There Are No Coincidences

By Warren Miller

For three days a fierce winter storm had traveled 1,500 miles across the North Pacific from Alaska, packing gale-force winds and torrential rains. In the North American Sierra Nevadas, the snow was piling up and would offer great skiing once the storm had passed.

In the foothills of the Sierras in the town of Grass Valley, California, the streets were flooded and in some parts of the town, the power was off where fallen trees had snapped overhead cables. At the small church, the heavy rain and high winds beat against the windows with a violence that Father O'Malley had never before heard.

In his tiny bedroom, out of the darkness the phone rang. As he picked up the phone, a voice quickly asked, “Is this Father O'Malley?”

“Yes.”

“I'm calling from the hospital in Auburn,” said a concerned female voice. “We have a terminally ill patient who is asking us to get someone to give him his last rites. Can you come quickly?”

“I'll try my best to make it,” O'Malley answered. “But the river is over its banks, and trees are blown down all over town. Look for me within two hours.”

The trip was only 30 miles, but it would be hard going. His progress was slow and cautious, but he continued on toward the hospital. Not a single vehicle passed him during his long, tense journey. Finally, in the near distance, he could see the lights of the small hospital, and he hoped he had arrived on time.

With his tattered Bible tucked deep inside his overcoat pocket, O'Malley forced the car door open, stepped out and then leaned into the wind. Its power almost bowled him over, and he was nearly blown away from the hospital entrance. Once inside, the wind slammed the hospital door shut behind him. He heard footsteps headed his way. It was the night nurse.

“I'm so glad you could get here,” she said. “The man I called you about is slipping fast, but he is still coherent. He's an alcoholic and his liver has finally given out. He's been here for a couple of weeks this time and hasn't had a single visitor. He lives up in the woods, and no one around here knows much about him. He always pays his bill with cash and doesn't seem to want to talk much.”

“What's your patient's name?” O'Malley asked.

“The hospital staff has just been calling him Tom,” she replied.

In the soft night-light of the room, Tom's thin, sallow countenance looked ghostlike behind a scraggly beard.

“Hello, Tom. I'm Father O'Malley,” and he began to say the prayers of the last rites.

After the “amen,” Tom perked up a bit, and he seemed to want to talk.

“Would you like to make your confession?” O'Malley asked him.

“Absolutely not,” Tom answered. “But I would like to just talk with you a bit, before I go.”

And so Tom and Father O'Malley talked about the Korean War, and the ferocity of the winter storm, and the knee-high grass and summer blossoms that would soon follow.

After a couple of hours, and after about the fourth or fifth time that Father O'Malley asked the same question, Tom replied, “Father, when I was young, I did something that was so bad that I haven't spent a single day since without thinking about it and reliving the horror.”

Father O'Malley gently said, “I'm sure that God will forgive you, Tom, whatever it was you did. He is love. He wants us to confess and to receive His forgiveness. He wants you to be free of whatever it is that has plagued you for so long.”

“Even now, I still can't talk about what I did,” Tom said, “even to you.”

O'Malley silently waited. Finally Tom said sadly, “Okay. It's too late for anyone to do anything to me now, so I guess I might as well tell you.

“I worked as a switchman on the railroad all my life, until I retired a few years ago and moved up here to the woods. Thirty-two years ago, I was working in Bakersfield on a night kind of like tonight. It was Christmastime.”

Tom's face became intense as the words began to tumble out. “It happened during a bad winter storm with a lot of rain, 50-mile-an-hour winds and almost no visibility. Two nights before Christmas, the whole yard crew drank all through the swing shift. I volunteered to go out in the rain and wind and push the switch for the northbound 8:30 freight.”

Tom's voice dropped almost to a whisper as he went on. “I guess I was more drunk than I thought I was because I pushed that switch in the wrong direction. At 45 miles an hour that freight train slammed into a passenger car at the next crossing and killed a young man, his wife and their two daughters.

"I have had to live with my being the cause of their deaths every day since then.”

There was a long moment of silence as Tom's confession of this tragedy hung in the air. After what seemed like an eternity, Father O'Malley gently put his hand on Tom's shoulder and said very quietly, “I know God can forgive you, son, because I can. In that car were my mother, my father and my two older sisters.”

Perfect Match

by Gary Sledge

Every Christmas the giant tree in Rockefeller Center sparkles with thousands of lights. From the beginning, when construction workers raised the first one during the depths of the Depression, it has been a symbol of hope. Diana Abad, like most Americans, loved that tree.

In 1999, however, Diana was writing her will. The 33-year-old woman from Staten Island, New York, was diagnosed with leukemia and wanted to put her things in order. Doctors told her she had nine months to live.

Her slim chance for survival lay in finding a bone marrow donor. The most likely source for a match is always among relatives -- but her family was tested and there was none.

Then one day in February 2000, she got a call from the hospital saying that out of the four million people enrolled in the National Marrow Donor Program Registry, there was only one match. The potential donor was thinking about it. In March the donor agreed, and the transplant procedure was scheduled for March 27.

On that day, a doctor came in with the marrow in a bag, and Diana remembers him saying: "This is it. If it doesn't graft within four to six hours, nothing will bring you back." Diana asked a priest to give her last rites.

Almost immediately after the two-hour procedure, she felt stronger. Doctors told her it looked like the graft had taken.

Donors are anonymous, but when she was better, Diana sent a note through the Registry: "You don't know the joy that I am experiencing," she wrote. "I hope that one day we can meet and I can thank you in person."

It was several months before the donor replied. At first he didn't even give his name. He was 34-year-old David Mason, and he lived in Dedham, Massachusetts. But eventually the two exchanged phone numbers and began to talk.

Then unexpectedly and unannounced, he turned up at her door in Englishtown, New Jersey, on December 23. She says it was love at first sight. He says he didn't feel it until they met the second time.

That meeting began a long-distance romance that culminated under the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center in December 2004. That's where David proposed to Diana. She, of course, said yes.

When Christmas Changed My Heart

By William J. Ctibor

Charley came over to Tom and me and dared us: “If I switch toys, will you?” Charley was a star athlete and the most popular guy in school, so foolishly we accepted his dare.

Four large boxes, one for each of the classes, had been placed in the middle of our large California high school campus. The boxes were for the toys each class had been challenged to collect for our annual Christmas toy drive for needy children. The winning class earned points toward the “Class of the Year” competition. Anyone caught switching toys—taking a toy from one box and putting it in another—would cause his or her entire class to be disqualified from earning points.

Charley led the way, taking a toy from one box and blatantly tossing it in the senior class’s box. Tom and I tried to make our switches inconspicuously, but someone saw us and reported us to the principal. The next morning we were summoned before the student council and confronted by the principal. Shamefaced, we slowly nodded when he asked if we had switched the toys.

Later that morning, an announcement went out over the public address system to the entire campus: “Due to the switching of toys by two members of the senior class, seniors are no longer eligible to earn points in the toy competition.” We had not been named, and we had hoped to remain anonymous. But news traveled fast among the 3,500 students. The students from other grades sarcastically complimented and thanked us, but we had definitely become unpopular with our fellow seniors.

After school, we dejectedly sat on Tom’s couch and discussed what we should do to try to turn the situation around. We put on our critical thinking caps for probably the first time in our lives. Finally we came up with a brilliant idea. Since the principal had invited the seniors to continue to bring toys to school, that was what we would do.

The last day of the toy drive coincided with the last day of school before Christmas break, which was three days away. Tom and I would go into the neighborhoods around our school and spend the next three nights collecting toys.

Going door to door for hours on end was very hard work. Families with children usually had a toy to give us. Elderly people usually had nothing for us. But two events caught us off guard.

One elderly gentleman, who said that his only son had been killed in the Korean War, asked us to wait a moment and left us standing at his front door. He soon came back and handed us $100. “I’ve never seen you boys before,” he said, “and for all I know you’ll spend this money on yourselves, but my contribution is intended to be used as a memorial to my son.”

We were speechless, which was unusual for us. We immediately headed for the Whittier Downs Mall, and 15 minutes later we were talking to the manager of a toy store, explaining what we were doing. Before we knew it, we had three very large bags of toys he sold us at a discount. Excited, we headed right back to the elderly man’s house to show him we had done as he wished. He cried as he shook our hands.

The next evening, at another home, Tom and I were greeted by a much younger man who seemed taken aback when we explained what we were doing. He invited us in and then excused himself to go get his wife. After what seemed like a very long time, he came back with his wife and a large box of toys. His wife was crying.

The man introduced his wife to us and with great difficulty he softly said, “Thanks for being patient with us. I know you must feel ill at ease with the way we are behaving, so let me explain. A year and a half ago our three-year-old son passed away from leukemia. We would like to give you his toys. It’s hard, but we feel it’s the right thing to do.”

Tom and I were inclined to refuse their offer, but they were insistent. As we drove away, they stood on their porch, arms wrapped around each other, watching us.

On the third and final night, we found ourselves standing before a pile of toys that almost filled Tom’s single-car garage. It took two trips with two cars to get all of the toys to school the next morning. We began long before dawn, and when we were through, the senior class toy collection box was perched atop a pile of toys that dwarfed the other classes’ contributions. It still didn’t qualify for points, but the senior class honor had been restored.

After all the excitement, by the time Christmas Eve arrived, Tom and I were once again sitting on his couch, intensely bored. I was about to go home when Tom’s father appeared wearing the most spectacular Santa costume I had ever seen. “How do I look, fellas?” he asked. Before we could overcome our astonishment and reply, we heard the deep rumble of a powerful diesel engine, and a brand new fire truck pulled up in front of the house. Covered with a net, a pile of beautifully wrapped presents filled the truck.

Tom’s dad jumped in, climbed up to roost high above the mammoth vehicle, and the truck lurched forward. Suddenly, our day was no longer empty. I yelled at Tom, “Quick, let’s follow them.”

At first I thought they must be headed to the Whittier Downs Mall to play Santa for the lucky, privileged kids there. But with lights blazing and siren wailing, the fire truck turned off the main highway and into Old Pico, a four-block square of leaky wood-slat shacks occupied by migrant farm workers and their families. With a whoosh of air brakes the truck stopped and Tom’s dad climbed down. A host of excited children gathered from all directions, their parents watching from a distance as their little ones rejoiced over their gifts.

As the scene played out, many thoughts ran through my mind. My perception of Tom’s father took on a new aspect. Here was a man who possessed little himself yet was giving what he could. I saw thankful parents who must have been agonizing over providing basic necessities, much less Christmas presents, shedding tears of joy for their children. I considered for the first time how children must feel when Santa forgets them.

Frankly, until then I had been pretty full of myself. Our whole effort to gather the toys had been focused on restoring our social standing. But those experiences with the generosity of grieving parents, along with what I saw in Old Pico, began to soften my heart and turn my view outward. I realize now that it all helped prepare me to seriously consider and accept the gospel when I heard its message a few years later.

That evening when I asked Tom’s dad where the presents came from, he was puzzled. “You mean you don’t know?” he said. “They came from the toy drive at your school.”

We watched in amazement as the fire truck parked and children gathered from all directions.

Christmas Eve Chili

by Tracy G. Rasmussen

"Don't push it," my mother said to me that afternoon. Her voice crackled on the phone with the static of the storm that was icing and blowing and snowing somewhere west of New England. "Wait for the storm to pass and then come home. You'll be here on Christmas. That's what's important."

Maybe, I said to myself, as I hung up the phone and looked out the window of my Boston apartment, up at the gathering clouds. It wasn't snowing. And if I left now -- right now -- I might beat the storm to New York and be home in time for the chili, cornbread, and tree decorating that had become my family's tradition for Christmas Eve. Besides, my mother was a weather worrier, calling us in from the snow before the first flake hit the grass and handing us umbrellas when clouds were tinted any shade of gray. What I didn't tell her, she wouldn't worry about. And when I walked in the house she'd see that I was an adult who could make decisions for myself.

And so minutes later I was in the front seat of my 1974 Oldsmobile Omega that had been given to me by my grandmother "Ging Ging" the year before she died. It was an armored tank of a car with doors that closed with a decisive thunk and an engine that roared with power, plus a muffler that probably needed replacement. I worried less about cars than I did about the weather. A pig-headed certainty was another of Ging Ging's legacies. So that's how I came to be on the Massachusetts Turnpike at dusk with snow and ice hammering at my windows, the heater flashing on and off and an ominous pause whenever my wipers hit the top of their arc. I fed the car some extra gas, trying in my pig-headed certainty to outrun the storm, and turned the radio up to drown out the thunking, thudding, and roaring of the storm. The storm, though, was having none of that. And so that's how I came to be on the side of the Massachusetts Turnpike at dusk with a car that was slightly chilly on the inside and so frozen on the outside that the windshield wipers simply stopped working.

I sat there in the dark. In the silence. In the chill. I sat there thinking about the chili and church and my father announcing somewhere around 8:00 PM that it was time to haul the tree down from the attic, put it together, and decorate it. One sister was in charge of the lights, another in charge of finding the colored nibs at the base of the branches to match the colored holes on the tree trunk. The twins would hang the ornaments on the lower branches. We'd toss handfuls of tinsel on the tree, and Mom and Dad would admonish, "One strand at a time."

I'd be hanging ornaments on the upper branches, taking photos, and singing loudly and somewhat off-key to the Sing Along with Mitch Christmas album. Only I was sitting on the side of the Massachusetts Turnpike slowly becoming a drift of snow.

I got out of my car and surveyed the wipers. I took off my mittens and mopped the wipers clean and blew some hot air on them. They didn't move. Not a centimeter. I wrapped my mittens around the bases and waited a minute or two before trying again.

Nothing.

I was going to not only celebrate Christmas Eve in the breakdown lane, but quite possibly Christmas Day. In fact, I was -- at that moment -- pretty convinced that I'd be sitting here in this exact spot until the spring thaw, which in Massachusetts happens sometime around May. Why didn't I listen to my mother?

Ging Ging, of course. Ging Ging, for the entire time I'd known her, had done exactly as she pleased, when she pleased. And it was clear that I possessed that act first, think later mentality.

So as my car got whiter on the outside and colder on the inside, I had a little chat with Ging Ging. We talked about why I was here on the Massachusetts Turnpike in the middle of a blizzard and how I was so pig-headed that I thought I could control Mother Nature and that no one really was to blame except for me.

But, I argued back, I really just wanted to be home with my family for Christmas. I wanted the chili and the artificial tree and the arguments about clumps of tinsel versus strands of tinsel. I had ventured out in the snow, it turned out, not because I was proving to my mother that I was old enough to make up my own mind, but rather because I missed my parents, and my sisters and my brother and the chili and cornbread and the Yule Log burning on the television deep into the night. The snow might keep me away, but my mother was right. Christmas was Christmas, whether I was there or whether I was celebrating with them in my heart and in my memory.

And with that realization the windshield wipers miraculously moved back and forth and back and forth as I held my breath watching my own personal Christmas miracle. They cleared the snow from the front of the car while I went out and cleared it from the other windows.

I thought about my family the whole way home. Now they'd be complaining that Mom made them go to church an hour early to get seats and then make them give up their seats for elderly latecomers. Now they'd be stirring the bubbling chili in the pot. Now they'd be slathering the cornbread with butter. Now they'd be getting the tree from the attic.

Each mile I slid closer to home I thought of all the things about Christmas that I loved and that would always be a part of me. The windshield wipers kept rhythm with my memories as the wind pushed the car onward.

Two and a half hours later I walked in the door, shaking snow from my hair, and announcing my arrival.

"I'm sorry I came out in the snow," I said, hugging my mother who stood in the kitchen pouring eggnog and arranging rum balls and spritz cookies on a Christmas tree tray.

"We saved you some chili," she said.

Because of Love

by Willy Eagle

A brother and sister had made their usual hurried, obligatory pre-Christmas visit to the little farm where dwelt their elderly parents with their small herd of horses. The farm was where they had grown up and had been named Lone Pine Farm because of the huge pine which topped the hill behind the farm. Through the years, the tree had become a talisman to the old man and his wife and a landmark in the countryside. The young siblings had fond memories of their childhood here, but the city hustle and bustle added more excitement to their lives and called them away to a different life.

The old folks no longer showed their horses, for the years had taken their toll, and getting out to the barn on those frosty mornings was getting harder, but it gave them a reason to get up in the mornings and a reason to live. They sold a few foals each year, and the horses were their reason for joy in the morning and contentment at day's end.

Angry, as they prepared to leave, the young couple confronted the old folks "Why do you not at least dispose of 'The Old One'. She is no longer of use to you. It's been years since you've had foals from her. You should cut corners and save so you can have more for yourselves. How can this old worn out horse bring you anything but expense and work? Why do you keep her anyway?"

The old man looked down at his worn boots, holes in the toes, scuffed at the barn floor and replied, "Yes, I could use a pair of new boots."

His arm slid defensively about the Old One's neck as he drew her near, and with gentle caressing he rubbed her softly behind her ears. He replied softly, "We keep her because of love. Nothing else, just love."

Baffled and irritated, the young folks wished the old man and his wife a Merry Christmas and headed back toward the city as darkness stole through the valley.

The old couple shook their heads in sorrow that it had not been a happy visit. A tear fell upon their cheeks. How is it that these young folks do not understand the peace of the love that filled their hearts?

So it was that because of the unhappy leave-taking, no one noticed the insulation smoldering on the frayed wires in the old barn. None saw the first spark fall. None but the "Old One".

In a matter of minutes, the whole barn was ablaze and the hungry flames were licking at the loft full of hay. With a cry of horror and despair, the old man shouted to his wife to call for help as he raced to the barn to save their beloved horses. But the flames were roaring now, and the blazing heat drove him back. He sank sobbing to the ground, helpless before the fire's fury. His wife, back from calling for help, cradled him in her arms. Clinging to each other, they wept at their loss.

By the time the fire department arrived, only smoking, glowing ruins were left, and the old man and his wife, exhausted from their grief, huddled together before the barn. They were speechless as they rose from the cold snow covered ground. They nodded thanks to the firemen as there was nothing anyone could do now. The old man turned to his wife, resting her white head upon his shoulders as his shaking old hands clumsily dried her tears with a frayed red bandana. Brokenly, he whispered, "We have lost much, but God has spared our home on this eve of Christmas. Let us gather strength and climb the hill to the old pine where we have sought comfort in times of despair. We will look down upon our home and give thanks to God that it has been spared and pray for our beloved most precious gifts that have been taken from us.”

And so, he took her by the hand and slowly helped her up the snowy hill as he brushed aside his own tears with the back of his old and withered hand.The journey up the hill was hard for their old bodies in the steep snow. As they stepped over the little knoll at the crest of the hill, they paused to rest. Looking up to the top of the hill, the old couple gasped and fell to their knees in amazement at the incredible beauty before them.

Seemingly, every glorious, brilliant star in the heavens was caught up in the glittering, snow-frosted branches of their beloved pine, and it was aglow with heavenly candles. And poised on its top most bough, a crystal crescent moon glistened like spun glass. Never had a mere mortal created a Christmas tree such as this. They were breathless as the old man held his wife tighter in his arms.

Suddenly, the old man gave a cry of wonder and incredible joy. Amazed and mystified, he took his wife by the hand and pulled her forward. There, beneath the tree, in resplendent glory, a mist hovering over and glowing in the darkness was their Christmas gift. Shadows glistening in the night light.

Bedded down about the "Old One" close to the trunk of the tree, was the entire herd, safe.

At the first hint of smoke, she had pushed the door ajar with her muzzle and had led the horses through it. Slowly and with great dignity, never looking back, she had led them up the hill, stepping cautiously through the snow. The foals were frightened and dashed about. The skittish yearlings looked back at the crackling, hungry flames, and tucked their tails under them as they licked their lips and hopped like rabbits. The mares that were in foal with a new years’ crop of babies, pressed uneasily against the "Old One" as she moved calmly up the hill and to safety beneath the pine. And now she lay among them and gazed at the faces of the old man and his wife.

Those she loved she had not disappointed. Her body was brittle with years, tired from the climb, but the golden eyes were filled with devotion as she offered her gift--

Because of love. Only Because of love.

Tears flowed as the old couple shouted their praise and joy... and again the peace of love filled their hearts.

This is a true story.

It Must Be Raining

by Bob Perks

The images flash across my television screen as I sit there in the comfort of my home.

"It's that time of year again," I thought to myself.

Then realizing how foolish that was to say, I sat up in my chair and watched closer. The news reporter was telling the story of one of many food banks in our area that were serving those in need of the basics for the holidays. This particular place had both food and clothing. Food for the body and warm second hand coats for children.

"It's that time of year again," replayed in my mind.

I meant that throughout the holidays we see such reports over and over, unlike the other 11 months when the same people are hungry, in need of clothing, basic services and a little help with life. Maybe I said it because I was becoming numb to it all, like watching the same commercials a hundred times.

I was about to feel the real impact of it all. I was sitting at the counter having breakfast at a local diner the next day. It's a small "quaint" place. Local people, husband and wife cook and serve. A man walked in and sat next to me. There is little elbow-room as it is and he was a big fellow.

On top of the milk dispenser is a small television placed there for both the customers' enjoyment and the owners' when things get slow. It just so happened that the news was on and once again that same report on the food bank. This time it included more information and a few interviews of some of the people who participated.

There was a little girl looking through the coats. The reporter asked her if she found something that fit. She turned toward the camera and smiled. She flipped her soft brown hair up over the collar as she pulled and tugged at the front to make sure it would zipper properly.

"I like this store. Mommy said I could have any coat I wanted, but I'm getting this one for my friend. Her daddy won't come here. Mommy says he's too proud. Whatever that means. All I know is Mandy needs a coat."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the man next to me lower his head. Without looking up he fumbled for a napkin and began to wipe his eyes.

"Incredibly sad, isn't it?" I said.

He didn't respond.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yes," he said quietly.

"Hey, don't feel bad, I've shed many tears through the holidays for those who don't have nearly as much as I, and I am in no way financially set for life," I told him."I'm a writer. I live on my dreams," I added.

He turned toward me. I could still see the dampness of tear filled eyes. He raised his hand to his chest and pointing at himself he said..."I'm Mandy's father. That's the first I've seen that. The little girl goes to school with my daughter."

Oh, my god! My chest tightened, my hands shook and I shared in his tears.

"It must be raining," he joked.

We spoke for a few more minutes about how he felt and what he needed to do. Turns out he's unemployed for more than a year now and doing odd jobs to pay bills. We said our goodbyes and I approached the register. I whispered that I wanted his check.

"He only gets coffee," she said.

"Well, here. This is for my meal, his coffee and tell him this is for Mandy. He'll understand."

Many years ago I spoke at my friend's church in Atlanta, The Ark of Salvation. A woman came up to me and said God told her to give me everything she had in her wallet. I was shaken by the thought and began to refuse it. Things were better for me back then. I couldn't justify what she offered.

God spoke to me as I listened to her explain.

"It isn't very much, but God said that it would multiply. Please take it."

I did. I shared the story with Nathaniel Bronner, the pastor of the church and he smiled assuring me I did the right thing. It was $57. I always carry it with me. I give it away and replace it. It has indeed multiplied many times.

God is an amazing God who has never failed to replace that $57 each and every time I use it.

I turned to walk away and another man sitting at the counter grabbed my arm and said..."I overheard your conversation with that man. I'll help him, too."

He then wiped his eyes and said, "He's right. It must be raining."

Santa Claus

by Kimberly Henrie

This was our first Colorado winter and we were excited about our first Christmas in our new home. We had just moved from the desert and my daughters, who were six and nine, had only seen a real winter once before in their lives. They were so little, they didn't remember it.

It was Christmas Eve. The girls and I were out and about, running holiday errands. We delivered treats to some of our friends and made a last minute trip to Kmart. My youngest daughter, Megan, was distracted by a simple jewelry box. You've probably seen them, the little square box with a dancer inside that twirls around when you open the box while sweet ballerina music plays. Megan and her big sister Elizabeth were enchanted. They each wanted to take one home. I just smiled and said, "Not tonight. Tomorrow is Christmas; let's see what Santa Claus will bring."

I, like thousands of other parents over the years, had given my children the gift of believing in Santa Claus. I'd spent hours of their young lives telling them the stories, wrapping "Santa's gifts" in different colored paper and leaving milk and cookies. Among my favorite childhood memories that I share with them were those annual movies, "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer" and "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town." I still love them!

I would really have liked to sneaked those gifts into the shopping cart that Christmas Eve. The jewelry boxes weren't very expensive, but with our move to a new home that year, we were on a budget, and Christmas spending was done. Though I yearned for the day when we could afford such simple gifts, I was thankful to God for how far we had come. You see, there were Christmases past that the girls and I relied on the kindness of others. When Megan was born, we were living on public assistance, in an old trailer in a very small town on the prairies of the Midwest. We had struggled to make our lives better since then, and in answer to my prayers, my husband, Randy, came into our lives when the girls were four and seven years old. Yes, though times were frugal, life had become so much richer for us. There was a great deal to be thankful for.

We left the store that night without the jewelry boxes. Our errands were just about done. One last stop for gas on the way home, and then it would be time to tuck the girls in for the night, while Randy and I played Santa Claus. It was dark at the gas station at about 8:30 p.m. As I got out of the car to begin fueling, I was careful to be aware of my surroundings. You can imagine how nervous I was as a beat-up old truck pulled into the gas station right up next to my car and a gruff-looking man rolled down his window and beckoned me over. With a glance at the girls to make sure they were snug in the car with windows rolled up, I cautiously approached the truck. The man looked like he had been working hard in filthy conditions all day and had not had a chance to bathe. I expected a question about where to find a hot meal or a warm bed and was prepared to direct him to our church or the police station. Imagine my surprise as the man held up two jewelry boxes almost exactly like the ones we had seen at the store!

"Ma'am, I won these two jewelry boxes at the movie theater," he said, "and I noticed you had two little girls. I don't have anyone to give them to and was wondering if your girls might like them."

I was speechless as I stood there, face-to-face with Santa Claus. Somehow I stuttered my way through thanks and gratitude, and assured him that the girls would be delighted to have the gifts he offered. I watched as he disappeared into the night – Santa Claus in an old, beat-up truck.

It has been four years since that night, and it still brings a tear to my eye as I tell the story. Who was that man? I don't know. I've never seen him again, but I do believe that God used him that night to answer my simple prayer. He opened my eyes to the true Santa Claus – the love of Christ shining through us to all the world.