When people fall in love, they usually focus on one person. You study their smile. Their laugh. Their dreams. You imagine building a life together, sharing a home, raising children, growing old side by side. What you don’t always think about is that you are also marrying into an entirely different family.
In many ways, you’re marrying into another culture.
Parents-in-law matter.
More than most people realize. Growing up, I lost much of what a young man hopes to have from his father. My dad passed away on July 18, 1976, when I was just seventeen years old. Even before then, between his work and his own responsibilities, I often found myself wishing he was healthy. He had an addiction to alcohol that not only cut his life short but also robbed him of quality time with his 5 sons.
When someone leaves this world too soon, there are conversations that never happen, projects that never get built together, and wisdom that never quite gets passed down. I think because of that, I always carried a desire for another father figure in my life.
Not someone to replace my dad. But someone whose example I could continue to learn from. Someone who could simply be there. I didn’t know I was looking for that. But I found it. Twice.
When I married Cindy, I became part of the Huber family. Her parents, Chester—everyone called him Chet—and Catherine, or Kay, welcomed me from the very beginning. They never made me feel like an outsider. There wasn’t a probation period where I had to earn my place. I was simply family. Looking back, that’s an incredible gift.
Chet and Kay raised a large family—five daughters and one son—and they did it with values that seemed almost timeless. Chet was the provider. Kay stayed home and raised the children. Today, people sometimes debate whether that’s the “right” model for a family. I don’t. I simply know it worked beautifully for them. Their home was built on love, sacrifice, faith, and consistency. Those qualities never go out of style.
Both Chet and Kay were deeply committed to their Catholic faith. Church wasn’t something they squeezed into their schedule. It was part of who they were. Their faith quietly shaped the way they treated people. They weren’t preachy. They simply lived what they believed. That may be the most convincing sermon of all.
Chet was one of those men who seemed able to fix just about anything. Broken appliance? He’d figure it out. Something needed to be built? He already had a plan. There is something deeply admirable about people who create rather than complain. Who repair rather than replace. Who quietly solve problems without asking for applause. That was Chet.
He also loved sports. He enjoyed conversations about games, teams, and competition, and I always enjoyed those moments together. Those conversations may seem ordinary. Now I realize they were anything but. Those simple afternoons became treasured memories once someone is gone.
Kay had a gift that many mothers seem to possess. She made everyone feel comfortable. And she could cook. I have to admit something about myself. Food has always spoken to me as a form of love. Someone preparing a meal isn’t just feeding your stomach. They’re giving you their time. Their effort. Their attention. It’s one of the purest expressions of caring that exists. Both Kay and Chet always made me feel welcome around their table. That meant more than they probably ever realized.
They treated me like one of their own children. Not because they had to. Because they wanted to. Love isn’t always expressed through dramatic speeches. Sometimes it’s simply making sure there’s another place set at the dinner table. Sometimes it’s asking how work is going. Sometimes it’s helping with a project. Sometimes it’s making your favorite dessert without saying a word. Those small acts accumulate over time.
I loved both of them dearly and continue to think of them even though they have passed. Chet passed on December 5, 2011, and 17 months later, Kay passed on May 15, 2013. But the kindness they showed me still lives in my heart.
Years later, life gave me an unexpected second chapter. When I met Pam, I knew I was falling in love with a remarkable woman. What I couldn't have known was that standing just beyond her was another family waiting to make room for me. And at the center of that family were Roger and Marlene.
From the beginning, there was an ease about being with them. I never felt as though I was being interviewed for the position of future son-in-law. There was no invisible checklist, no sense that I needed to prove I was worthy of their daughter. They simply welcomed me. There is something powerful about being welcomed into a family that way, especially when you've already lived enough life to understand that acceptance should never be taken for granted.
Roger reminds me of Chet in many ways. He's a builder and a fixer, the kind of man who looks at something that isn't working and instinctively starts figuring out how to make it right. There is a quiet competence in people like that. They don't make a production out of helping. They just roll up their sleeves and get to work. I've always admired that about him.
But what I've come to appreciate even more is Roger's generosity with his time. Time is one of the few things we can never earn back. When someone repeatedly gives you theirs, they're giving you something precious. And Roger has given us a lot of it. So has Marlene. Marlene has that wonderful ability to make people feel cared for almost without trying. And, yes, she can cook—which, as anyone who knows me understands, is a very effective shortcut to my heart.
There is something about walking into a home and smelling dinner being prepared that immediately says, You're home now. Sit down. Stay awhile. Marlene creates that feeling. But don't mistake all that warmth and hospitality for weakness, particularly if someone brings out a deck of cards or a board game. That's when things change.
Marlene and I share a competitive streak, and once a game begins, familial affection is temporarily suspended. There are no sympathy points. No mercy rules. No special treatment because I'm the son-in-law. We play to win. I'm fairly certain we've both smiled sweetly at one another while internally plotting the other's complete destruction. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Some of my favorite memories with Roger and Marlene have been made at their lake home up north. We've spent countless weekends there, and over time that place has become more than somewhere we visit. It has become part of the rhythm of our family. There is something about arriving at a lake home that changes your internal clock. Almost immediately, life seems to slow down. The responsibilities waiting back home feel farther away. Shoes become optional. Schedules become suggestions. Coffee somehow tastes better when you're looking across water.
The mornings are peaceful, especially before everyone gets moving. The lake can be so calm that the trees along the shoreline seem painted onto its surface. You hear birds before you hear people. The sound of a loon is just breathtaking. Maybe someone wanders into the kitchen looking for coffee. Eventually another bedroom door opens, then another, and slowly the house comes alive.
Before long, breakfast is being made, conversations are overlapping, someone is trying to figure out what the weather is going to do, and inevitably the question is asked: "When are we heading down to the lake?" That's when the day really begins. Some of our best family memories have happened on that water. We may pile onto the boat with towels, sunglasses, drinks, snacks, sunscreen, and enough miscellaneous equipment to suggest we're leaving for a week rather than an afternoon. Then Roger gets us away from the dock, and the shoreline begins slipping behind us. We may also just bring down chairs and set up for a relaxing day sitting in the water right by the dock.
There is laughter almost immediately. The wind picks up. The sun dances across the water. Someone turns on music. Conversations happen while everyone settles into that wonderfully relaxed state that seems possible only on a summer day at the lake. Sometimes we're cruising. Sometimes we're swimming. Sometimes we're simply floating and talking while the waves rock gently beneath us. And sometimes the best part is doing absolutely nothing.
Those are the moments I've learned not to overlook. Family scattered around a boat. Grandchildren laughing. Someone telling a story we've probably heard before but still enjoy hearing again. Pam nearby. Roger at the helm. Marlene making sure everyone has what they need. Nothing extraordinary is happening. And yet, somehow, everything important is.
If the lake owns the daytime, games and karaoke own the night. After hours outside, everyone eventually drifts back toward the house. Wet towels get hung wherever someone thinks they might dry. Dinner appears. Drinks are poured. Stories from the day get exaggerated slightly with each retelling. Then someone makes the dangerous suggestion: "Should we play a game?"
That is when the competitive personalities emerge. Cards and board games at Roger and Marlene's are not passive entertainment. They are sporting events without referees. Rules are scrutinized. Strategies develop. Alliances form and dissolve. Accusations occasionally fly across the table. Someone inevitably claims another person misunderstood a rule that has apparently been perfectly clear to everyone else for the previous twenty years.
And Marlene and I? We're watching each other. Waiting. Scheming.
I love those evenings because the laughter becomes bigger as the night goes on. Nobody is checking the clock. Nobody is in a hurry to leave. We're simply together.
Then, on the right nights, out comes the karaoke. There is a wonderful point in an evening when people stop worrying about whether they can actually sing. That is precisely when karaoke becomes fun. Someone grabs the microphone. Someone else chooses a song they have absolutely no business attempting. The first few singers might still possess a little self-consciousness, but that doesn't last long. Before you know it, we're singing along from couches and chairs, applauding performances that would probably not result in a callback from The Voice, and laughing until our sides hurt.
Occasionally someone discovers an inner rock star. More often, we discover why that person chose a different career. But nobody cares. Those nights aren't about talent. They're about joy. And years from now, I doubt I'll remember who won the board game or who butchered which karaoke song. What I'll remember is the room filled with people I love, the sound of everyone laughing, and the feeling that there was nowhere else in the world I needed to be.
One of the pleasures Pam and I have had is being able to return some of that hospitality by inviting Roger and Marlene into experiences that we enjoy. We've taken them to several musicals, and some of our favorite evenings together have been at the Chanhassen Dinner Theater. Having Chanhassen right here in the Twin Cities is something I think we sometimes take for granted. There aren't many places where you can sit down for dinner with people you love and then, a short time later, be swept into another world by extraordinarily talented performers, musicians, beautiful sets, costumes, music, and storytelling.
There's a little magic to an evening like that. You dress up a bit. You sit around the table and share dinner. The conversation flows. Then the lights dim, the room changes, and for the next couple of hours you're transported somewhere else entirely. I've always enjoyed musicals, but I've discovered that experiences become richer when you share them with people you care about.
I love glancing over and seeing Roger and Marlene enjoying the performance. I love talking about favorite scenes afterward. I love that the evening doesn't end when the curtain comes down because there's always the drive home, when everyone discusses what they liked best.
Those nights have become another part of our shared story. Just as they have welcomed us into their world at the lake, Pam and I have had the pleasure of bringing them into some of ours. And somewhere along the way, the relationship changed. They weren't simply Pam's parents anymore.
They became Dad and Mom—two people I genuinely enjoy spending time with.
They became my family.
Underlying all of this—the lake weekends, meals, games, family gatherings, laughter, and adventures—is something deeper. Roger and Marlene have lived a long and faithful journey together. Their faith isn't reserved for Sunday mornings, although you'll certainly find them at worship then. They tirelessly volunteer at their church up north and continue to serve in ways that demonstrate something I've come to believe strongly: faith is most convincing when you can see it in the way people live.
They stay active.
They serve.
They show up.
They help.
And perhaps most importantly, they've created a family in which people still genuinely want to be together. That's no small accomplishment. One of the things I've noticed over the years is how differently families remain connected. Every family develops its own rhythms, traditions, personalities, wounds, loyalties, and ways of loving one another.
The Huber family eventually became more scattered. Life happened. People moved. Relationships changed. As often happens in large families, some siblings remained close while others drifted apart. It wasn't necessarily caused by some dramatic event.
Sometimes distance simply happens one missed gathering at a time. Pam's family has remained remarkably intertwined. They don't merely tolerate family gatherings. They actually like one another. They laugh together. Vacation together. Celebrate together. Show up for one another. One of my favorite trips was our extended-family vacation to Cozumel. Put that many relatives together on a vacation and statistically something should go wrong. Yet what I remember most is how much fun everyone had simply being together.
The same feeling returns at family reunions. Watching Roger and Marlene surrounded by their children, grandchildren, and the generations that continue to grow from the family they started is something special. At some point, you realize you're not merely looking at a gathering. You're looking at a legacy. It isn't measured in money or property. It's measured in people. It's measured in children who still come home. Grandchildren who know their grandparents. Family members who make an effort to gather for holidays and summer weekends.
It's measured in boat rides and crowded dinner tables. In old stories told one more time. In competitive games and terrible karaoke. In prayers before meals. In laughter coming from another room. In photographs that become more precious with every passing year. Roger and Marlene helped create that. And I have had the privilege of being invited into it.
Maybe that's why so many of our friends joke that they'd like Roger and Marlene to adopt them. I understand the appeal. There's something about the two of them—and the home and family they've built—that makes people want to pull up a chair and stay awhile. I know that feeling well. Because years ago, that's exactly what they allowed me to do. They pulled up another chair. They made room. And without ever needing to say the words, they let me know: You belong here too.
That may be one of the greatest gifts parents-in-law can ever give.
And it is one I will never take for granted.
