From the archives: This column originally appeared online on Dec. 24, 2008. As families and friends make their way to Christmas gatherings tonight, this piece from the archives reminds us that there’s more than one way to be home for the holidays and that unexpected gifts, in this case from a determined bus driver, are often the most cherished over our lifetimes. I hope this column inspires readers to think of their own “Christmas miracle” and share it with their loved ones.

The snowstorm shutting down Seattle over the past few days brought back memories of a long ago snowy Christmas I spent in the Pacific Northwest city and one seriously tough bus driver who gave me a gift I didn’t expect to receive that year.

It was late December 1990 and a massive storm that churned in from the coast dumped several feet of snow on Seattle, which deals with rain effectively but is woefully unprepared for what happens when that water turns fluffy and white. I was a student at the University of Washington and feeling glum because there was no money to fly home to the Midwest for Christmas. I had one final exam left on the day the storm hit. Flakes were just beginning to fall as I boarded Snohomish County Community Transit Bus 860 in a suburban Everett for the 20-mile trip south to campus. I crammed the whole way down, not noticing that out the window, a real winter storm was taking shape. By the time I emerged from a three-plus-hour exam, the mushy brown grass and leaves of a Seattle fall and winter had disappeared under a thick coating of white.

It was pretty. But it was a problem. The student union was called The Hub and sat at the bottom edge of a big circular drive that girdles the main campus. By the time I’d hiked over there — scratching my head the whole time at Seattle-ites still wearing Birkenstock sandals and trying to bike through the snow — word had spread that the entire transit system was kaput. City buses were powered by an overhead grid of electric wires; the snow had taken the grid down. Seriously snarled traffic on the city’s north-south freeway also meant that regional county buses like mine were stuck or turning back. About 700 of us stranded at The Hub milled around pondering options, which grew grimmer by the minute. There was talk that the roads wouldn’t clear for days. We could be stuck here for a long time, maybe even have to spend Christmas here. My prospects were especially bad. I didn’t have a credit card and there was about $15 in my checking account. My best hope was taking refuge in a dorm lounge or on one of the comfy couches in Odegaard Library and then praying the university would feed people like me.

But just as the bus-less darkness set in and all hope seemed lost, a rumor spread through the waiting crowd. One bus had miraculously made it through. It wasn’t clear where the information came from, but it was enough that everyone rushed outside. Was it really true? And which bus out of the dozens that pulled up to the Hub each day would it be? The chattering grew to a steady buzz as everyone peered into the storm.

The big circular drive and the snowstorm meant that you could hear the bus before you could see it. And sure enough, there was a low rumble in the distance that grew louder and louder. Then there was a fuzzy glow from what had to be headlights. Everyone squinted and craned their necks, the anticipation and excitement rippling through the crowd. Finally, the front of a bus burst through the snow. And it was — I swear I heard the trumpets from the Rocky theme playing somewhere — the Snohomish County 860.

I didn’t know the person next to me, but I gave her a hug anyway, jumping up and down yelling “That’s my bus! That’s my bus!”

Our driver was a 110-pound middle-aged woman with permed blond hair and a gravelly voice. She didn’t waste any time, opening the doors and yelling, “Get in!” The 860′s ragtag regulars — commuter students from the low-rent apartments in southern Everett — scrambled aboard. We all had big goofy grins on our faces as we pulled away. It felt like we’d won the lottery, a feeling that intensified as we made our way around campus and waved at hundreds of cold people waiting at the other bus stops.

But the excitement and the high-fives quickly ended as the 860 skidded all over the road and inched its way toward the freeway. I wondered if I’d traded being stranded at the U for being stranded on the road. But I liked our odds as I saw the driver hunch in determination over the big steering wheel. This woman knew what she was doing. She guided the machine through unplowed side streets and then threaded it up an Interstate 5 littered with wrecks, rescue vehicles and snowdrifts. It was a masterful job that took every bit of her concentration over the four-hour trip.

It was a sober but happy group that got off at the Everett Park-n-Ride. I thanked the driver before heading to my car, and said she’d probably sleep well tonight after all the effort. Her reply? She wouldn’t rest anytime soon because she was making another run to campus. “There’s kids depending on me to get them home.” With that the door swung shut.

As the bus rumbled off into the stormy night, I realized that while I wouldn’t get to the Midwest for Christmas that year, I would make it home for the holidays. My little apartment looked pretty good after the bus adventure, the relieved look on my husband’s face when I walked in the door was a reminder that we’d been doubly gifted by the driver’s determination. Being home for the holidays sometimes happens in ways we don’t intend, but no matter how it does, or where you are, it’s always a blessing and something for which to be grateful.