Tucked in between two mountains sits a quiet little village where generations of people live and love, struggle and survive. Smoke rises from the chimney of the northernmost house and with it the prayers of each inhabitant within. For their very existence is threatened tonight by those without care for the cost their hostile plans elicit. And across the village, each house sends the same prayer. Come Lord Jesus. Help us.

Snow swirls in the wind, rushes across the plain, and hits the town community center, shaking it with gusts topping fifty miles an hour. But the townspeople within ignore it. They join in little circles of twos and threes and fives as they pray for help against a force far greater than the wind outside. Come Lord Jesus. Heal us.

Lights blink on and off in the city where light and dark coexist. But in little apartments, fancy penthouses, small neighborhoods and boroughs throughout the meandering streets come whispering voices. For down those streets walk those whose intentions are for usurpation. Come Lord Jesus. Rescue us.

And through the expectant air of a Christmas Eve comes their answer. If hopelessness expects nothing, it usually receives it. But if hope calls for a miracle? Oh that blessed, beautiful miracle will come as surely as the One from whom all hope of heaven and earth descended and brought forth glorious LIGHT!

This miracle story depends upon the reader. It waits to hear the prayer, to learn the heart, and to examine the faith. Pray, my dear readers, pray as though your life depends on it. And we of stout heart and unquenchable faith will wait together through the night as we watch for the miraculous dawn.

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Dust moats swirled lazily in the air as dim rays of the setting sun filtered through cracks in the wooden slats. A lamb, one day old and too sick to live, bleated. The boy pulled it close to him.

“Are you sure, honey? There’s not a thing any of us can do.”

“Pleease,” his eyes met those of his parents’, speaking what he could not.

His father looked down at the boy’s leg, still and swollen.

“You cover up good. The cold seeps in faster than you know.”

“But you always say the animals keep the barn warm,” countered the boy, before his mother could object.

“That’s a fact.”

“I’ll keep the bottles right next to me. He can eat whenever he wants. See?”

His mother sighed audibly. “Keep the phone close now. If anything happens, you call the house.”

The boy nodded quickly. He’d done it!

“Hey little guy,” he whispered in the lamb’s ear as his parents walked out. “We’re going to be roommates tonight. I know you’re hurtin’. I know.”

He rubbed his bum leg and rocked back and forth, then began to sing quietly – Christmas carols mostly. It seemed right for Christmas Eve.

Finally, as the lamb snuggled close and his own eyes drooped, he uttered the prayer he’d prayed through the day.

“God, heal this little lamb. He’s a good one – I can tell. Give him a chance. Please, God, please. I know what they all think. But let this one be different. Don’t let him die.”

Hours passed. Boy and lamb slumbered together as rays of starlight swept over them. The boy didn’t know what hour of the night it was, but light as bright as high noon abruptly filled the stall.

“You love football?” the man standing there asked.

“How’d you know?” The boy rubbed his eyes as he took in the tall form. He was wearing a cowboy hat and jeans with a warm jacket. The boy glanced through the slats into the darkness, then at the man’s bare feet.

The man smiled. They talked about the boy’s dreams, how it felt to be left out sometimes, of this and that as the man knelt and patted the little lamb. And then he was gone. The boy blinked, turned, looked around. . . the stranger had disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.

Just before daybreak his dad stepped into the barn to dispose of the lamb’s dead body.

“What’re you doin’ awake so early?”

“I’ve been awake since . . .”

The little lamb stood shakily, then walked over to him.

“How in the world?” His father uttered under his breath.

And the story the boy had to tell was told over and over again; passed from family members to cousins, townsfolk to passersby, until the barn became something of a tourist destination every Christmastime. They say the boy, now a famous football player and rumored to have the fastest running speed on record, returns, too, each year. He sleeps in the barn every December 24th.

For one year a man appeared to him on Christmas Eve: a man whose feet and hands were scarred, who healed a boy given no hope of healing, as well as the lamb with him because, the man had said, he was partial to lambs.

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The door creaked slightly and the scent greeted him. He called it the Holy Spirit scent. Many churches had it. Others didn’t. Tonight he was glad for it. Ever since the troubles, churches had found themselves in a different place, a place requiring a larger faith than they had ever experienced. It was good, but it was hard, too. The sifting had left them smaller than ever. It was clear that depth of faith mattered more than numbers through the door, but you’d have to be crazy to not miss the large fellowship. He prayed again one request: just an extra soul at the manger tonight. One single soul won out of the many lost. The longing ended in a sigh, then a tired smile. At least the Holy Spirit scent had stayed. If only he could witness it’s miraculous work!

It was Christmas Eve. The worship team had arrived early and someone had put on the coffee. He placed the plate of cookies his wife had sent ahead with him next to the disposable coffee cups, unlocked his office door, shrugged out of his coat, and picked up tonight’s message. It would be short. To the point. A timeless story of the event that changed the world and the world’s chances of heaven. It was what was needed now. No jokes, though they could all use some laughter; no cultural tripe, though some might love to hear it; but hope. And truth.

Someone walked past his door. He recognized the black jacket, a four inch tear on the left seam. The man had stood outside the church off and on for a month. One time the minister had called out the door for the stranger to come in from the cold for a hot cup of coffee, but the man had pulled up his collar and quickly walked away. He shot up a quick prayer for him, but he had a nagging feeling. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

Cold air rushed in as the entrance door opened and attendees filtered in. Families, friends, and singles dotted the sanctuary as Christmas music softly echoed over the pews.

As he walked to the pulpit, the man in the black jacket shrugged uncomfortably as though he meant to take it off, then thought better of it. And again. The minister began his short homily, attendees’ eyes shone with anticipation, and the stranger fidgeted. And the scent – the Holy Spirit scent – grew stronger. Strange. That hadn’t happened before.

“. . . The event we celebrate so gloriously this time of year was as expansive as the cosmos and as intentional as a train whistle. It started in simple surroundings so that each of us could approach it in a way we could understand. Some come to the manger with the eyes of a child. Some, with jaded sight, like perhaps, some of the shepherds or the innkeeper, himself. And some with humble beauty, like the wise men did later on. So you see, at this very moment in history – what scripture calls ‘in the fullness of time’ . . .”

The man in the black coat stood and, as though driven by an unknown force, the minister stepped into the aisle, away from his notes, and continued, “It’s hard for us to grasp, isn’t it? The fullness of time. Because we are used to not having to wait. We grow impatient.” What was he saying? Nothing he’d planned.

“Our questions remain unanswered. We become angry. Maybe even defiant. It doesn’t occur to us that it could be because we’re not yet ready to hear the answer. But God, Who is patient with us beyond reason . . .”

The man stepped into the aisle. The minister continued walking slowly toward him. The Holy Spirit scent increased.

“He watches us. And waits so very patiently. We might even sense it, but choose to ignore it. Even run from it. And if we run, He waits at the place where we run to.”

The minister stopped in front of the stranger. “He’s waiting for you, you know.”

The man fled, and it was only then that the minister saw the butt of a gun peeking out of his coat pocket. The minister wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. What had just happened?

He led the congregation in a prayer for wandering souls on dark streets. They finished with Silent Night sung in quavering voices and left without eating his wife’s cookies.

One more night his prayer was unanswered, thought the minister as he pulled out of the parking lot. What had he been thinking? He had chased the stranger away!

And beyond the candlelight of the darkened church, the Holy Spirit scent reached a lost soul just outside the door, obscured by the night.

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She blew on her chai, causing a pause in the wafting steam. It had snowed last night, and she missed again the steady scrape scrape of her husband’s early morning shoveling. The coat closet door stood ajar, beckoning her to the outdoor task, and her eyes darted to the place where his boots had always stood. Always. Rain or shine, heat or cold. She shook her head, but not with disgust like she had done in the past.

In the past the boots had displeased her. Their appearance and the sound they made matched: clomp, clomp, clompy, clomp. She had bought brand new beautiful boots for him that eventually were given to charity. She had bought a different brand. And another. They both rested in a dark corner of the closet until she finally gave up and gave them away as well.

But now? Now she would have given anything to hear clomp clomp clomp and see snow puddles in a line to the closet. She’d asked the dear Lord in heaven to heal him. Asked and asked. But he was gone now and with him so much of what made her treasure her life. And the boots? She’d kept them. It didn’t make sense to her, but grief and love are seldom logical.

She brought her empty chai cup to the kitchen, slightly comforted by the greenery atop the cupboards and the poinsettia by the window. Next year she might have more desire to decorate.

Maybe, maybe after she shoveled, she’d hike out to that place they’d loved. The fresh air would do her good, and she could carry the goodness to the family Christmas gatherings where love and sympathy would bring her to tears in an awkward sort of way.

As she drove to the starting point of her hike, her mind wandered to grief in general. How many people were having their first Christmas without someone this year? How were they handling it? For that matter, what did the baby in the manger, grown to a boy, do when Joseph died? And later – did Jesus’ friends feel that lump in the throat, eyes-burning burden in the days after the cross? Did they wish, hope, pray for a sign? The Christmas story held plenty: a star, a battalion of angels, shepherds . . .

But for her, well, there were no signs. Eternal life seemed far away and seeing him again did, too.

The newly fallen snow had left everything pure and sparkling. The long hike was absolutely what she needed. Slightly out of breath, she squinted at the sundogs and prayed again, though she couldn’t quite find the words to ask for who knew what. A word of thanks for a life, too short, well-lived. Yes. That would do. And she felt better. She really did, even without the reassurances she wished for.

She started back to her car, then stopped. She gazed down intently, squatted and brushed her hand over what she saw. There it was in the untrodden snow. A bootprint. Larger than her own. Clompy and perfect.

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The church was dark except for a battery-powered candle someone had accidentally  left on. It was Christmas Eve, a night when church congregants left their various entertainments and present-opening and buffet tables and came as one to celebrate the holy birth every year. But not this year. This one was online with more music, more varied backdrops, and the comfort of a laptop and a couch. And less, she thought. Less intensity, tenderness, and prayer.

It was nearing midnight when, on impulse, she’d driven the empty streets alone to the dark church for a service of one. Her footfalls resonated a barely audible sound on the carpeted aisle, and the air – the air had that familiar indefinable scent and sense that is part of churches everywhere who welcome Jesus. She often thought you could sense if the Holy Spirit was welcome in a church the minute you crossed the threshold.

Sitting at the piano, she allowed her fingers to play up and down the keyboard. Pretty notes evolved into a few hymns, then Christmas carols, and one last song. Silent Night. They had sung it together every year as candles held by hands young and old lit the room one by one. She missed it. She swallowed hard, and began to play in the darkness.

Wait. What was that? She stopped mid-song and listened hard. A slight sound. She frowned, then rose from the bench and squinted, peering down the darkened aisle. Footprints? Not possible. The sound was barely a whisper, but she could hear them! She closed her eyes and listened as they lined the sanctuary. Such a thing should bring fear, but all she felt was inexplicable warmth.

Opening her eyes, she heard her own intake of breath as bright starlight quietly began to flood through the church doors and windows, lighting the room more brightly than any candlelight service ever had. She shook her head in disbelief. And yet. And yet this was a night for faith. And miracles.

And she slowly settled onto the bench once again to play the carol as heaven’s stars and silent voices of congregants from years’ past joined together in a poignant Silent Night.

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“Wow! Oh wow oh wow oh wow!”

“I know. It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”

“Not in my wildest dreams could I have ever imagined . . .”

“No, nor in your waking hours either. Christmas celebrations on this side of the veil are amazing!”

They momentarily glanced below, then she knelt and peered into a particular room with great interest.

“During the tribulation, after the rapture, that is; my auntie has been doing the best she can. Look at her,” Cecile pointed.            

The woman below rocked herself back and forth as she sat on the floor. She had found a place to live – she wasn’t allowed to own anything now – but she was glad for shelter and a little food.

“She used to love the Christmas movies on TV – you know the love stories,” Cecile commented affectionately.

Her companion nodded.

“She loved the sparkle and glam of Christmas. But,” Cecile continued thoughtfully, “she didn’t have much time for the main thing. The real thing. I once asked her why. Oh, I know. It was rather smart-mouthed of me. She was offended, of course. She scolded me and told me I should go to the concert at her church. Maybe I’d learn a thing or two. The music was . . . I think she described it as ‘heavenly’.”

The companions smiled in amusement.

“Funny. She scoffed at the simple account when we were together, but now . . . now it looks like there might be a chance. I saw her get this on the black market.”

An open Bible rested before the woman as she read and re-read some passages. She closed her eyes, but a pained expression remained.

“It’s so hard to let go of old paths. Come on, Auntie. You can do it.”

“You can do it,” the two companions shouted together.

The woman frowned and looked over her shoulder as though she’d heard something. A thoughtful expression flitted across her face and she turned back to the book in front of her.

Her niece returned alone later to see her aunt asleep on the floor. Her austere surroundings were so different than years past. Maybe, thought Cecile, they were closer to the first Christmas. Just maybe her dear auntie would see a little more clearly the baby in the manger.

An instantaneous flash of light shone from the old book’s pages, but only for a moment. The woman’s sleeping expression grew softer, and Cecile repeated an oft’ prayed request. Perhaps tonight.

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