on my worst days, I inevitably opened my closet and spotted my slightly tilting organizer. No matter how I felt, I just couldn't help smiling.

"How would you like to accompany me to England for a week of sightseeing?" I stared at the e-mail in disbelief. It was from Mel, the widower I had been dating for six months.

I immediately replied, "Thank you for your generous offer, but I must respectfully decline. As much as I enjoy your company, I would not be comfortable traveling with a man I wasn't married to. Besides, I don't have a passport."

My dear husband of fifty-one years had died three years earlier. I learned to ease my grief by reading, writing, attending church functions and visiting my children and grandchildren. But as time passed, I missed belonging to a partnership.

Then friends invited me to a party where I met Mel. He was attractive, intelligent and had an engaging personality. To my surprise, he called two weeks later and invited me to join him for dinner.

I discovered being part of a couple again opened new vistas. Soon we were receiving invitations to parties and meeting each other's friends. After being in a desert of loneliness, I enjoyed the social oasis of dinners, concerts and theater.

We talked freely about our deceased spouses and how lucky we were to have found true love with them. Because we didn't think it was possible to find that level of love more than once in a lifetime, we both admitted our decisions to never marry again and decided to enjoy the companionship we found in each other.

Consequently, I was shocked at the invitation to travel together and questioned Mel's motives. Certain my response would sever our relationship, I was surprised when he phoned.

"I got your reply. Let's forget I asked about the trip."

Relieved, I mumbled, "Thanks for understanding."

"We are still going out tomorrow night, aren't we?"

"Sure." After all, he didn't seem to feel awkward about the situation, so why should I?

The following evening he held the car door open with one hand and handed me a legal looking paper with the other. "Just happened to be in the post office today and picked this up for you."

It was an application for a passport. What? Why, that sly man! Without comment, I tucked it into my purse and changed the subject. Nothing more was said, and we enjoyed the evening.

Amused he had bothered to get me an application, I filled out the papers, had my photo taken and doled out the $75.00 fee without telling him.

While attending a party with friends, we were invited to join their dance club. I was excited, but Mel resisted. "I played trumpet in a swing band during my youth so I never danced very much."

"If you're a musician, you've got rhythm," I reminded him. "If you've got rhythm, you can dance."

Although reluctant at first, Mel relented and agreed to take ballroom dance lessons - where he held me in his arms for the first time. With him holding me, I felt my heart melt . . . and immediately rued our platonic relationship. But I couldn't tell him lest he remind me about our "never marry again" agreement.

Then he began bringing candy and flowers, and I knew I was being courted. Although he was careful not to mention marriage, I sensed we were falling in love. Still, neither of us said a thing until the day he invited me to dinner at his house.

Fine china, crystal and sterling silver on a white linen tablecloth greeted me. Red roses graced the table. Before we sat down to eat, I confessed I had applied for and received my passport. When I showed it to him, his eyes sparkled and he flashed a mischievous grin.

He served a delicious rack of lamb with all the trimmings and we had a lively conversation as we ate. During dessert he said, "Sally, if I asked you to marry me, what would you say?"

"You haven't asked me yet." My startled response was quick. Awkward. Even a little coy.

"I think I just did."

Unprepared, I stammered, "Oh. Oh. P-p-probably."

He looked dejected, but didn't pursue the subject. I was so surprised I didn't know what to say. We cleared away dinner and cleaned up his kitchen, then he took me home.

Most of that night I lay awake pondering his proposal. I had been married to an extraordinary man once. But Mel was wonderful, too. Was it possible to marry two extraordinary men in one lifetime?

The next morning, he called. "Last night I asked you to marry me and you said probably. How about a more definite answer," he urged. "Like yes?"

"But . . . what about our agreement?"

"Let's just forget it."

"Forget what?" I smiled into the phone, tingling with excitement.

"Let's fly to England for our honeymoon and never say never again."