Miracle at Coffeeville

Miracle at Coffeeville
And Other Legends of Christmas

Darrell Case

















Proverbs 11:30
Leaning Tree Christian Publishers

Farmersburg, IN 47850









Forward


If you’re like me, you love the season of Christmas. The festive atmosphere, the tree, the gifts, the feasting, the songs. People seem to be kinder to each other. There are gatherings with family and friends. However, there is a danger. We can become so wrapped up in the celebration that we forget the true meaning of Christmas, that Christ came to provide for us eternal life. That the babe in the manger was just a prelude to the Savior on the cross.

It is my hope this little book will help you recapture the joy of the season. May God bless you and may you have a wonderful Christmas.





Also by Darrell Case

Live Life to the Fullest

Out of Darkness

Never Ending Spring

Sluagh

River of Fire

Deadly Justice









Miracle at Coffeeville

Copyright © 2014 by Author Darrell Case

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the author.

Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1502402332



Learn more information at:
www.authordarrellcase.org














For those who sacrifice their
own comfort and resources to
make Christmas special for others.








Contents

Angel’s Dust . 1
A Gathering of Angels 15
The Christmas Mirror 23
Miracle at Coffeeville 35
Snow Angels...................................45
Music of The Night 53
Apples of Gold 61

















ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Every book is produced by those who give of their time and energy to bring it to fruition. The author labors alone, bringing the stories to life and making sure the dialogue and actions of the characters are believable. Writing and rewriting polishes the book until it is complete.

Yet it is not finished, for now the real work begins. This includes editing, proofreading, more rewrites, just the right cover to make the book appealing, the printing, marketing, interviews given by the author. Finally come the reader reviews, good or bad.

Without each step, this book, no book, would ever be printed. To each of you who had and have a part in this process, I say a hearty thank you.

Angel's Dust





The dark and dismal atmosphere of the sorting room mimicked the pain Jeff Marlow felt in his heart. He worked alone amid the mind-numbing clatter of the lumbering machine. The others had gone home hours ago. That was as it should be. After all, they had families. A husband or wife would be waiting with a welcome hug and kiss. Children anticipating the morning would be dancing around the tree strung with brightly colored lights.
Perhaps their parents would give in, as he once had, and let their little boy or girl choose one present to open on Christmas Eve. Closing his eyes, he could almost hear their squeals of delight.
Jeff dumped another bag of mail in the sorter. As the machine digested it, he let his mind wander. After giving him a good-bye kiss, Barbie had smiled as she watched their little Joy kiss her daddy. Barbie handed him a lace handkerchief to wipe the smear of peanut butter and jelly from his chin. How he wished he could only hold that lace hankie now. He had searched the ruins, finding nothing but ashes.
"I love you, Daddy," she said, hugging him close.
Whispering in her ear, he said, "I love you, too, Joy Princess."
"It'll be Christmas when you get home, won't it?"

"Yes, my sweet." The last words he said to his wonderful little daughter echoed in his mind.
One more kiss from each of them and he was gone. His last glimpse of his wife and daughter on earth was through his rearview mirror. He saw them standing on the porch waving goodbye as they clutched their coats around their shivering bodies.
As he turned the corner, they disappeared from his life forever. Five blocks away, stuck in the late afternoon traffic, he heard the explosion. The line jerry rigged by a couple of gas company workers rushing to get home for Christmas erupted at 5:49 PM. The blast blew out windows as far as Kiddle Street. The fireball rose 250 feet in the air, taking with it all of Jeff's hopes and dreams. He abandoned the car in the snarled traffic and ran the five blocks, praying with every step.
"Please God, don't let it be them, don't let it be them." But he knew with eerie certainty it was. The house where he lived and loved was a smoking pile of rubble. The explosion gouged a 10-foot hole in the ground. Their remains were never found. Jeff’s only consolation was his belief that the Lord took them before the house blew apart. He died that night. Oh, his body lived, or more accurately, existed. But living held no happiness, no joy for him.
He thought he was through with tears. Still they came. His heart felt as dry as a desert, yet tears spilled down his cheeks. Forty-five. Why had he lived so long? Six years, long years. Six years that seemed like an eternity.
In the men’s room, he splashed cold water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror. His face was too long to be considered handsome. His eyes were too squinty, his mouth too wide. The constant lifting of packages and mailbags kept him slim. He was not attracted to women. He simply had no interest, which suited him just fine. The only woman he wanted was Barbie and she was six years dead. He dried his face, blinking back the tears that threatened to start again. He sighed. When would it ever be over? When would he ever stop hurting?
At the dock, he lugged in the last five mailbags. He moaned. Thinking of returning to his empty third floor apartment slowed him down. Every Christmas morning since, he took out the gifts he had hidden in the car so long ago: a diamond necklace for Barbie and a doll for Joy. He laid them on the table and ran his hands over them. In his mind, he presented them to his beloved wife and daughter. He imagined the excitement on their faces. He felt Barb's kiss on his face. He heard Joy's laughter. Then he dried his tears and put the gifts away for another year.
The second year after Barbie's death, friends began inviting him to their homes. He always refused, knowing their intentions. There would be a single woman invited to pair up with the lonely mailman. Some came right out and told him he needed to forget about Barbie. They had the perfect woman for him: a sister, a friend, someone they met in the supermarket line. Eventually, even the diehards stopped trying.
With each passing year, Jeff became more and more withdrawn. At last, he was alone. He didn't mind, he liked it that way. His only companion was the pain wrapped around his heart. Some of his mail route patrons complained that he was unfriendly. His supervisor transferred him to the sorting room. His coworkers tried to engage him in conversation. They soon learned Jeff didn't want to be bothered and took the hint to leave him alone. That was how he wanted it. He became so antisocial he was finally reassigned to the second shift. There was a rumor that if Jeff didn't change he might be declared unfit for duty and let go.
Jeff worked steadily for the next hour. As he loaded the last bag in the sorter, he made a decision: Before the night was over, he would join his wife and daughter.



"Mommy, will Santa be here soon?" Julie asked, pulling the covers up to her chin. Carol Bennett paused in the doorway, her finger on the light switch. Julie's round face, blonde hair and blue eyes gave the eight-year-old a cherub-like appearance.
Carol's heart sagged with sorrow. "Like I said, sweetheart, sometimes Santa gets lost." The lie wasn't a good one. It left a bad taste in her mouth.
Julie was undeterred by her mother’s apparent lack of faith. "Oh no, Mommy. I asked God to have the angels guide Santa to our house. I even put angel's dust on the letter!"
"Go to sleep, honey."
"Merry almost Christmas, Mommy," Julie murmured.
"Merry almost Christmas," Carol said, barely able to hold back the tears. At the kitchen table, she sat staring at the balance in her checkbook. It hadn't changed in the last hour. If only the factory had kept her on until after the holidays. Tomorrow morning other little girls would delight to open gift after gift, but all she had was a second-hand doll she bought at Goodwill. "Oh well, Julie will be happy with it."
But Carol wasn't. They couldn't even afford a real Christmas tree, just one they fashioned from construction paper and taped to the living room wall. Turning the temperature down a few more degrees, she pulled her robe tighter. Yet it wasn't the cold house that made her shiver.
Outside, the snow fogged as it had the night David's car flipped on the interstate. That night she had put the turkey back in the oven to keep it warm. David was over an hour late. It wasn't like him not to call. A worm of worry tugged at her mind. She quieted it. She smiled when she heard the hesitant knock on the door. He liked to surprise them with a last- minute gift. The sight of the two police officers standing on her front step nearly caused Carol to faint. She knew before they said a word. She collapsed to the floor as her world crumbled.

“At least he didn't suffer,” became the catchphrase at David’s funeral. The words brought more pain than comfort, and Carol closed her ears to them. Now, for the first time in the three years since her husband's death, Carol gave up. Burying her face in her hands, she quietly sobbed.
The letter lay on the floor beside the sorter. Jeff switched off the machine. The silence filled his head like cotton batting. Picking up the letter, he groaned. Scribbled across the envelope in black crayon were the words, Santa Claus, North Pole.
The practice of giving letters addressed to Santa Claus to volunteers began years ago. Those wonderful people took it upon themselves to grant the wishes of needy children. However, the last letter was given out days ago. It was too late to fulfill this child's wish.
Jeff stared at the letter for a long time. He slid his fingers carefully under the flap. It opened easily. As he pulled out the sheet of paper, a bit of gold glitter fell into his palm. He brushed it back into the envelope. Unfolding the letter, he read,

Dear Mr. Santa Claus,

Hi, my name is Julie. I'm eight years old. I live in Indianapolis, Indiana. But you know that. Mommy says sometimes you get lost, so I asked God to send his angels to show you where we live. I don't want any presents. My daddy went to heaven three years ago. I cried for a long time. I'm better now, but Mommy is so sad. I was wondering, since you go all over the world, could you bring me another daddy? He doesn't have to be handsome or rich. Just as long as he loves me and Mommy. I promise I'll love him forever. I put some angel's dust on the bottom of my letter.

Thank you, Santa
Julie

P.S. Please wake me up when you bring him.

Underneath the writing was a thumb print stamped in gold glitter. Jeff ran his thumb over it and quickly regretted the action as some of the glitter flaked off and scattered to the floor. He read the letter again. An incredible thought formed in the back of his mind. He shook his head. What a crazy idea! No doubt it would get him locked up in a mental institution or jail. Crazy or not, he pictured himself knocking on Julie's mother's door.
"Hi, I’m Jeff. You don't know me, but I read your little girl's letter to Santa. I've come to be your new husband and Julie's father." He would be lucky if the woman didn't call the police. The least she would do is slam the door in his face.
No. Becoming a father took more than a letter to Santa. He couldn't be her daddy anyway. The only little girl he wanted to be daddy to was his Joy, and Barbie was the only woman he would ever love. But maybe he could do something. For the first time in two years, he thought of the people on his old route. Alex Pierce owned a wonderful toy store. The IGA always had several turkeys left over, and it was open late on Christmas Eve.
His mind wandered back to Joy's last Christmas. She had run down the stairs bubbling with laughter. Her face lit up with excitement as she pulled her gifts from under the tree and tore off the wrappings. Jeff felt sorry for Barbie. It had taken a lot of time to wrap those presents and she labored to make each one special. He said something about it to her, but she just laughed, glad for the happiness in her child's face. Later that night as they cuddled on the couch, Jeff thought his heart would burst with love.
He sighed. All of that was gone now. Six years ago, his heart died. Tonight his body would. He started to put the letter in the lost letter box, but he couldn't let it go. Somewhere out there was a little girl so lonely she asked Santa for a daddy. He laid the letter on the table by the sorter. He couldn't help her. Maybe someone else could.
As he opened the sorting room door, a cold breeze hit him in the face. Snowflakes sifted through the air. The world was clean, bright and beautiful. But for Jeff, it was just lonely. The tinkling of bells sounded behind him. He wheeled around. Someone was in the room. He saw a shadow. Jeff let out a dry, humorless snicker. It was his own shadow. The tinkling bells were some tiny ones Marge Shotts had hung from the ceiling.
In the glow of the street lamps, the glitter on his palm sparkled. Angel's dust, he reminded himself. He stepped out into the cold, snowy night and started to close the door. Wait. What if it were his daughter? What if he had been the one to die? He couldn't stand the thought of this unknown little girl being heartbroken. He went back inside and picked up the envelope. It felt warm to the touch.
In the parking lot, he started his car and let it warm up. He read the letter again. "This is really silly," he said out loud. "You don't even know where this little girl lives." Christmas morning was tomorrow. If only he had more time, he would hire a detective to find her. With the $10 million settlement from the gas company, he could easily afford the best. By now it could be up to $11 or $12 million. He didn't know or care. If only he could have his Barbie and Joy, he would gladly give it all back.
Suddenly an idea struck him. Of course! Why didn't he think of it before? When Joy was three, Barbie took her to the mall. The police were videotaping and fingerprinting young children. He hated to even think of the possibility of his little girl being kidnapped, but agreed with Barbie that it was a good idea.
Drying her eyes, Carol stood up. "There's no use in crying about it," she told herself, brushing her auburn hair from her eyes. "I'll give her the doll. She'll be happy with it."
Donning her coat, hat and gloves, she went out into the freezing night. A gust of wind pulled at the thin coat. Her rusted Escort sat at the curb. As she walked toward it, she saw that something was wrong. Broken glass lay on the street. With her heart racing, she ran to the small car. What she saw next took her breath away. Gone, everything was gone. The doll, the dress even the broken radio was torn from the dash. The glove compartment lay open. They had even taken the quarter pound of chocolate stars for Julie. The glass shards crunched under Carol's feet. Putting her hands on the roof of the car, she let the tears flow. She had failed as a mother.
"I was wondering if you could help me?" Jeff said, twisting his gloves in his hands.
Looking up from reading the Indianapolis Star, the desk sergeant smiled. "Happy to if I can," he said in a thick Irish brogue.
Surprised by the friendly response, Jeff hurried to explain. "I work at the post office on Randolph Street." He opened his jacket so the sergeant could see his uniform. The man nodded. "I found this letter tonight lying on the floor by the sorter. We have volunteers who answer Santa's letters, but this one was too late." He handed the envelope to the sergeant, who removed the sheet of paper. A tiny bit of gold glitter fell on the desk.
"Angel’s dust," Jeff said.
"Pardon?"
"She calls it angel’s dust."
The man nodded again and quickly read the letter. "And what would you like us to do, Mr. …?"
"Marlow. Jeff Marlow. I know it's a long shot, but I thought maybe you could find her for me. You may have her thumb print on file."
The officer frowned dubiously, his eyes still scanning the sheet of paper. "I'm not a child molester, or anything," Jeff said, feeling his face flush and his palms begin to sweat. "I just thought I could give her a happy Chr…" His voice trailed off. The sergeant was staring at him. Suddenly, a big grin spread across his face. "Sure and I know you!" he exclaimed as he rose to his feet. Jeff stepped back, thinking he was about to be arrested. "You're the millionaire postman," the officer said, sticking out his hand. "You gave my dear sainted mother, God rest her soul, ten thousand dollars to pay off her mortgage."
Jeff took his hand. The sergeant shook it vigorously. With his free hand, he snatched up the phone. Cradling it in the crook of his neck, he punched in the number 436. "Murphy, get down here and bring everyone with you.” Continuing to pump Jeff's hand, he slammed down the phone.
Rumbling shook the stairs. Seconds later, a stocky man with his tie twisted came charging down the hall. Three police officers followed him with their guns drawn.
"What is it, Penny? What's going on?" The man in front eyed Jeff suspiciously.
"Men," the desk sergeant said, finally letting go of Jeff's hand. "This is none other than Jeff Marlow, the millionaire postman."
Over the years, Jeff had given away several hundred thousand dollars. He had succeeded in keeping his identity a secret until two years ago when somehow the media found out. In a human-interest story, the reporter dubbed him “The Millionaire Postman” and ran an old picture of him. Jeff called in sick for three days.
Holstering their pistols, the men gathered around Jeff, shaking his hand. "How can we help you, sir?" Murphy asked.
Before he could answer, Penny spoke up. "He found this letter in the post office sorting room." He handed it to the detective. Murphy studied the paper, the writing and the gold thumb print.
Jeff was still hoping for an answer. "Can we find out where it came from?"
"Why do you want to know?" the detective queried, his eyes pinning Jeff to the wall.
"I just thought maybe I could help the─"
"Have you ever been arrested, Marlow?"
Jeff’s heart caught as though gripped by a fist. He stammered, taking some time to get his tongue to work. "No…, er, ah, no."
"We can check, you know."
“Aw, Murphy, he just wants to help," Penny said. Murphy silenced him with a look.
"I can tell when someone is lying, Mr. Marlow. It's a gift." For the next 15 seconds he glared at Jeff. Scenes of every prison movie he'd ever seen flashed before Jeff's eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, Murphy said, "Follow me." The detective led Jeff through a maze of hallways. At last, he stopped before a half-open door. Painted on the glass in fading gold letters were the words Crime Lab. Murphy introduced Jeff to a small, owlish woman who appeared to be in her mid-30s. He explained the situation to her. Turning to Jeff, he said, "If anybody can find her, Mattie Burgess can."
Mattie examined the print with a magnifying glass. She questioned Jeff intently. Where did he find the letter? How did he open it? How long had it lain on the floor? Jeff answered as best he could. Excusing herself, she left him standing alone at her desk. Jeff's thoughts turned to Barbie. The gentle touch of her hand. The softness of her lips. The brightness of her smile. Jeff didn't realize he was dreaming until Mattie’s voice shook him awake.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Marlow," she said somberly. "The glitter preserved the print but it also distorts it."
Jeff nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. "Thank you for trying." He shook Mattie's hand as she gave him back the letter. Outside, Jeff got in his car and sat hunched over the steering wheel. He had failed the only mission that might have redeemed him.
Debating on whether to call 911, Carol settled on the non-emergency number. "Indianapolis Police Department. Sergeant Penny. May I help you?"
"Yes, hello, I'm not sure I'm calling the right place."
"What is it you be a-needin', ma'am?"
“I want to report a robbery."
"I can transfer you to Robbery. Hold on."
"Well, it's just a doll I bought at Goodwill and a quarter pound of chocolates for my little girl."
"Doesn't make any difference what the value of the property is, ma'am."
"There's no way to get the doll back by morning, is there?"
Penny could hear the tears in the mother's voice. "I'm sorry, ma'am."
"It's just… It's…," Carol drew a breath. "It's just that my daughter Julie wrote a letter to Santa Claus asking for something special. She wouldn't let me read it."
Penny's feet came off the desk with a thump. "Julie? Did you say Julie?"
"Yes, she was sure Santa would get her letter because she put angel's dust in the envelope."
"Angel's dust?" Penny fairly shouted, jumping to his feet.
"Well, it was just gold glitter, but─”
"Ma’am, hold the line." Sergeant Penny ran out the front door. Jeff was pulling away from the curb. Shouting, Penny descended the steps, but Jeff didn't stop. Grabbing his seldom-used radio, he pressed the button. "Dispatch! This is Sergeant Penny. I need a car stopped on Post Road."
"Car two-eleven is in that vicinity."
"Great, patch them through to me. I'll give them the details."
"Ten-four, Sarge."
With each turn of the wheels, Jeff's heart sank lower. He returned to his earlier resolve. Death held a dark, morose attraction for him. He contemplated various methods of suicide, determined to make it final. Flashing red and blue lights in the rearview mirror startled him. He pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven.
The young officer bent over and looked in the window. "Mr. Marlow, Sergeant Penny would like to see you back at the station. Please follow me."
As Jeff got out of his car, Penny ran down the steps waving his notebook. "I got it, I got it!" he hollered. "The angels are a-workin' overtime tonight. Stein here is going to help you," he said, indicating the young officer who had stopped Jeff.
The next hour was a whirlwind. Stein had a friend who owned a toy store. The officer insisted his prices were the lowest in town. He woke the man up and pleaded with him to open the store. He complied, grumbling until he saw the number of toys Jeff piled on the counter. Next stop was an all-night Kroger's. Jeff loaded two shopping carts with two turkeys, three hams, and enough fruits, vegetables and dairy products to feed an army. At the checkout counter, Jeff paid the three hundred-dollar tab with cash. Stein's eyes almost bugged out of his head. The back of Jeff's car was overflowing when they pulled into Carol's driveway. The night had turned clear, with the sun just peeking over the horizon.
Seeing the two cars from the kitchen window, Carol hurried outside. Hopefully, she asked Stein, "Did you find my little girl's doll?"
"No, ma’am, I'm sorry," Stein said. “But something else happened that was even better. A wealthy gentleman heard about the doll being stolen. He asked us to help him deliver some things to you and your daughter."
Shyness ran through Jeff as he stepped out of the car. He hadn't felt this way since high school. Carol was more than attractive. Her long, flowing, auburn hair framed a lovely oval face with delicate features. Her large, beautiful eyes looked into his. Jeff's heart, withered and dead for so long, began to come alive.
After helping carry in the toys and food, Stein wished them a Merry Christmas and headed back to the station.
"Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Marlow?" Carol asked, her hazel eyes sparkling.
Jeff's pulse quickened. She looked so much like Barbie, yet different. "I should be going."
"Of course, your wife will be expecting you."
"Yes, I suppose she will," Jeff said, thinking of his plan.
"Are you my new daddy?" Jeff turned in the direction of the voice. A little girl in lavender flannel pajamas with purple Barneys printed on them stood just inside the kitchen door. She looked like her mother in miniature. Carol's cheeks reddened.
"Oh, honey, of course not. He's a postman delivering some gifts from Santa."
"That's right," Jeff said, his heart falling. "He knew you and your mommy were good girls this year. He asked me to bring you some toys."
Big tears rolled down Julie's cheeks. Going to her daughter, Carol knelt down in front of her, putting her hands on her shoulders. "What's wrong, honey?"
"I… I asked Santa for a new daddy," the little girl sobbed. "One who would love us like daddy did."
"Oh, sweetheart," Carol said, hugging Julie to her.
"I even put angel's dust in my letter to Santa," Julie sniffled, rubbing the sleeve of her pajamas across her nose. "Couldn't you be my daddy?" she said, her eyes fastened on Jeff's face. "I promise to be real good."
"Mr. Marlow already has a family," Carol said, rising to her feet. "God may give you a new daddy someday."
"When?" Julie asked, raising her tear-filled eyes to her mother, then to Jeff. "Do you really have a family?"
"Yes, but they're in heaven."
"Just like my daddy. Did you have a little girl?"
"Yes," Jeff answered, tears stinging his eyes. "She was beautiful, just like you."
"Then you could be my daddy," Julie said with a smile peeking through. "My daddy in heaven wouldn't mind."
Seeing he needed rescuing, Carol asked, "How about that cup of coffee, Mr. Marlow?"
"Jeff," he said, smiling.
"Jeff," Carol repeated, smiling back.
"Can he have Christmas dinner with us, pleeze?" Julie asked, twirling around the room.
"Yes, please do," Carol said with a wave of her hand at the loaded table.
"Please?" Julie begged as they both looked expectantly at Jeff. His heart melted and he felt new life rushing through his veins. "What time?"
"Is one o’clock okay?" Carol asked, her face radiant.
"Perfect," Jeff smiled.
"Yay!" Julie shouted, jumping up and down.
Jeff shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Was he doing the right thing? He had made a vow. Was he breaking it? He glanced up as the music started. The guests rose to their feet. Julie could barely hold back from skipping down the aisle in her flouncy flower girl dress. Carol was a vision of loveliness in her wedding gown as she fairly floated to him like a brilliant cloud. Her smile extinguished all doubts in his mind and heart. With every step, Julie spread angel's dust before her mother.















A Gathering of Angels





A car passed the Westward Nursing Home, its tires making hissing sounds on the wet street. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, Bessie saw that it was 2 AM. Sleet peppered the window and wind shook the bird feeder, spilling some of the seed. Ice formed on the windowpane, distorting the glow from the street light.
A young nurse’s assistant passed Bessie's door. Seeing her awake, she stuck in her head and said softly, "Nothing to worry about. Just a little ice storm." Bessie wanted to inform her that she had weathered more storms than days the assistant had lived. But all she said was "Thank you."
Over the next hour, the roadway went silent as the ice on its surface thickened. Bessie wanted to scream at the few cars that did pass, "Stop! Someone please stop and visit me." Her chart listed her as N/R, meaning no relatives. The administration thought it kinder to use the abbreviation. In doing so, possibly the resident would forget they were alone. Of course, they never did.
How could you forget the wonderful husband with whom you spent over 50 years? Or the precious little girl who would forever be 10? After struggling to the bathroom, Bessie dropped down on the edge of her bed. A tear slid down her cheek. More followed.
On her wedding day, she believed life couldn't be sweeter. Walking down the aisle with her eyes on Edgar, she mouthed “I love you” to him. Now her mouth silently formed those words again. Edgar had held her hand gently as he pronounced his vows to God and man. She still remembered his strong, clear voice as he promised to love, honor and protect her until death. He had fulfilled those vows right up to his last cancer-ridden days.
Almost three years after their wedding, Jennie was born. Such a sweet little thing, but she struggled with health problems for the first several years. At seven, she finally seemed to overcome them. She began to grow, her face taking on a healthy glow.
Bessie closed her eyes. She saw Jennie's bike go out of control, bumping across the cracked sidewalk into the street. The car was going too fast in a residential neighborhood. There was the squeal of brakes, then Jennie's small body lying broken in the street. Bessie could still hear her own screams as she held her dying baby girl.
A shudder passed through her as she relived the day of the funeral. She felt Edgar's strong arms around her, supporting her. They comforted her again in the doctor's office. The tests came back negative; there would be no more children. Bessie covered her face with her hands. The sobs came softly.
If the night nurse heard her, she would insist Bessie take a sleeping pill. She could refuse, but she wouldn't. She felt powerless in this place. Drying her eyes, she lay back on the pillow. The room suddenly felt cold. She pulled the blanket up to her chin. Jennie was gone 40 years, Edgar five. Soon she would join them. How she wished it was tonight.
She awoke to the sound of a wheelchair being rolled along. Turning her head, Bessie looked out at her small portion of the hallway. Ken Walters wheeled past her door, lifting a hand in silent greeting.
Every morning at six, Ken listened to the Farm Report. Recuperating from a broken hip, he was to stay at Westwood for two months, then return to the family farm. Ken’s loving family visited him every other day. His son consulted with him about the everyday operations of the farm. His daughter-in-law was always bubbling with news about the new baby. Ken was the one resident who didn't have nursing home eyes─dull and cloudy, like a thick fog. Eventually most of the residents developed them. Bessie heard him switch on the TV in the Activity Room. He turned the volume down to barely audible.
Westwood was above average as far as nursing homes go. The staff was efficient and courteous. If any were found to be abusing a resident, not only were they fired, but prosecuted as well. Every room was spotless. Spotless, sterile and thoroughly impersonal, Bessie thought gloomily.
Nothing you did could make it your own. It was just a warehouse for those waiting to die. The only room that was halfway lively was the Activity Room. What a joke! A bunch of old men sitting at a table pushing around checker disks. That is until one of them became bored out of his skull and hobbled out, mumbling about needing something from his room.
Bessie wasn't sure when bitterness began creeping into her heart. When she came to Westwood two years ago, she was enthusiastic and not in the least resentful. She handed out the songbooks for the church service. She taught those wanting to learn how to crochet. She read her Bible and prayed every day. Slowly, things began to change.
Every Saturday, the residents gathered in the Activity Room to wait for their visitors. Those confined to their beds would stare out the window hoping to spy a loved one's vehicle. For the first few months Bessie would wait in the Activity Room too. She was sure someone from her church or her old neighborhood would come by. She watched as one by one her fellow residents were collected by family members or friends for their weekend visit. Finally, after hours of waiting, the forgotten ones gave up. They shuffled or wheeled back to their rooms to spend another lonely day.

After Edgar died, she slowly realized she could no longer care for her home. Still, she hated the thought of leaving her beautiful little cottage. It was the home where Jennie spent the few short years of her life. It held so many memories. The house sold fast, way too fast for Bessie.
The sweet young couple who bought it promised to care for the home as Bessie and Edgar had for so many years. They stood on the porch waving good-bye as the cab took her away. Their small boy played at his dad's feet. The wife held their infant daughter in her arms. Bessie watched through the rear window of the taxi until the last vestige of her heart’s delight evaporated. She could never go back.
She pushed her walker into the hallway. Garlands were draped across the walls with pictures of Santa Claus, stars and the Christ child taped underneath. O Holy Night played softly over the intercom.
"Why, Ms. Bessie! It's grand to see you up and around." Cathy Topping smiled at her.
Bessie tried to drag up a smile. It was lost in the depths of her soul. "I just thought I would eat in the dining room today. My room is so drab." She looked askance at Cathy, as if it were her fault.
Cathy faltered, her smile wavering. "I’d be happy to decorate your room," she offered. Her face brightened. "I think we have some garland left over from decorating the dining room. Would you like that?"
"No!" Bessie said sharply. "Don't bother!"
"Oh, it wouldn't be any bother, Ms. Bessie," the young woman persisted. "I'd love to do it."
"I told you, NO! I don't want leftovers," Bessie shouted. "And it's Mrs., not MZZZZZ." She dragged out the last word like the sound of an angry bumble bee.
"I'm sorry," Cathy said sheepishly. "I never know what you older ladies prefer to be called."

"Why don't you just say old bags?" Laboriously, she turned around, taking slow, tiny steps as she pushed the walker back toward her room.
"Don't you want to stay for breakfast, Mrs. Bessie?"
"No!" Bessie yelled over her shoulder. "You can bring it to my room. And it’s Mrs. Connors to you. Mrs. Bessie Connors."
Back in her room, Bessie climbed into bed. A few minutes later, she heard Cathy approaching. She turned her face to the wall. She expected the young woman to say something, to apologize for upsetting her. She turned over as Cathy closed the door behind her.
Hearing her run down the hallway, anger surged through Bessie. "They're not to run in the hall unless it's an emergency. She could smack into one of us 'older women’," she groused as she picked at her food. After a few tasteless bites, she laid the spoon on the tray. She had no appetite. Lying back on the pillow, Bessie closed her eyes. Drowsiness took over. In her dreams, Edgar and Jennie lived again.
She woke with a start. The tray still sat on the bedside table. Bessie glanced at the clock. "Quarter ‘til eleven and the oatmeal's congealed," she said out loud. With no one to hear her, she said it again. "The oatmeal's congealed and that lazy girl's not picked it up!" Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Bessie reached for her walker. "That girl is in so much trouble," she muttered. "She's about to find out what it's like to be unemployed."
Working her way down the hall, she brought the squeaking feet of the walker down as forcefully as possible. She didn't see Cathy at the nurse's station. Mrs. Miller was busy filling medicine trays. "Where's Cathy? She was to pick up my breakfast tray hours ago." Bessie’s tone was stern and caustic.
Mrs. Miller didn't seem to notice, answering simply, "I'll have one of the girls pick it up shortly."
Glaring at the woman, Bessie pressed, "Well, where is Cathy? Did she get fired?"
Startled, Mrs. Miller's head sprang up. "Oh my, no. Cathy dismissed? She's one of our most valuable workers. She's just taking some time off."
"I heard her running down the hall this morning." Bessie felt like a schoolgirl tattling on a chum.
"Yes, I imagine she was," Mrs. Miller said matter-of-factly. "Her mother fell and broke her hip this morning. She has Alzheimer's, you know."
Her face flushing, Bessie turned to go. "No, I didn't know," she murmured so softly that Mrs. Miller didn't hear.
"She’ll be coming here once she’s released from Mercy General,” Mrs. Miller said, smiling sadly. “Would you like me to give Cathy a message? I'll be seeing her tonight."
Bessie hesitated. What message could she give to one she had treated so horribly? Feelings long forgotten stirred in her breast. Tears moistened her eyes. "Yes, please tell her that I'll be praying for both of them."
Mrs. Miller smiled. "I'll be happy to tell her."
Back in her room, Bessie searched through the chest of drawers. She found it in the second drawer under her nightgowns and underwear. She picked up the Bible, rubbing her hand over its worn cover. Seating herself in the vinyl chair, she thumbed through the pages. "It's been a long time, old friend," she said, dabbing her eyes. "Too long."
Letting it fall open, Bessie read, “I was sick and ye visited me.” Her resentment began to rise. "Nobody ever visits me." A small voice spoke in Bessie's heart. “When was the last time you visited the sick?” Her mind answered with a question: Who Lord? We're all sick. Then came the answer: Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.
"I can't do much. But who, Lord?" Slowly, a list formed in Bessie's mind. Ninety-year-old Allan Hoag. The poor old guy hadn't been out of his room since his stroke last August. He loved to play chess. Bessie knew nothing about the game, but perhaps she could learn. Nora Harkins lost a leg to diabetes. At one time she had asked Bessie to teach her to crochet. Carrie Harlis's son died in an automobile accident last month. She is so lonely. Excitement raced through Bessie. She reached for her walker and found she didn't need it.
Two days later as Cathy parked her car, she spotted Bessie waiting inside the front door. Cathy sighed. That was all she needed. She was dog-tired. She had tried sleeping in the hospital room, but every time her mother stirred, she woke up. All she wanted to do was drop into bed. Bracing for Bessie’s tirade, Cathy pushed open the door.
"How is your mother, dear?" Bessie asked.
Touched by the genuine concern in Bessie's voice, Cathy began to weep. Bessie stepped forward and hugged the young woman tightly. "There, there, dear, we'll face this together," she said, patting Cathy's back. "Do you still have some garland left over from the dining room?"
Cathy dried her tears and smiled. "We'll make your room look real nice for Christmas."
"And for your mother, too."
"Oh, Mrs. Connors, are you sure you want someone in your room?" Afraid Bessie would get the wrong impression, she hurried to add, "I mean, I know how you like your privacy."
"Nonsense, dear. How can I help you with your mother unless I'm close by? It's my Christmas gift to you."
"Oh, Mrs. Connors, you're the best!" Cathy cried, throwing her arms around the older woman.
"It's Bessie."
"Okay, Mrs. Bessie."
Bessie laughed. It felt good. And, true to her word, from that day on Bessie nursed the sick, comforted the dying, read to the blind, fed the helpless and talked with the lonely.
Two years later on Christmas morning, Bessie failed to appear in the dining room. They found her in bed, a smile on her face, her tired heart still. The Westwood staff members and residents held a funeral service for their friend in the Activity Room. The mayor of the town spoke of Bessie’s dedication and presented the nursing home with a plaque commemorating her volunteerism. The minister who held Saturday services at Westwood brought his entire congregation. His closing words honored the elderly saint.
"The greatest blessing we can experience in our lives is to help others. This dear lady spread joy throughout this convalescent center. Now the Lord has called his beloved servant home. If the Lord were to open our spiritual eyes as He did Elisha's servant’s, I believe we would see a gathering of angels surrounding this building."

















The Christmas Mirror





Steven stepped inside the house he had shared with Mandy. The place seemed to sag with loneliness. It was so… so… he searched for a word. Empty. So... cold. He felt like a stranger in his own home. He didn't call out. Why should he? No one would answer.
After the last two weeks of Mandy's illness and death Steven believed he was all out of tears. Yet as he thought of Mandy, tears moistened his eyes. Never again would he hear her soft footsteps coming down the stairs to greet him. Her radiant smile was lost forever. He always looked forward to coming home. Mandy would welcome him, smelling of lavender after her bubble bath. She always applied fresh makeup, swept up hair the way Steven loved it and wore a dress that complemented her bright blue eyes. No matter what time of the day or night, she would meet him with a hug and kiss.
Closing the door against the deepening twilight, he leaned against it. Tonight in grave she wore her best dress, complete with her wedding band and the watch he gave her last Christmas. In the crushing stillness, realization crashed down on him. Never again would he hold her, hear her voice, share her secret dreams. He slid to the floor and buried his face in his hands.
He let his thoughts drift back to the first time he saw Mandy in kindergarten. Even at that young age, her beauty struck him. Having arrived five minutes earlier, he fancied himself more experienced than she. As soon as Steven saw her enter the room, he pulled away from his mother's hand. Running up to Mandy, he blurted out, "Welcome to Tinder Garden!" Darting behind her mother, she peered out at the strange boy. His smiling face and twinkling brown eyes reassured the little girl. Soon he was holding her hand and showing her around the schoolroom.
Over the years, their lives became interwoven. Steven endured his classmates’ teasing about being in love good-naturedly. Any time a grownup asked if he had a girlfriend, he answered with an enthusiastic “Yes!” When questioned further as to whom the lucky girl was, he just smiled. He would never dishonor Mandy or subject her to ridicule.
At 16, they began to date. There was never a question whether they would go steady, it just happened naturally. Their parents suggested they date others to be sure they were right for each other. It wasn’t necessary. They both knew in their hearts no one else would do. The year they turned 18, he asked her to marry him. She said yes almost before the words left his lips.
They wed that year on Christmas Eve, giving that day special meaning for them. Every Christmas Eve thereafter, they spent the evening cuddled together in front of the fireplace, talking and dreaming of the years ahead. Let others go on their round-the-world trips or dine in expensive restaurants. They just wanted a quiet evening together at home. While Christmas carols played on the stereo, they talked of their love for each other, their hopes and dreams for the future. Little did they imagine that this Christmas Eve Mandy would be in her grave.
Sixteen glorious years as husband and wife were gone. The finality of it was incomprehensible to Steven. Gone forever. Tonight he would spend Christmas Eve alone, thinking of her and only her. Pulling himself up, Steven walked on wobbly legs into the kitchen. "Mandy. Dear, sweet, beautiful Mandy," he moaned. "I miss you so much." With both of their families gone, for many years it had been just the two of them celebrating holidays together.
He stepped to the small oak desk in the corner where Mandy kept her recipes and figured her household budget. Was it only last month she had sat at this very desk planning the menu for their Thanksgiving dinner? He opened the middle drawer and smiled in spite of himself. It was just like Mandy to keep the stationery, pens, pencils, stamps, and other items so neatly organized. Mandy believed in the adage 'A place for everything and everything in its place.' Only one thing was out of order, a small leather notebook partially hidden under some receipts.
Sitting down, he picked it up and opened it. Seeing her delicate writing was bittersweet. He gently turned the pages. In his mind, Steven could see Mandy sitting in this chair penning notes about life. Wiping a tear from his cheek, he sighed and read some of her entries.
There were grocery lists and reminders of upcoming events, including reminders for this very day: “Put pumpkin pies in oven at 9 AM. Bake ginger bread cookies at 1:00. Finish at three and clean up, be ready when Steven comes home at five.” Steven turned the page. It was blank, as was the next one and the one after that. He was about to close the book when he noticed her feminine writing on the very last page.
December 10. “Take the money from the jewelry case in the bedroom. Make the final payment on Steven's ring at Leverman's. Steven will be so surprised. He never suspected I've been saving for his Christmas present from the household budget. I can hardly wait. I have wanted to give him a diamond ring for so long. This will be a dream come true.”
Steven stared at the page. Could it be true? Of course. It was just like Mandy to think of others, putting their wants and needs before her own. Still holding the notebook, Steven walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs. In a daze, he stumbled down the hallway. As he approached the door to their bedroom, he hesitated. For the last three nights, he had slept on the couch. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing this empty room, the room where he and Mandy had shared their love and life.
Reaching out a trembling hand, Steven pushed open the door and tentatively stepped inside. On his left was the bed he had shared with Mandy for the past 16 years. His legs began to tremble. He forced himself to walk across the blue carpet. Baby blue, Mandy called it. Last year she bought the drapes and bedspread to match. He felt lost in a daze.
Remembering the ring, Steven stood before the vanity. His pale, haggard face stared back at him through the oval mirror. He picked up the heart-shaped jewelry box, he had given her last Christmas. His fingers caressed the red rose stitched in its top. He trembled as he tenderly opened it. He felt a surge flow through his fingers as Love Song drifted through the room.
Laying Mandy's earrings and necklaces aside, he removed the bottom tray. A hundred dollar bill and several slips of paper lay underneath. He picked up one of the white pieces of paper. Squinting in the dim light, he read: June 10, Received of Mrs. Amanda Beckett, $100 for ring #345.
He counted four more receipts, duplicates of the first, all with different dates leading up to November. Each one was signed by John Leverman. Switching on the bedside lamp, he picked up the phone book. Keeping his finger on the listing, he sat on the bed and punched in the number. He glanced at the clock. Almost five, probably too late.
"Leverman's Jewelers," a tired sounding voice answered. "How may I help you?"
"Hello. This is Steven Beckett. My wife, Amanda, has… er, had a ring on lay-away," Steven said in a hollow tone.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Beckett, I remember your wife. A very nice young lady," Mr. Leverman said. "She came in faithfully on the tenth of every month. Always paid with a hundred dollar bill. The last installment was due on the first of this month."
Steven's heart quickened. The last gift from his dear wife was only a few blocks away. He desperately wanted that ring. It was a token of her everlasting love for him. He needed it. It would be a lifeline to his beloved Mandy. "I'll be right down to pick up the ring. I have the final payment."
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Beckett. When the final payment wasn't made, the ring was returned to inventory."
"Well then, bring it out of inventory," Steven said indignantly.
"Unfortunately, I can't. The ring was sold this afternoon," Leverman said. "When Mrs. Beckett didn't come in, we assumed she had changed her mind."
"Did it ever occur to you to call?" Steven snapped, his voice rising along with his temper. "Couldn't you have just picked up the phone and called?"
"We tried to call several times, Mr. Beckett, but we never got an answer," Leverman said wearily. A kind man, he hated dealing with angry customers. "We waited until today, hoping your wife would come in and claim the ring."
"She couldn't. She's dead," Steven said flatly, another flood of tears escaping from his red-rimmed eyes. "Her funeral was this afternoon. Can you believe they bury people on Christmas Eve?"
"Oh, Mr. Beckett, I'm so very sorry for your loss. I had no idea." Leverman said, his voice cracking.
"Perhaps if you could tell me who bought the ring, I could purchase it from them," Steven said, his voice losing strength.
"I'm very sorry, one of our temporary salespersons sold the ring while I was at lunch. The customer paid cash so there's no record of their identity," Leverman replied gently.
"Wait a minute. Don't you have a warranty form for your customers to fill out?" Steven asked.
"Yes, normally we do. Unfortunately, the salesgirl forgot and the customer didn't mention it."
"So just like my wife, the ring is gone," Steven said, his heart sinking.
"I'm afraid so, Mr. Beckett. Of course, we will refund your deposit or let you select another ring."
"No. No other ring will do," Steven said. He hung up with Leverman's apology ringing in his ears. Exhausted, he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. Was it only two weeks ago that he came home to find Mandy lying in this same spot? That was so unusual for her that he was instantly alarmed.
"It's just a bad headache," she said with a weak smile. "I took some aspirin. It'll be gone soon." He kissed her cheek and closed the door.
In the kitchen, he put two frozen dinners in the microwave. That was the extent of his culinary skills. After checking his email, he prepared a tray for her, complete with a silk flower. Nudging the bedroom door open with his knee, he set it down on the nightstand. He gently he touched her cheek. She was burning up.
"Mandy, Mandy!" he cried. When she didn't respond, he shook her. He couldn't wake her. Choking back sobs, he carried her blankets and all down to the car. Weaving in and out of the afternoon traffic, he raced to the hospital.
Reluctantly, he released her into the care of the emergency room staff. Unable to sit still, he paced the waiting room and hallway. The hands on the clock dragged. They seemed stuck. An hour passed, then two. His heart quaked as he waited to learn his precious wife’s fate.
Finally, he saw the doctor coming down the hall, his white coat flapping, his expression solemn. "Mr. Beckett, I’m Dr. Miller. I'm the chief neurosurgeon here at Mercy," he said. Taking Steven's arm, he guided him to a nearby couch. Sitting down beside the frazzled young husband, the doctor’s voice was low. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."
Steven’s heart was gripped with fear and dread. "Is she going to all right?" he whispered.
The doctor grimaced as if in pain. "Your wife has suffered an aneurysm of the brain. If we don't operate immediately, we will lose her. If she does survive the surgery, her chances of living a normal life are only about one in five."
"Please do everything you can to save her, Doctor," Steven said with tears running down his cheeks.
The next few hours were sheer agony. At 4 AM, a weary Dr. Miller came out of surgery to find Steven waiting just beyond the double doors. "She's alive," the doctor said with a thin smile. "She's a fighter."
Mandy remained in a drug-induced coma. With each passing day, she became stronger. Steven read to her constantly from her favorite books. He slept in a chair by her bedside, not leaving even for meals. His heart soared when Dr. Miller said she might be home for Christmas.
Then, three days ago, another aneurysm left her helpless and dying. The call came as Steven was preparing the house for her homecoming. He rushed to the hospital. As he came out of the elevator, the floor was in chaos. He hurried to her room in time to hold her in his arms as she died. That was three days ago, three of the longest, most harrowing days of his life.
Pushing up from the bed, he walked across the room to Mandy's side of the closet. Sliding open the door, his eyes searched the racks. Way back to the left, almost to the wall, he spotted the little black evening gown. Any time they went out, this was the one he wanted her to wear.
"Sweetheart, you know I do have other dresses," she would tell him as she stood with her hands on her hips, pretending to be exasperated.
"Of course dear, but you look like a princess in this one," he would answer, holding it out to her.
"All right. Just this once." Her look was stern, but she couldn't hold the false expression long. Her mouth would start to twitch, then like the sunrise on a beautiful spring morning, her smile would break through.
Carefully removing the dress from the wooden hanger, Steven buried his face in the fabric. He breathed in her scent. She had worn the dress so many times the fragrance of her perfume was infused in the cloth. He felt as if he were holding her in his arms once again.
Dancing dreamily across the room, he bumped into the vanity. It shook, causing everything on its surface to tumble to the floor. Kneeling, Steven carefully picked up each item and placed it back where he thought it had been. The antique hand mirror lay on the floor on its face.
Steven, you stupid idiot, he said to himself. I'll never forgive myself if it's broken. With trembling hands, he touched the silver frame. It felt strangely warm. Mandy prized this mirror so highly. It was one of the last things she touched before he rushed her to the hospital. He had found it clutched in her hand. Slowly he turned the mirror over and breathed a sigh of relief. The glass was intact.
He held it lovingly in his hands, remembering that day several years ago. Mandy enjoyed visiting antique stores. However, this was one they never knew existed. Following the faded signs, they drove until the blacktop road turned into a gravel road, then something resembling a cow path. They finally found it nestled in a small valley miles from the highway.
The store was pretty much a dilapidated shack. Her face flushed with anticipation, Mandy leaped out of the car and sprinted to the building. The creak of the door hinges announced their entrance. The proprietor, a woman with scraggly gray hair in her 70s, welcomed them with a gap-toothed smile. As if drawn to it by a magnet, Mandy began rummaging through an old wooden box. Less than a minute later, she held up an object so tarnished it appeared moldy green.
"Look at this," she whispered breathlessly, her face glowing.
Steven grinned as he glanced at the hand mirror. "Looks like a refugee from an algae farm."
"No, no, look at the date."
Squinting at the numbers, he read aloud, "Seventeen eighty-nine. What are those markings under the date?"
She whispered, but more loudly than she intended. "The craftsman's symbol. Steven, this mirror is priceless."
"That thar mirror is magical." Startled, Mandy and Steven gazed at the old woman's toothy grin.
"Magical?" Mandy clutched the mirror to her chest.
Bending close to her ear, Steven whispered, "Mandy, don't fall for that."
"Yup, belonged to the Countess DeMarco. She had it made from nuggets from her daddy's mine. Legend has it she mixed drops of her own blood with the molten silver."
"Oh, come on," Steven chuckled.
"It be true, all right, least'n that's how the story goes." The old woman shrugged, lighting a pipe she took from the pocket of her ragged sweater.
Mandy ran her fingers over the frame. "How is it magical?"
The old woman puffed on her pipe, blowing smoke up at the ceiling. She seemed lost in thought. Steven was ready to repeat the question when the woman spoke.
"It be said if'n you gaze into this ‘ere lookin' glass on Christmas Eve, you'll see your true love."
Steven almost laughed out loud. "A good tale to raise the price of a moldy piece of junk".
"The Christmas mirror!" Mandy gasped. "How much?"
Through clenched teeth, Steven whispered, "Come on, Mandy, don't fall for this garbage."
"Tain't no garbage, it be the truth." With a raised eyebrow, the old woman pointed the stem of her pipe at Steven. "You just gotta believe."
Mandy turned to Steven with pleading eyes. Then of the old woman, she asked, "How much?"
"Fer you, deary?" the woman croaked, scratching her head, "Twenty."
Did she hear right? "How much?"
"You are a believer in things you can't see. There be things more valuable than money."
"I got it." Pulling out his billfold, Steven took out two $10 bills.
"I want to pay for it, please dear," Mandy said, her eyes entreating. Steven pushed his billfold back in his pocket. Something was at work here. He would not interfere.
The mirror became one of Mandy's most prized possessions. She spent hours polishing the frame until it glowed with a burnished gleam. Each morning she held it in front of her while she brushed her hair. Steven pointed out there were other mirrors throughout the house. She just smiled and said, "This one is special."
Holding the mirror now, Steven's fingers traced the angel design carved into the back. Somehow it felt as if he was touching Mandy's silky smooth cheek. A sudden peace came into his heart and an inexplicable joy overwhelmed him.
Cautiously holding the mirror and dress, he walked down the stairs to the living room and laid them on the coffee table. Igniting the gas logs in the fireplace, he threw hickory chips into the fire. After seating a CD of Christmas carols in the stereo, he hit the play button. The first notes of Silent Night floated through the room. The melody was gentle and soothing.
On a sudden impulse, he held the mirror up to his face. Then he turned it to the side. The reflection of the room was different. It seemed to shimmer in the light of the fire. Smoke rose from the center of the room, taking on a familiar shape. A hint of lavender scent hung in the air. As the haze cleared, Steven blinked. Whirling around, his heart leaped in his chest. Mandy stood in front of the fireplace, wearing the black dress. The mirror quivered in his hand, but he felt no fear.
"Merry Christmas, darling," she said, smiling.
"But... but... you're...," Steven stuttered.
"Remember what we promised each other on our first anniversary?" Mandy asked, moving forward to touch Steven gently on the cheek. Her fingers were warm and inviting. "I said I would spend each Christmas Eve with you."
Taking the mirror from his trembling hand, Mandy laid it on the coffee table. Drawing Steven to her, she kissed him. Her lips were tender and loving. She stepped back, picked up the mirror and smiled at him. "The moment I saw this mirror, I knew it was the one I read about years ago." Steven stared at her, too stunned to speak.
"The countess was about to be married to a man she didn't love. Her father had arranged the marriage for political reasons. On the night before her wedding, she looked into this mirror and saw her true love. She refused to marry the man her father had chosen. He became furious, disowning and throwing her out.
“She went to live with an aunt. One of the few possessions she took with her was the Christmas mirror. Six months later she met her true love .They were secretly married on Christmas Eve and ran away to America, bringing the mirror with them. It was passed down for centuries until it was lost. So every morning I looked into the mirror, preserving my image within it for this night."
"Oh Mandy," Steven said, taking his wife in his trembling arms. "I've missed you so much." Steven could not believe his good fortune. The thrill he felt exceeded the joy of his wedding day.
That night they danced, hugged, talked and laughed as the hours flew by. They shared their hopes and dreams as they had each Christmas Eve. At midnight, the grandfather clock in the hallway struck 12. Sighing gently, Mandy turned to him. She held out her hand. In her open palm rested a small velvet box.
"But Mandy, sweetheart," Steven sighed, "I don't have anything for you."
"Steven, you've given me the greatest gift of all, your love," Mandy said, her face glowing. "Open it, please."
Steven gently lifted the box from her hand. Opening it, he gasped. Encased in folds of velvet was a ring. Embossed in gold inside the lid was Leverman's Jewelers. With her delicate fingers, Mandy took the ring from the box and placed it on Steven's ring finger. "Remember, dear, whenever you look at this ring, that I will always love you." She leaned in, gently touching her lips to his.
A brilliant gleam flashed from the ring, blinding him. Steven blinked his eyes. "Mandy, I...”
The room was empty. The mirror and black dress lay on the coffee table where he had placed them. He ran through the house, calling to her. A horrible ache filled his heart. Mandy was gone. He balled his hands into fists. "A dream," he cried, clenching his fists in the air. "It was all a dream."
The hard ridge of the ring bit into his fingers. Taking it off, Steven held it up to the light. His eyes caught the markings inside. Engraved within the band were the words, “I'll always love you."

















Miracle at Coffeeville





At the sound of her husband coming through the kitchen door, Rainey Stuart turned from the cook stove. She swallowed hard before she said it. The news that had been churning within her all day lay like a weight on her chest.
"The hens quit layin'," she told him, her face reflecting the hopelessness she felt in her heart. There, she said it. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she would not let them fall again. She would do her weeping in private. Buel had enough on his mind.
"That's it then," Buel said, dropping his lanky frame into a rickety wooden chair. Rainey was surprised it didn't break. Many a time, she warned the children to sit down softly. Her maw gave her those chairs as a wedding present. It wasn't just the sentimental value that kept them from being firewood. With the Depression riding them hard, they simply couldn't afford better. She held her tongue, not wanting to add to Buel's misery. The patches on his threadbare bib overalls were tearing loose again. At least his feedsack shirt was holding, although the elbows looked ready to give way. "No Christmas, not even for the little ones."
Two tears trickled down Rainey's cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hands. Every year it got worse. No money for Christmas. Barely enough for vittles. At first, they didn't mind. They had the farm and each other. Then five years ago, Toby came, a loud, red-faced little bundle of joy. With little in the way of material possessions, they shared their love for each other and the land with him. Violet came two years later. Now at three, she followed her mother everywhere. The Stuarts took no comfort in the fact that folks everywhere in the valley were suffering too.
Matty and Jackson Hurtt owned Hurtt's General Store, at least what was left of it. With each passing day, the shelves became barer. When Matty or Jackson faced a neighbor in dire need across the counter, they could not turn them away. Grandparents themselves, they felt as if each child was their own. At night they retired to their living quarters above the store. They talked about the good old days when prosperity flowed in the small village.
On Sundays, they joined their customers in church and prayed for better days. Proud men with no ability to pay had trouble looking them in the eye. Jackson shook their hands as if they were still his best customers. When Matty saw a child with holes in their shoes or no coat, she insisted the mother bring them by the store on Monday.
Mothers with tears in their eyes promised vegetables and pies in the summer or cash as soon as their husbands found work. Matty just hugged them and assured them that would be fine.
As good as the Hurtts were, Samuel Owens was the opposite. Samuel owned the bank, the hardware, the feed mill and just about every other store in Coffeeville. He never extended credit. If a farmer needed seed and didn't have the funds, Samuel would take something of value in exchange. If he had nothing to trade, Sam would employ the man to work on his ever-growing enterprise.Each man's land slowly was absorbed into Sam's farm.
As the Depression deepened, the number of Samuel's workers increased. The man seemed to get twisted pleasure from raising the price of his goods while decreasing his laborers’ wages. It was rumored that Samuel's heart had been broken by a woman back east. All anyone knew was that he arrived in Coffeeville one day in the spring of 1933 with a seemingly limitless amount of cash. Within a week, he purchased the bank.
The next day, he raised interest rates and foreclosed on five farms. A tremor of fear ran through Coffeeville and the surrounding countryside. Some ventured to his office to plead their case, but all left distraught, speaking of Sam’s cold heart and the large portrait of a beautiful, raven-haired woman. They said the painting was so lifelike they expected her to step out of the frame.
Sam never spoke of her, and those who saw the portrait were afraid to ask. Ironically, his stinginess, greed and indifference to suffering made Coffeeville a more close-knit community. If he threatened to foreclose on a farm or home, neighbors came to the family's aid. Pooling their meager resources, they bought the beleaguered soul one more month.
Sam would come to the property expecting to take possession, only to have a wad of cash slapped in his hand and be turned away. The last time it happened, he shook his fist in the air and shouted, "Go ahead and fight me. I'll get it all in the end!" Turning to his automobile, he bellowed over his shoulder, "Next time I'll bring enough men to run you out of the county!" Everyone believed Sam's goal was to own the entire valley.
One Sunday, Reverend Leo Simpson called for a time of prayer. Joshua Creton spoke up. "Preacher, prayin' is good, but what we need is money."
"What we need, Joshua," Reverend Simpson said gently, "is the provision of the Lord." With that they prayed. Each time the kind pastor ended his prayer by asking God to bless their tormentor. Several of the people grumbled about the minister's prayer, feeling the Lord had blessed Owens enough and them too little.
Thanksgiving came and went with scarce celebration. The people of Coffeeville hunkered down, hoping the spring of ‘34 held better promise. Men combed the surrounding forests for wood and food. Those working for Owens begged for more money. One cold winter night, they congregated at the door of his big house on top of Sugar Hill. Sitting by the never ceasing fire, Sam watched them enter his mansion, a smirk playing across his face.
"We's families ain't got nothing to eat," Buel said, holding his hat and clenching and unclenching his work-worn hands. His eyes wandered over the richly appointed room. He felt ashamed that the grand piano, the statues and the painting of unfathomable value filled him with bitter envy. Where the furniture came from Buel couldn’t imagine, but it surely was not from the Sears catalog.
"I pay you a good wage," Sam said, cutting into a thick steak. He put a chunk in his mouth and chewed while cutting another. The smell of the well-seasoned meat made the farmers' mouths water.
"By the time we'uns make your payments, we ain't got nothing left," another complained.
"If you don’t like working for me, I'll be glad to replace you!" Sam barked at the trio standing before him. "Now get out of my house. You weren’t invited, and your boots are staining my carpet."
As they left, Buel said, "Well, I reckon things can't git much worse." The others nodded in agreement. He was wrong. The next week, Sam foreclosed on the general store. Hearing of the impending calamity, the people came together as they had in the past.
They sent the elderly preacher to Owens’ office at the bank as their representative. Sam leaned back in his plush leather chair and smiled. Opening the collection bag, Reverend Simpson said, "How much do they owe you, Mr. Owens?"
"Two thousand dollars," Sam said, his grin widening.
Reverend Simpson stared in shock at the banker. With everyone in the village─even the children─contributing, they had garnered only $50. "How much to tide their loan over until next month?" the reverend asked, his mouth dry and his heart breaking for his people.
"A thousand dollars, and unless you have that amount in that bag, this conversation is ended. Now you must excuse me, I'm very busy."
As Reverend Simpson turned toward the door, Sam called, "Since you're here, let me give this. It’ll save me the expense of having it delivered." He handed him a folded sheet of paper.
With trembling hands, the elderly pastor read the foreclosure notice for the church. He stared at the tyrant, his eyes filled with pity and dismay. This was the end. Soon Sam would indeed own the entire valley, including the church.
"I'll wait until after your Christmas service but not an hour more." Knowing the people would agree, Simpson offered Sam the money in the bag just to redeem the church for a few weeks. The banker refused it. His harsh laughter taunted the pastor ears as he hurried to leave.
As Christmas approached, Sam's wrath escalated and he drove his men without mercy. The joyous season became a time of drudgery. Every evening, men dragged themselves back to cold houses that now belonged to the banker. The children’s dreams died as they looked into their parents' faces.
The Hurtts continued working at the general store as Sam's employees. Sam kept the shelves stocked and set the prices. It broke Matty's heart each time she saw a child with holes in their shoes or a hungry look on their face. She could do nothing about it.
Then Matty and Jackson did something the mere thought of which would have horrified them before. They began falsifying the books. In the storage room they stacked empty boxes that once contained the shoes and coats they gave away. They opened the cans from the bottom and placed empty ones back on shelves. To the eye, the storage room appeared to be well stocked. In reality, it was half empty.
The hoax would spell their end; both of them knew it. It was inevitable that Sam would find out and what he would do was anybody's guess. Jackson said the least he expected was to be driven from the store his grandfather built. If Sam got the law involved, they could be looking at a stretch in Grandville prison.
The end came at five o’clock on Christmas Eve. All day, low and threatening dark clouds rode the sky. Snow was coming; you could smell it in the air. Matty was sweeping up and preparing to close. Behind the counter, Jackson worked on the accounts.
Sam strode through the front door, setting the bell jingling. Without a word to the two former owners, he headed for the back room. Matty looked at Jackson, aware their deception was about to be discovered. A passerby heard Sam's angry shout all the way out in the street. He charged out of the storage room with what had been a can of peaches. Upending the can, he threw it on the counter. The can jumped and bounced off onto the floor. The empty can of beans rolled under the wood stove.
"You'll pay for this!" he screamed, shaking his fist in Jackson's face. "Both of you are going to jail!" He returned to the back room, his rage increasing with each can or box he found empty. Matty and Jackson watched, shedding tears not for their own fate but that of their neighbors. Like a madman, Sam tore the storage room apart, his curses ringing in the air.
"Enjoy your last night of freedom," Sam blustered as he stormed out into the gathering dusk. Matty and Jackson sat down by the potbelly stove in the middle of the store. With sinking hearts, they awaited the arrival of the sheriff.
As night fell, the heavy clouds turned loose their burden of snow. Yet oddly the air seemed to grow warmer. Undeterred by their thin, ragged clothing, children ran outside to build snowmen and throw snowballs. The air felt balmy and pleasant, like a fresh spring day. Parents watched in amazement from their porches. The sky glowed as if lit by a full moon, yet no moon appeared.
On his knees in the church, Pastor Simpson prayed, his eyes misting with tears for his people. Suddenly he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. He looked up expecting to see his dear wife and then remembered she was home with the Lord. The church was empty.
The only chill in Coffeeville on the night of December 24, 1933 was in the heart of Sam Owens. Many tears were shed that night, most of them by loving parents. Another Christmas would pass with nothing to give their children. With crying hearts, their prayers for a miracle rose to the God of the universe.
Walking in the woods behind the barn, Buel was the first to hear it. The horn pierced the night like the trumpet of God. He saw the light on the engine shining steady and true like the Star of Bethlehem. Turning in the direction of his home, he ran, his feet pumping and snow flying in all directions. Coming around to the front of the house, he saw Rainey and the children on the porch. "It be a-comin' up the old line to Coffeeville!" Buel exclaimed, his breath coming in spurts.
"What's it mean, Mamma?" Toby asked, turning his face to the two people he trusted most in the world.
"Can't no train run on that track," Rainey said with bewilderment furrowing her brow. "They done took up the rails last summer."
"Well, I don't know how she a-doin' it, but she's a comin' anyhow," Buel said, watching the freight train cross Blackman's Gap. The train seemed to glow with an inner light. "Ain't never seen one run that fast. Must be doin' a hundred mile an hour."
"She'll never make the bridge, it'll never hold her," Rainey said, her voice rising with alarm. Buel and Rainey braced themselves to witness a disaster. They looked at each other with disbelief as the train crossed the rickety wooden trestle with scarcely a tremor.
"That be her signal she's a-gonna stop in Coffeeville," Buel said as the horn gave two long toots and one short. Dashing through the house, Rainy blew out the lantern while Buel banked the stove. The family hurried through the deepening snow to the small village. The same urgency drew people from their homes all across the valley. Having heard the train, everyone in Coffeeville and the outlying farms gathered at the abandoned depot.
The crowd watched in hushed astonishment as dozens of heavily muscled men in snow-white uniforms unloaded the boxcars at dizzying speed. The people's amazement increased at the stacks of goods being laid on the platform. There were cases of food, farm tools, clothes and shoes in every size, even sacks of feed for the animals and toys of every description. Standing in the shadows, the people watched, mystified. Who could have ordered so many supplies?
Soon the platform and the surrounding area were covered as the provisions piled up. Surely even Sam Owens couldn't afford what all of this would cost.
A man in dazzling white clothing stepped down from a passenger car the people hadn't noticed before. With tentative steps, Buel dared to approach him. His face radiant, the man smiled at the ragged farmer. Holding his old tattered hat in his hands, Buel hung his head, his heart burning. "Ah... er... sir, kin you tell me who all this belongs to?"
The man laid a gentle hand on Buel's shoulder. A surge of hope ran through the broken-hearted father. He was filled with faith and hope for the future, his children, and a life beyond this one. He looked up into eyes that touched his soul, eyes reflecting a heart overflowing with love. He felt as if he had known this man all his life.
"Hey, what's going on here? I didn't order all this stuff!" Sam Owens shouted as he ran up to the train. "Load it back on. I am not paying for any of it."
Dropping his hand from Buel's shoulder, the man turned to face Sam. Owens slid to a stop. He opened his mouth to speak, but fell silent. The compassion in the man's eyes penetrated Sam's stone-cold heart. The look awakened feelings he thought he had left behind years ago. Suddenly, Sam gasped. His hand flew up to his mouth. The people stared in astonishment.
Standing on the passenger car’s steps was the woman in the portrait. The man in white extended a hand to the lady and helped her down. It was then the people saw the scars on his hands, long, jagged marks that seemed to go all the way through. As though in a trance, Sam drew near the woman, then they were in each other's arms. The woman's tears spilled down her face and fell onto the back of his coat.
Sam moaned as if in pain. "I'm sorry, dear, I am so, so sorry," he murmured into his wife's hair.
"Oh, I love you, Sam. I've missed you so much," Victoria Owens said, hugging her husband tightly.
Smiling, the man with the scarred hands nodded to the men who had unloaded the train. They climbed back on board. Then, as if on a coiled spring, the train sprang forward into the night and disappeared. Stunned, the people approached the piles of supplies. Each item carried a tag that read,

To the people of Coffeeville in answer to your prayers.

From your loving Father.

"Look everyone, look at this," Pastor Simpson said, pointing to the ground. The people stared in amazement. Some began to weep, others to laugh, others to shout praises. Except for the marks of shoes and boots, the snow was unbroken. There was no sign a train had come through Coffeeville.
The people gathered in the church that night in thanksgiving to He who supplies all our needs and to celebrate the birth of their Savior.
"Where we gonna put it all? We'uns can't get that much inside tonight," Buel said.
Trembling, Sam Owens rose to his feet. Holding fast to his wife's hand, he said, "Good friends. I have treated you terribly. Yet tonight God has given me a great gift. My wife and I were separated many months ago because of my foolishness. Now God has restored her to me. What more could I ask for? Please feel free to use the general store to stow the goods, and if there's not enough room, use my... er... our home."
Smiling, Victoria Owens waved to the crowd and hugged and kissed her husband. With tears flowing down his cheeks, Pastor Simpson led the congregation in a rousing rendition of Joy to the World.
And Sam was good for his word. The people of Coffeeville came through the Great Depression with everyone's farm or business intact. Sam tore up the foreclosure notices and gave back every property he had seized. He restocked the general store and sold the goods at his cost. No person in the community ever again went hungry or shoddily clothed.
Victoria Owens never could explain how she came to be on the train. On the night of December 24, 1933, she felt a compelling urge to go to the railroad station in Chicago. The next thing she knew she was stepping off the mysterious train into her husband's arms.
Passed down from generation to generation, folks still talk about the miracle at Coffeeville. Young and old alike marvel about it and find enduring hope remembering the Christmas Eve when God answered the prayers of his people.












Snow Angels










Abigail crept to the open bedroom door. Mommy was sitting on the bed, Daddy's arm was around her shoulders and both their heads were bowed. Tears fell from their eyes. Abby could see the wet spots on Mommy's blue dress and Daddy's dress pants. Watching them made her want to cry, but she didn't make a sound.
"Why, Michael? Why?" Elizabeth Maxwell asked, her eyes downcast. "I know we're not supposed to question the Lord's doing, but I gotta ask."
"I don't know, Lizzy," Michael Maxwell said, squeezing his wife's hand. "I know the Lord will work it all for good. He said He would and we just gotta trust Him."
"I know, but it's so hard," Lizzy wailed. "I waited so long for him, then to have him fall into a trough and drown." Elizabeth Maxwell’s words were choked in heaving sobs.
Hoping Mommy and Daddy wouldn't see her, Abigail took a giant step across the doorway. In the parlor, she pushed the footstool up to the tiny casket, climbed onto it and looked down at her little brother. "I'm sorry, Buddy," she whispered as tears ran down her cheeks. "I should have let you come with me."
The four-year-old boy appeared to be sleeping. Abby reached out a hand to wake him as she did most mornings. She drew back her fingers as they touched his cold flesh.
Yesterday she had been annoyed with him. He kept following her around. She wanted to go see her new pony in the barn, but the snow was too deep for Buddy's short legs.
"Buddy, you stay here, I'll be back in a little while."
"I wanna see the new horsey," Buddy, whose given name was Adam, said. His mouth turned down and his eyes began to glisten.
"You can't this time," Abby said impatiently.
"But I wanna come with you!" he bawled.
"Well, you can't," his sister snapped. Then softening, she said, "When I get back we'll make a snowman."
"Promise? Can we put Daddy's old hat on him?" Buddy said, smiling through his tears.
"Sure," Abby said absently. Turning, she chugged through the crusty snow across the barn lot, leaving her brother on the porch. In his stall, she patted and rubbed the pony. She still couldn't believe Daddy actually bought him for her.
Yesterday morning he and Mother took her to the barn. Daddy led her by the hand while Mommy carried Buddy. They made her keep her eyes closed.
"You can open them now." Mommy said. Abby squealed with delight.
"We thought you would like an early Christmas present," Daddy said, smiling.
The little girl beamed. "I'll call him Champ, because he looks like a champion to me." That night, she begged to be allowed to sleep in the barn. Her parents laughingly refused.
Now she lingered in the barn, feeding lumps of sugar and apples to the Shetland pony. The minutes passed quickly.
Waiting on the porch, Buddy was getting impatient. He played with his wooden soldiers until the cold penetrated his jacket and gloves and he started to shiver. He wanted to go inside where it was warm, but what if Abby came back and he wasn't there? She might build the snowman by herself. Buddy strained to see the entrance to the barn. He didn't want to miss seeing her.
If he only had something to climb on to make himself taller. There was the horse trough. It was a foot higher than the porch floor. Buddy climbed onto the edge. Balancing on the narrow boards with his feet spread wide, he swayed. He felt himself slipping and reached out for something to grab onto, but there was nothing. The ice-cold water took his breath away.
Currying the pony, Abigail heard a bone-chilling scream. Buddy! Had something happened to her little brother? She ran out of the barn, her heart racing. He wasn't on the porch. She ran around the house, but he was nowhere to be seen. Then she saw something in the horse trough. It was Buddy, floating face down. She screamed and banged on the kitchen door, bringing Mommy on the run.
"Bud... Buddy... in the trough," she sobbed, finding it hard to breathe. Horrified, her mother leaped off the porch. Plunging her arms into the icy water, she dragged out her drowned child. Shivering in her soaked clothing, Elizabeth carried Buddy's icy body into the house. Laying him on the kitchen floor, she stripped him down to his underwear. Jumping to her feet, she stoked the stove to a cherry red. Then, pulling off her drenched dress, she hugged Buddy against her breast.
"Run, Abigail, run and get your father!" her mother shouted, tears covering her pale face. Struggling through the deep snow, Abigail came to where her father was cutting fire wood. Out of breath and sobbing, it took her precious seconds to relay her tragic message.
Daddy's face turned white and he raced across the pasture, slipping, falling and getting up to run on. Abigail followed, fresh tears freezing on her cheeks. It was too late. Buddy was gone.
Tomorrow they would bury Buddy beside Grandma’s and Grandpa's graves in the cemetery behind the church. Standing on the stool beside his casket, Abby reached out with trembling hands and smoothed Buddy's one and only suit. Just last week, she overheard Mommy telling Daddy that Buddy was growing so fast he was outgrowing all his clothes. Daddy jokingly called him his little weed. Buddy just grinned. Now Buddy wouldn't need a new suit or anything else. New tears moistened Abigail's eyes. Her little brother would never be any older than four.
Last Saturday evening, they had decorated the tree Daddy cut and brought in from the south pasture. Mommy made hot chocolate and they sang Christmas carols. Buddy sang so loud he almost drowned out Mommy as she played Silent Night on the piano.
A fantastic thought suddenly came to Abigail. Last month, Pastor Thompson preached about Hinds’ Feet on High Places. He said it was on the mountains where God answered our prayers. Abby’s heart sank. There were no mountains here, just the flat prairie. But now she remembered Shadow Ridge. It wasn't a mountain, but maybe God would overlook that and answer her prayer. She remembered how Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. If He could do it for Lazarus, he could do it for Buddy.
Buddy looked like he was just sleeping, waiting for Abby to wake him up. She touched her brother on the shoulder. "Sleep, little Buddy. When Jesus wakes you up, we'll make a hundred snowmen."
Stepping down from the stool, she went to the front window. Daddy stood on the porch with Pastor Thompson and two neighbor men, Mr. Wilson and Mr. Miller. Their heads were bowed and she could see the preacher's lips moving. She got her coat from the closet, went to the door and quietly opened it. A blast of cold air hit her in the face. She stepped onto the porch and tiptoed past the men. If Daddy or Mommy knew her plan, they would stop her. It was her fault Buddy died, and that made her insides hurt. She had to go.
Reaching the barn, she saddled Champ the way Daddy had showed her. She led the pony to the back door so she couldn’t be seen from the house. She opened the door and slipped out into the gathering night. Dark clouds covered the setting sun. The looks of them scared her and she almost turned back. No, if she could just make it to Shadow Ridge, Buddy would live again. At the corral fence, she climbed the rails and scrambled onto Champ's back. Urging him forward, she headed into the setting sun and the approaching blizzard.
For the next half hour, Abigail's absence went unnoticed as the people of the church prepared for Buddy's wake. Carrying a platter of ham into the dining room, Elizabeth stopped in mid-stride. A fearful look crossed her face. “Michael, have you seen Abigail?"
"No, I thought she was in the kitchen with you."
A quick check of the house came up empty. "Don't panic. Maybe she's in the barn," Michael said unconvincingly.
"Oh, Michael, you know she won't go near the barn since Buddy died," Elizabeth said as tears misted her eyes. In her mind, she pictured two coffins in the parlor.
"I'm going to check anyway," Michael said, hurrying out into the night. He was back in minutes. "She's not there and─"
"And what, Michael? What is it?" Elizabeth’s voice was shrill.
Looking his wife in the eye, Michael said, "The pony is gone, and so is the saddle." Gasping, Elizabeth covered her mouth. Michael took her in his arms.
"She blames herself for Buddy's death," she said with new tears on her cheeks.
"I know, I know," he murmured into his wife's hair.
Pastor Thompson spoke up. "Now don't you folks worry. We got enough men here to find her before the storm hits."
After a short prayer, the men rushed to unharness their horses from their buckboards and wagons. With no time to return home for saddles, they would ride bareback. The women packed food and comforted Elizabeth. No one wanted to say it, but they all knew a blizzard on the prairie was deadly. With prayers on their lips and fear in their hearts, the men started the search.
Abby was confused. She was halfway to Shadow Ridge when dusk settled. Now she couldn't see a thing. She hadn't expected the night to be so dark. Each time she thought of turning back, she remembered Buddy laughing and playing. She was so cold and her fingers were numb. She tried putting them in her coat pocket, but every time she did, Champ turned back toward home. Fresh snow began falling. At first, it was just a few flakes. Then it came faster and faster until the air was swirling with white. Abby's heart thumped in her chest.
Every year in winter, Daddy would stretch a rope between the house and the barn. The first time he did, Abby thought it strange. Then one day a blizzard swept across the plains. The blowing snow was so thick she couldn't see the edge of the porch. When Daddy went to feed the horses and cows in the barn, he held tightly to the rope. Each time he went to the barn, Mommy waited at the door with the shotgun. She told Abby if Daddy didn't return in a half hour she would shoot into the air and the noise would guide Daddy back to the house. Abby kept a tense watch on the porch steps until she saw his snow-covered figure appear through the wall of white.
Now she saw a wall of snow coming at her. It frightened her so badly she jumped off Champ. Free at last, the pony turned and trotted for home. Calling his name, Abby tried to run after him but her legs quickly tired and she fell face down in the deep snow. Fresh tears came to her eyes. She knew she had failed. She would never make it to Shadow Ridge. Jesus wouldn't answer her prayer and Buddy would stay dead. The wall of snow enveloped her. She was so tired. She lay in the snow, just to rest for a few minutes. An unnatural warmth spread over her as she closed her eyes in sleep.

The snow was falling at an inch every ten minutes. They struggled on, five men praying with each lumbering step of the horses. If they didn't find her soon, they would have no choice but to turn back. Michael couldn't risk the lives of these men. If need be, he would continue the search alone.
"Look there," Reverend Thompson called, pointing to a glow off to their left.
Reining his horse up beside the pastor, Michael Maxwell squinted in the direction he indicated. "Can't be a fire," he said as the other men came alongside. "Come on." Digging his heels into the horse's side, he urged it forward.
Some say what they saw next is legend. Others swear it’s fact. Until their dying day, every man searching with Michael that night insisted it was true.
Two huge men in shining garments hovered over the prone body of Abigail Maxwell. In their hands were jeweled swords and the enormous wings on their backs covered the sleeping girl. With flaming eyes, they watched the men on horseback draw near. A strange sense of peace flowed into each man's heart. In the next instant, the shining men vanished.
Swinging down from the saddle, Michael ran to his sleeping child. Scooping her up in his arms, he noticed an uncanny phenomenon. Although snow was piling up all around them, there was none where Abigail had lain. Inside the circle, the air was warm and pleasant. Handing the little girl to Pastor Thompson, Michael climbed back on his horse. Then, taking his daughter in his arms, he led the way home. They found Champ a mile away trotting in the direction of the barn. Amazingly, Abigail didn’t awake until she was carried onto the porch. As the men approached the front door, screams broke out inside.
Too troubled to rest, Elisabeth had been in the kitchen reheating the mulligan stew on the wood cook stove. Realizing she wanted to be by herself, the women stayed in the parlor. The soup had just started to bubble when she heard a loud gasp and then screams coming from the front room. Her heart leaped to her throat. Looking out the window, she saw lanterns bobbing in the yard. Fearing the worst, she hurried on stumbling feet to the front hallway. What she saw almost caused her to faint. Buddy was sitting up in his coffin. Her husband, daughter and the search party were standing in the doorway to the parlor, eyes wide, mouths open.
"I smell stew. I hungry, Mamma," Buddy said, smiling and holding out his arms.
Abigail was the first to break out of the trance. Running to her little brother she hugged him. "Jesus did it! He answered my prayer. Even though I didn't make it to Shadow Ridge, He did it."
Some will deny it was a miracle, that God never raised the little boy from the dead. Buddy had probably hit his head and been knocked unconscious. The water drove his temperature down. Maybe, but I think not. However, the real miracle that night took place in the heart of a 10-year-old girl. That night on the Kansas prairie, Abigail gave the greatest gift of all, risking her life for the one she loved.
“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

















Music of The Night




Pain shot through Ruth's hands. The hands that The New York Times once called the hands of an angel were now twisted with arthritis. The hands that once made audiences weep as they flew over the keyboard of the Steinway were now gnarled and knotted.
Now Ruth was the one who wept when she thought of her wasted life. Her dreams were gone, dashed on the jagged rocks of reality. The gorgeous silk gowns had been replaced with the rough clothing she wore while cleaning the concert hall where she once performed. Foolishly, she had taken this job just to be near the stage that had once brought her so much joy.
Tears misted her eyes and blurred her vision. Never again would she hear the thunderous applause or thrill to the standing ovation of thousands. In those days, when she stepped onto the stage, the audience held its collective breath. Even in the largest concert hall, you could hear the smallest sound. An inadvertent cough would be met with the frowning disapproval of concert-goers aimed at the offender. At the first stroke on the keyboard, audiences would heave an audible sigh. Then they would sit for hours mesmerized by the melodious reverberations emanating from the grand. Those days were past.
Groaning with pain, Ruth picked up the cloth and began polishing the main doors’ brass handles. Through these same doors, thousands of excited people had once rushed to hear her play. It seemed a lifetime ago.
"Yo, Rosy," Ralph called. "What you doin'? Yous s’post to be done with these doors like hours ago."
Answering to the name she had adopted for her new life, Ruth said, "Sorry Ralph, somebody upchucked in the third row. It took a while to clean it up."
"Yeah, okay. Well, yous better hurry it up. Mr. Wheeler's gonna be here any minute to check the place. He wants everything to be perfect for the Christmas concert Sunday."
"I'll be done," Ruth assured him. Fifteen minutes later as Ruth was cleaning the glass on the ticket booth, a limo pulled to the curb. John Wheeler stepped out. Two years ago, he had pleaded with her agent for her to perform the Christmas concert. Now he brushed roughly past her.
"Make sure that glass is clean,” he snapped. “Last time there were smears right at eye level." At the doors leading to the concert hall, he turned and studied her face. "Say, don't I know you?"
"No sir," Ruth said, feeling her stomach lurch and turning her face away. "I just started last week."
"Well, if you want to keep your job, make sure every inch of this place is gleaming like a gold tooth. The last one was sloppy. That's how you got her job."
"Yes sir," Ruth said, keeping her head down. For the next hour she worked, polishing the glass until it sparkled. Then she got down on all fours and scrubbed spots from the carpet.
Twenty moments after he arrived, Wheeler left without so much as looking at her. Two years ago he had paid her $20,000 to perform at the Holiday Gala. Now he paid her minimum wage. That had been a fantastic concert. Ruth became lost in the music as she always did, her fingers dancing over the keyboard. The orchestra’s accompaniment was superb. As the last note died, the audience sat in astonished silence. Then the hall erupted in thunderous applause that refused to end. Finally, everyone exited the hall in almost reverent silence.
Back then, Ruth played almost every night. Her tours took her to every major city in America. Every day her agent would call with new offers. Booked a year in advance, she sometimes felt as though she couldn't drag herself on stage. Weariness overwhelmed her. Yet it was always the same. As soon as the music began, a surge of energy flowed through her. She forgot her problems, closed her eyes and was lost to this world. Heaven seemed to open to her. At the end of each piece, Ruth opened her eyes only reluctantly.
It was customary for the performer to rise to receive applause at the end of each piece. In Denver, Ruth broke with tradition. Instead of rising, she remained seated. Unsure what to do, the conductor started the next piece. The newspapers reviews tore at her, calling her ignorant, snobbish and classless. She didn't care. She came off that stage refreshed and eager for the next concert.
Backstage, she remained in her dressing room for hours, resting, trying to sleep. Sleep never came. When she was sure everyone had left, she emerged to a darkened theater. In the dim shadows, she played with Beethoven, Mozart and Bach. Then something caused her to revert to the hymns of her childhood. In her mind, she saw the little white clapboard church sitting on the knoll between the pasture and the cornfield.
One day when Ruth was six, her father left her on her own while he spoke to the old minister outside the church. Bored, she wandered into the sanctuary where the antiquated grand piano seemed to beckon to her. Climbing onto the bench, she gently ran her fingers over the yellowing keys. Ruth’s mother loved classical music, and she remembered a piece she had heard on the radio that afternoon. She touched the keys lovingly. The melody flowed through her mind. She closed her eyes and let the music take her away. As she ended the hymn, she opened her eyes. Her father and the minister stood in the center aisle. Her father looked puzzled. The old preacher was smiling broadly.
For the next 10 years, Ruth’s parents sacrificed greatly, saving every penny for lessons with the best teachers. It hurt her to see them going without, so much so that she would practice extra hours each day. While her friends enjoyed parties and other youthful activities, she studied. Her only diversion was attending services at the little clapboard church. She was 12 when the pastor's wife suddenly passed away. The following Sunday, Ruth stepped into the role of pianist for the worship services. She dreamed of the day she could repay her parents for their sacrifice.
In her senior year of high school, Ruth applied to Julliard and was awarded a full scholarship. She was so excited. Now she could do what she loved and her mother and father would be relieved of their financial burden.
Six weeks after she arrived at Julliard, Ruth’s parents were killed in an automobile accident. She made it through the funerals in a trance. Returning to school, she stayed in her room and cried for three days. She had nothing left but her music. Drying her eyes, she threw herself into her lessons. Her teachers remarked at the change in her playing. Before, she was detached, clinical. Now she played with a passion unmatched by anything they had seen before.
Ruth developed the habit of playing with her eyes closed as scenes from her childhood flashed through her mind. She played for hours on end, closing off world with its pain. Some of the other students tried to be friendly and get to know her. Ruth was always polite, but distant. She never joined in any activities. Finally, they gave up and simply left her to her music. It was clear it meant everything to her.
Even before she graduated, the world's stage opened to her. Offers poured in from all over the globe. She had everything she ever wanted, yet she wasn't happy. The only time she felt at peace was late at night when she played to an empty theater. There her heart soared as her mind returned to the old church. She became the small child straining to reach the pedals. Finally, she would lower the lid over the keyboard, return to her hotel room and sleep for a few hours.
Hurrying to the next city, she would do it all over again. Money meant nothing to her; only the music had the power to soothe her soul. Keeping only enough for expenses, she gave most of her income away. This she did anonymously through a firm specializing in contributions to charities. Ruth cared for nothing but her music.
It started one morning while she was making coffee. Ruth noticed a bit of stiffness in the fingers of her left hand. She attributed it the long hours of practice, performing and her late night playing. She tried to ignore it, but it persisted, spreading rapidly to her elbow, then to her right hand.
The stiffness became a dull ache. Then one night while performing in Los Angeles, a sharp pain caused her to hit a sour note. She struggled to continue but managed only to ruin the piece. She fled the stage in tears. The next morning, she made an appointment with a prominent physician. Sitting in his office, she trembled with apprehension. The doctor finally breezed in, his white coat flapping. Dropping to the chair behind the desk, he sighed. His diagnosis terrified her: rheumatoid arthritis.
"I'm afraid there is no cure. However, we can try to arrest its progress with medication," he said, his voice tender. "There is also pain management available."
Ruth’s heart sank and she began to sob. Tears flowed unchecked down her face. "My performing, what about my playing?"
The doctor leaned forward and tried to soften the blow. "With medication and pain management, many people live very productive lives," he said gently.
She persisted. "Concerts?”
“No. I’m sorry, Ruth. But there’s always teaching." She fled from his office and the city.

Back in New York, Ruth retreated to her apartment, only coming out at night. Turning off all the phones, she shut herself off from the world. If anyone knocked on her door, she hid in the bathroom. Her mail went unanswered. Even her agent couldn’t reach her. She would rather drop off the face of the earth than have anyone learn of her condition.
Three months later, she took a tiny apartment on the Southside. Yearning to be near the life she loved, she swallowed her pride and applied for a job with the cleaning crew at the concert hall. For fear of being recognized, she dyed her light brown hair black, darkened her eyebrows and wore glasses to the interview. Now she masqueraded as a cleaning lady just to be near the piano she loved.
When she finished vacuuming the dressing rooms, she sneaked behind some stage props. If Ralph caught her there, he would fire her. It was worth the risk. She just had to touch the Steinway one more time. She pictured herself once again seated before an audience full of high society men and ladies dressed in their holiday finest.
She heard Ralph by the front door yelling, "Yo Barb, where's Rosy?" She pressed her back to the wall and tried to melt into the panel.
"I don't know, boss. Looks like she left." Barb wasn’t a big fan of Rosy’s, thought she came across a little too hoity-toity for a cleaning woman.
Ralph cursed. Muttering to himself and pacing, he passed within two feet of Ruth. "All right, let's go. We's done all we can. If'n Wheeler don't like it, we'll blame it on her."
Barb laughed. "Yeah, that’s about all newbies are good for anyway.”
Ruth waited a full hour before coming out. She searched the theater to be sure she was alone. As she roamed through the building, she noticed an inexplicable glow emanating from the red exit lights. The balcony was bathed in it as well. She went to investigate. As she came close, the strange light disappeared. Returning to the stage, she sat down on the bench. Looking up, she saw the glow was back. She decided it must be a reflection.
She let her fingers run gently over the keys. Connecting with them always felt so good, like a lover’s tender touch. She played a few notes. It sounded bad, worse than a child struggling to learn Chopsticks. Oh well, she was the only one who was going to hear it.
Closing her eyes, she played Silent Night. Her hands throbbed, bringing tears to her eyes. She kept playing. In her mind, the sour notes became sweet. She felt warmth envelop her. Once again, she was a child playing in the old church. She felt hands come out of nowhere and cover hers. Rather than alarm, a magnificent peace flowed through her. Her fingers stopped hurting and the pain melted away.
Unafraid, she opened her eyes. All she could make out at first was a dazzling light in front of the piano. Then a man’s shape appeared in the center of a circle of radiance. He spoke to her in a voice as soothing as gentle rain. "Oh, Ruth, my dear sweet child, how I love you." His words were sweeter to her ears than even her music.
Somehow, Ruth found herself on her knees in front of The Man. She leaned into Him and He embraced her. Tears fell from her downcast eyes. Reaching out a scarred hand, He gently grasped her deformed fingers. Before her eyes, they straightened. Hope, strength, and healing flooded her soul and body.
How long she kneeled there she wasn't sure. Finally rising slowly to her feet, she went back to her seat at the piano. The Man was gone, yet some of His radiance remained. She still felt the warmth of His presence.
Her fingers rested on the keyboard. She took a deep breath and played as never before. A new energy surged through her. Her heart swelled with love. A love for her Lord, her fellow man, and the music of the night.
The melody drifted like stardust through the theater as Ruth lost herself in the wonder of it all. Her pain had vanished; her depression was a memory. Scenes from her childhood played out before her closed eyes as her mother and father lived again. She saw the Lord take them by the hands and lead them to heaven. Tears of joy trickled down Ruth's cheeks. Smiling, her parents vanished into a dazzling light.
Her fingers flew over the keys, the music becoming sweeter and clearer with every note. She played for hours, the moments flying by in unfettered harmony. The stiffness was gone. She felt not a hint of pain in her fingers.
Finally, she opened her eyes and lifted her heart in thankfulness to the One who had healed her. A peaceful hush overlaid the theater and her soul. She bowed her head as tears of joy fell onto the lap of her soiled dress.
Suddenly the theater erupted in thunderous applause. Startled and confused, Ruth looked out upon a standing-room-only crowd. The soundman had accidently left open the outside speaker. Alerted by the police, Mr. Wheeler was the first to arrive. Passersby forgot their errands as they were drawn by the music. The hope, joy and tranquility flowing from Ruth's fingers seemed to pull at their hearts and give them hope. They filed into the theater to hear her magnificent concert. When the seats were filled, they stood in the aisles.
Today Ruth's music is different. Oh, she can still mesmerize audiences, yet there is a pleasing excellence about her performances. She plays with an obvious passion, as one who has felt the healing touch of the Master's hand.
In the night, His song shall be with me─Psalm 42:8.









Apples of Gold





I walked through the early darkness. Stripped of their foliage, the trees stood in stark contrast to the cloud-laden sky. My nightly trek to check the deer in the north woods took longer than I had anticipated. I had became lose in their antics.
After the heat of August and September, I welcomed the cool days of November and December. The few flakes of snow drifting through the barren branches promised more to come. I hurried along, crunching dead leaves underfoot and taking in the scent that rose like perfume. Tomorrow was Christmas. I never lost the excitement or the wonder of the day. Even now, as a grownup, the expectation of Christmas makes my heart beat faster.

The cold air was refreshing. However, the temperature had fallen 10 degrees in the last hour. The chill was beginning to penetrate even my thick clothing. The stream on the other side of the hill rushed along as if trying to escape the ice forming at its edges. It would soon lose the race. In April, the water flowed fast and furiously. Today it was a swift trickle. I crossed cautiously, the water just covering the soles of my gumboots.
On the hill to my right, a coyote howled at the pale, rising moon. His brother answered from my left. Both were hidden in the brush. Even though I knew coyotes rarely attack humans, the hair rose on the back of my neck. I quickened my steps. Dipping below the horizon, the red sun signaled a fair day upon its rising. Its breath heavy with snow, the north wind told a different story. Maybe tomorrow we would wake to the sight of a pristine white world. There is nothing as peaceful as a silent snowfall with its flakes gently floating down to cover the flawed earth. Like people, each one is of a different design.
At the back of the house, the birds were huddling around the feeders. Several years ago, I built platform feeders to provide for the birds, squirrels, chipmunks and an occasional coon or possum. Tonight, several cardinals, a couple of blue jays, some finches and a titmouse or two took advantage of my accommodation. The birds were grabbing a few last bites to keep them warm through the hours of darkness. If it snowed, the feeders would be inundated with feathered friends by morning.
Tonight the birds would roost in the fir trees surrounding the house. We planted several in hopes they would seek shelter in their branches during the winter. Also, the trees lend our home protection from the cruel north wind. Tonight, human and animal sought shelter from the freezing blast. The chipmunks and squirrels had gone home hours ago, but they would return at first light to partake in our holiday fare.

The Aikmans would visit tonight, as they had for the last 15 years. Denver and Anna were an elderly couple with no children. Many years ago my wife suggested we invite them for Christmas Eve dinner. I must admit, in the beginning I didn't like the idea. Don't get me wrong, Aikman is a very pleasant gentleman. He and his wife are among the most highly respected couples in our community. Nevertheless, I like spending this special evening alone with my wife. Yet as time went on, I began to look forward to their visits.
The Aikmans were a couple of indefinite age. All he would say is that they were south of 80. They lived in a small pinewood cabin in a little hollow a mile back in the woods. They seldom ventured out. About once a month, I would go to their home and Anna would hand me her list of items needed from the general store. Each time she apologized for its length.
Upon my return, Aikman would offer to pay me for my gas and time. Each time I refused, and he said the same: "You cannot do a good deed without being rewarded. Someday, God will reward you and then you cannot refuse." His accent was European, though I can't identify the country.
Opening the door, I'm greeted by my smiling wife and the aroma of a wonderful meal. How fortunate I am. I have a beautiful, loving wife, plenty of food and a pleasant home. The love radiating from her heart and the hearts of my friends keeps me warm even on the coldest nights.
Knowing Denver and Anna are never late, my wife has timed the meal perfectly. She takes the golden turkey from the oven at 5:50. The table is set with our best china and silverware. The dinnerware gleams against the backdrop of her best linen tablecloth. The table itself seems to groan under the weight of the food. The scent of candles mingles with the aromas produced by my wife’s culinary flair, delighting the nose as well as the heart.
Promptly at six, there is a gentle knock on the door. We open it to a rush of cold air and the Aikmans. We greet each other with handshakes and hugs. Once we relieve them of their coats and hats, we gather around the table.
After thanking the good Lord for this wonderful meal and good friends, we dig in. Denver and Anna compliment my wife on her cuisine. As the meal progresses, we reminisce about old friends gone and sadly missed, the year that’s passed and our plans for the new one. After the meal, we settle in a half circle by the fireplace. After filling each cup, my wife sets the carafe of hot spiced wassail on the table.
Settling back into the overstuffed chair, Aikman says, "Now you know, Christmas is a time of miracles." Taking a sip of the wassail, he smacks his lips and carefully sets the cup on a coaster. He folds his gnarled hands over his chest. The story is about to begin and my wife and I lean forward in anticipation. Denver is a wonderful storyteller. My wife and I look forward to his stories whenever they visit.
"Many years ago in a country far away, there lived two young people. James’ and Sarah's lives first became intermingled in a remote orphanage at the tender age of six. James parents were killed in a boating accident; Sarah's mother and father simply abandoned her. She was brought to the orphanage on Christmas Eve by the landlady of the rooming house where Sarah and her parents had been staying. It was Christmas Eve and too late to buy Sarah a gift. Also, the couple in charge were poor, with no money to purchase one. On Christmas morning, she stood back and watched with sad eyes as the other children opened their gifts. Picking up his one and only gift, James traded it with a girl for a doll.
“The girl readily agreed, as she already had two. Taking the torn wrapping paper, James covered the doll as best he could and presented it to Sarah. She looked at him with wide eyes and smiled for the first time since her arrival.
“Sarah was too shy to play with the children, until James invited her. As the years passed, the two became inseparable. They ate, played and studied together. To see one was to see the other. They could not remember when they fell in love. It seemed their love had no beginning. They knew it would have no end.
“When they became eighteen it was only natural that they would marry. James and Sarah chose the setting that seemed fitting: the orphanage. And for them, the only proper time of the year, Christmas Eve. The old pastor who ran the orphanage was delighted to perform the ceremony. They left with a promise to return and adopt a child in a year or two when they had established a stable home."
Aikman paused and reached for his cup. With unsteady hands, he drank the reminding punch. Always the gracious hostess, my wife refilled his cup and refreshed Anna’s, mine and her own. Aikman thanked her, folded his hands and went on with his story.
"A happier couple were never known. James secured employment with the local locksmith. They found a tiny apartment above the stable. Sarah sewed lacy curtains and hung them at the drafty windows. James painted the walls and stuffed the cracks with old rags. They dined on the simplest fare, yet their lives were a continual feast. Their love knew no bounds. Every evening, James rushed home to his lovely wife. Sarah greeted him with a hug and a kiss, bubbling over with the events of the day, the people she met in the shops, the new baby down the walk. James listened with a smile but said very little. The locksmith was a cruel man. He had driven many employees away with his hardhearted ways.
“As spring turned into summer and autumn to winter, he found fault with everything the young man did. Each morning, James found it more and more difficult to leave his bride, yet he endeavored never to worry her with tales of the shop owner’s harshness."
Aikman paused again. Pulling a white handkerchief from his back pocket, he wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He stared out the window. Snow was falling at a rapid pace. He was silent for so long I started to rise, disappointed that the story had ended. More perceptive than I, my wife placed a restraining hand on my arm. Aikman started again, his voice low and tremulous.
"There were but a few days before Christmas and very little money for buying gifts. Sarah had managed to save a few pennies from the food budget. She counted, then counted again. Just thirty coins, not enough to purchase even a cheap gift. She had failed her loving husband. She threw herself on the bed and dissolved in tears.
“Unbeknownst to her, for weeks James had worked through his lunch hour. The shop owner had promised to pay him extra. However, the man did not intend to fulfill his promise. Jealous of the young couple’s love, the locksmith had devised a plan to both fill his coffers and destroy their marriage.
“Early on Christmas Eve morning, he crept into the bakery next door and treacherously killed the owner. Taking the bag of money from under the counter, he hid it away. When James arrived at the shop a short time later, the locksmith slipped a few coins into his lunch pail. When the bakery didn't open, the police were summoned. They discovered the baker dead beside his oven. Finding no clues in the bakery, they went next door and asked permission to search the shop. Having secured the money bag in his home, the owner happily agreed. Within a few minutes, they discovered the stolen coins hidden in the bottom of James’ lunch pail. They arrested James and took him in handcuffs to the station.
“The interrogation lasted all day and into the night, with James still maintaining his innocence. The constable dispatched a team to his home to search for the rest of the money. Three men entered the small apartment and tore it asunder. Sarah watched in horror as they rummaged through the old chest and tossed about her lingerie. Finding nothing of significance, they left her in tears to mend the damage. However, their cruel and unjust action could not shake her faith in her husband or her God. As soon as the door slammed behind them, she fell to her knees weeping and praying.
“She was still on her knees when there was a knock at the door. Thinking this was the answer to her prayers, she leaped to her feet and ran to the door, flinging it open."
Aikman’s wassail had grown cold. Once again he wiped his eyes and nose. The snow was falling more heavily, turning the stark world into a land of beauty. The elderly man laid his head back and closed his eyes. He appeared to fall asleep. This time Anna stopped us as we stirred from our chairs.
"He will continue in a moment," she said, her voice faint and shaky as though she had run a long distance. Just as she said, Aikman's voice began again, but he spoke slowly, as if under a great burden.
"There at the door stood an old woman clothed in rags. She held a crooked walking stick in one hand and a filthy bag in the other. 'Please missy, I have no place to sleep tonight,' she said, looking hopefully at Sarah.
“Sarah's heart broke thinking of that long past Christmas Eve when she first came to the orphanage. ‘Come in, and welcome. I don't have much, but what I have is yours,' she said, swallowing her disappointment.
“Stepping aside, she welcomed the crippled old woman into her shabby home. The elderly woman's wrinkled face broke into a smile. Once inside, she lifted her nose and sniffed the air. 'Ah, that stew smells good. I haven't had a bite all day. Would ye have a bit fer a hungry old woman, deary?' She eyed her hostess expectantly.
“With no appetite herself, Sarah dished all the stew into the bowl with the fewest cracks. The old woman ate heartily, wiping the bowl with the last piece of bread in the house. 'Thank ye, deary, God will reward ye beyond your dreams,' she said with a toothless smile.

“Sarah dismissed the old woman's statement as idle talk. After she had eaten, the woman threw her sack in the corner, curled up in front of the fireplace and promptly fell asleep.
“Her heart too full of anguish to sleep, Sarah sat in the rocker praying. The old woman's snoring seemed to shake the small apartment. Covering her with a blanket, Sarah stoked the fire. Eyeing the bag lying in the corner, she carefully opened it. An unpleasant odor assailed her nose. The clothing in the bag seemed even shoddier than those on the old woman’s back. An overwhelming sadness stuck Sarah; here was one worse off than she.
“Tiptoeing to the cabinets, she took down the small jar of coins. Opening the container, she poured the few coins she had saved for James’ Christmas gift in among the garments in the bag. Behind Sarah's back, the old woman watched. A smile tickled her face as she saw the young girl secret the money in with her clothing. Quietly setting the bag back in the corner, Sarah returned to the rocker. The woman closed her eyes. Sarah had been tested and passed.
“James spent a cold, lonely night in a jail cell, looking up at the stars through the barred window and praying for a miracle. He thought of the story the elderly pastor at the orphanage told every Christmas Eve.
“As the children sat on the floor by the tree, he told how God sent His Son to be the Savior of the world. He remembered the pastor saying Christ came to set the captive free. On his knees, James prayed for the miracle only God could perform. Emotionally exhausted, the young couple fell asleep, she in the shabby apartment, he in the lonely jail cell.
“Secretly, God began His marvelous work."
Here Aikman paused. Smiling, he lifted his cup and downed the cold wassail despite my wife’s asking if she could warm it for him. Politely refusing, he continued with the story.
"As the sun topped the horizon, James awoke to the rattling of chains. Pushing himself up from the stone floor, he stumbled to the bars. Supported by two constables, the locksmith staggered down the hallway, his hands and feet manacled. After they secured the man in the end cell, the officers returned. Opening James' cell, they told him he was free to go.
“It seemed that in the night, the locksmith woke to find the baker leaning over him. In the man's hand was the knife with which the locksmith had killed him. Jumping terrified from his bed, the locksmith ran through the house with the baker close behind. The phantom caught him in the front room. Prodding the locksmith’s throat with the point of the knife, the baker leaned into his face. Exuding the odor of death, he said one word: 'Confess.'
“The locksmith ran all the way to the police station in his night shirt. The police would have dismissed his story as a dream if not for the small cuts on his throat.
“Exuberant upon his release, James raced home. Bounding up the stairs, he found the door locked and bolted.
His pounding startled Sarah awake. Jumping up, she ran to the door, threw back the bolt and flung it open. Tears streamed down their cheeks as the two young lovers fell into each other's arms. Babbling, each tried to tell their story. Finally James said, 'You first.'
“'We have a Christmas guest,' Sarah said, smiling. Grasping James’ hand, she turned. A look of bewilderment covered her face. The blanket lay on the floor with no one under it.
“'Where did she go?'
“'Who?'
“Quickly, Sarah told James about the old woman. A search of the small apartment proved fruitless. 'Where could she have gone? Here's her b...'
“Sarah stopped and stared at the corner. Gone was the filthy bag. In its place was an elegant silk pouch. Awestruck, James and Sarah approached it. The bag seemed to be spun from the finest silk. Opening it, they stared in amazement. Inside were eight apples of gold encrusted with rows of jewels. At the bottom of the bag lay thirty gold coins and a note.”
Aikman finished abruptly. “And so they lived happily ever after. It’s time to go, Anna." Slapping his knees, he stood to his feet.
"Wait a minute,” I protested. “You can't leave us hanging. What did the note say?"
Laying his hand on my shoulder, the elderly man replied, "You will find out soon enough, my friend." No amount of prodding would convince him to reveal the contents of the note.
Anna seemed more reluctant to leave than in years past. She and my wife had always had a special relationship, more like mother and daughter than friends. To give them more time together, I went out and warmed up the jeep. Aikman accompanied me. Thinking back on that night, he too appeared hesitant to leave. Anna hugged my wife one last time before climbing into the back seat.
As I drove them home, Denver and Anna were quieter than usual. At the cabin, I helped him carry in firewood. Lingering until they had a roaring fire going in the old stove in the living room, I left with a promise to return the next day. I can still see the elderly couple standing at their front door waving as I drove away.
I would find my promise impossible to keep.
All night long the snow continued to fall. At daybreak the wind kicked up and the roads were closed. My wife and I spent a quiet Christmas at home. The roads were impassible even for the jeep.
Three days later, I drove through the woods to check on the Aikmans. Rounding the curve, I sped up. No smoke came from their chimney. Banging on the door and receiving no response, I pushed open the door. The house was as cold and still as the inside of a tomb. Denver sat slumped at the table, his head bowed as if in prayer. I touched his shoulder. From the cold and stiffness, I surmised he had died on Christmas day. Anna lay in bed, fully dressed, also gone. The coroner declared their deaths to be from natural causes. They died within minutes of each other.
On the table in front of Denver lay a note addressed to me. His hand still gripped the pen.

My dear friend,

Last night you asked me to conclude the story. I couldn't at that time, however today I can. Hidden in a secret compartment at the back of the bedroom closet, you will find the silk pouch from the story. Use its contents wisely, my friend, and God will bless you.

Your friend,
James Denver Aikman

Behind the clothes, boots and shoes, I discovered a loose panel in the wall. Hidden within was the beautiful silk pouch of which Aikman spoke. Opening it, I stared in amazement. With trembling hands, I reached in and pulled out an elegant golden apple. Rows of diamonds, emeralds and rubies encircled it. Several more shone from the pouch’s depths. Laying them carefully on the floor, I counted eight apples and 30 gold coins. Sitting back on my heels, I looked around the cabin. It was adequately furnished; however, nothing in it spoke of wealth. Yet, even to my untrained eye, I knew these apples had to be worth millions. Why did the Aikmans live in a tiny cabin in the middle of the woods when they could afford a mansion?
Then I saw the message hidden in the bottom of the bag. After reading it, I understood. For years, someone had given anonymously to charities, homeless shelters and destitute individuals. Every investigation into the source of the funds came to a dead end. A conservative estimate of the donor’s total giving was around $20 million.

My wife and I continue the philanthropy James Denver and Sarah Anna Aikman began in 1910. Each year we take out one apple and sell it through a private organization. The money is given according to the note’s instruction. We have given away several apples, yet there are still eight in the pouch. Once again God has proven His word to be true. He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which he hath given will He pay him again.
And the gold coins? Although we have spent more than 100, there are still 30 in the bag, our reward for doing what The Lord has asked.












Dear Reader:

I hope you enjoyed this little book and that you will reread the stories each Christmas. I wish for you, your family and friends a memorable Christmas filled with joy and happiness.
May you always remember that the reason for the stable was the Cross.

Merry Christmas,

Darrell