Power and Protection!--Part 20 CLTP 30
True-Life Stories of God's Help in Crisis!

Special '96 Christmas Issue

(For 9 years old and up. Selected stories may be read with younger children
at the adults' discretion.)

DFO. Excerpts from Guideposts; Yankee, and Woman's Day magazine.

(Christian Leadership Training Program publications are circulated free of charge on a strictly non-profit basis.)

Table of Contents:
         Whiteout         1
         The Christmas Eve Tablecloth Miracle     3
         Christmas Miracles       4
         My Angel in Disguise     7
         I Knew You Would Come    8
         Gift of the Heart        10
         Discussion Questions     12
         Glossary for Young Readers       12

Whiteout
By Mary Lou Sours
         Ross had warned me about attempting the trip back to town. An icy wind had sprung up, ruffling the fur of my brown beaver hat, and the dim sky looked foreboding. It was one of those dusky half-light December days when the winter sun never rises above the horizon here, north of the Arctic Circle. But it was only 15 miles across Hotham Inlet to the town of Kotzebue, Alaska, where I visited frequently. I was sure I could get there and back before dark.
         Although I was three-and-a-half months pregnant, Ross and I had traveled nearly 70 miles by snowmobile to visit his parents, who live at a hunting and fishing camp along the Noatak River. The next morning, Christmas Eve, we planned to travel north across the snow to the Eskimo village of Noatak, where my people depend on hunting and fishing for food. But I had forgotten to pick up an important gift back in Kotzebue, where most everyone shops during the holidays. I just had to get it before we left for Noatak.
         "No, babe," Ross said, scanning the horizon. "It looks like a storm is coming." When I persisted, he finally gave up and said he would come with me. But I refused. I insisted that at age 17, I was a grown woman and could take care of myself.
         "The wind is your compass," Ross reminded me. "If you feel it on the left side of your nose when you leave, all you have to do to come back is face the wind so that it is on your right side."
         I pulled on my goggles, revved the engine on my red Polaris Indy 400 and waved goodbye to Ross.
         "And watch for overflow," he hollered.
         Overflows are treacherous1 places where the surface ice has softened, allowing the water beneath to surge up through it. Often mistaken for glare on the ice, overflows can trap a snowmobile as surely as a snare catches an arctic hare. A person on a snowmobile skidding into the slushy ice-cold water could die of hypothermia2 within hours. But I wasn't too worried; I had gone past overflows dozens of times.
         I carefully watched for the tall, tree-branch trail markers set into the ice at 50-foot intervals. I had to squint against the windblown snow.
         As I cruised over Hotham Inlet, I thought about the coming Christmas Eve celebration. Gripping the snowmobile handlebars, I glided across the frozen sound that spread out flat to the horizon before me. Our landscape is full of beauty and mystery, especially when the sun hides for months at a time as it was doing now, and temperatures can drop near 80 degrees below zero. This homeland of my Inuit3 people has always held me close.
         The trail markers stretched before me as my machine roared through the dwindling half-light. After I had traveled for about 35 minutes, ice chips flicked at my windshield and an ominous4 churning sound came from underneath the snowmobile. I looked down and saw thick, slushy ice gripping my machine's undercarriage.
         Overflow! I quickly jolted the handlebars to the right to slide sideways, away from the rising mush. Then I stopped and, with the engine idling, perched paralyzed with fear, not knowing what to do.
         The wind was picking up. Veils of snow whirled across the frozen ice. A blizzard was building. I had to get back, fast. I opened up the throttle and turned back, aiming my machine for camp.
         I spotted the first trail marker, but then the blowing snow closed in and I could no longer see beyond the front skis of my snowmobile.
         I soon became trapped in a whiteout, a blizzard that severely limits visibility. I wiped away the snow that crusted over my goggles and, accelerating, shot forward into the white-outand found myself bumping across a furrowed patch of ice.
         Ice ridges! They are formed when churning sea foam freezes against ice floes. It was a sign that I was far off course and close to the open sea.
         Oh, Lord, which direction? Ross's words echoed in my ears: "The wind is your compass." But it was too late; I was hopelessly lost.
         The important thing was to get out of the ice ridges quickly and onto flat ice. But soon I hit another series of ridges. I decided it was time to stop and try to think things out. I turned off the engine and stared into the swirling void. What should I do? Dear Lord, help me to think clearly.
         I angled my machine so that it would block the wind and turned off the motor. Then I sat down against the snowmobile's warm side. But within minutes I began to get cold. I jumped up and ran around a bit, my boots crunching the snow. I managed to warm up. But I couldn't keep doing this indefinitely.
         Then an idea popped into my head. An igloo! I would build a shelter around my machine and wait out the storm. With renewed energy I started digging with my boot heels and toes, shaping blocks of packed snow and placing them on and around the snowmobile. I stacked snow blocks on the handlebars and seat, and stuffed snow around the suspension and engine.
         By the time I finished, it was pitch-black. Exhausted and scared, I lay down within the walls of my make-shift igloo. Though it had no roof, it sheltered me against the bitter, cold wind. Then I prayed, "Thank You, Lord Jesus, for helping me think straight. Please be with me as I wait out this storm."
         I fell asleep. Hours later I awoke to find myself under a blanket of snow, which gave me warmth. I made sure my left arm stayed free so I could clear snow from my face. The storm howled louder than ever, like a hungry wolf. Again, sleep came upon me.
         I awoke struggling to breathe. Now a thick icy layer of snow encrusted my whole body, except for my left arm. With it I was able to break enough snow away to get air. But then my fingers began to sting and burn. "Lord Jesus," I prayed, "my fingers are starting to freeze. Please make them warm."
         In a matter of seconds I felt warmth flow from my fingertips up to my shoulder. The burning and stinging stopped. I drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes gasping for air in panic because I thought I was going to die. But then I found myself repeating the prayer my mother taught me when I was a child: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord, my soul to keep.... And a song kept running through my mind. God will take care of you, thro' every day, o'er all the way....
         I awoke to feel melting snow around my face. I could still move my left arm; I brushed away the snow and gulped clean, fresh air.
         It was early morningno more howling wind, just soft snowflakes floating down. But I was packed solid in my ice-covered cave. I squirmed and struggled trying to escape but it seemed hopeless. Then I felt the ground begin to tremble.
         Through the frigid5 air came the sound of motors, of steel grinding on icesnowmobiles! Coming closer!
         Now around me I could hear men's voices filled with anxiety and sadness. They didn't know if I was dead or alive. I could hear the men removing snow, chopping iceand I could make out my father's voice, speaking in his native tongue, Inupiaq.
         "Dad!" I shouted. His strong arms reached for me and pulled me free. His ice-rimmed face was joyous. "Paniindaughter!" he cried, holding me close.
         It was Christmas Eve, and though I had to spend the next few days in the hospital in Kotzebue, I rejoiced and gave thanks.
         That Christmas was the best Christmas ever, for I was able to tell others about how Jesus gave me and the child within me life, about how He is with us even in swirling snows and icy darkness.
* * *
The Christmas Eve Tablecloth Miracle
By Richard Bauman
         It was mid-November 1948, so the story goes, when a young, enthusiastic minister received his first pastorate. In earlier days his church had been an impressive structure in an affluent6 neighborhood. Time, however, had taken its physical toll on the church and surrounding area. Things weren't as grand as they had once been.
         The minister and his wife realized there wasn't a lot they could do about the community, but the church was another matter. Soap and water, paint and polish, and a generous supply of elbow grease could help the building regain some of its elegance in time for Christmas.
         With only a month to accomplish so much, they poured out their energies. They scrubbed and waxed floors and painted the walls. The church seemed to take on a glow of pride as Christmas crept closer. The couple couldn't help feeling a measure of satisfaction.
         Just two days before Christmas, a howling storm pounded the region, dumping nearly two inches of rain along with fierce winds. The church's old roof couldn't take the storm's ferocity7. It sprung numerous leaks.
         One massive leak was ruinous. Right behind the altar, the old plaster wall became saturated, soaking up water like a dry sponge. An enormous chunk of plaster fell from the wall, leaving an ugly, gaping hole.
         There was no time to repair the damage before Christmas Eve services. The minister and his wife couldn't help feeling all their back-breaking labor had been for naught as they scraped up the sodden8 plaster. In their eyes the church looked worse than it had when they started.
         The benefit auction they attended that evening didn't do much to raise their spirits, until an old tablecloth was put up for bid. The instant the pastor saw it, he was ecstatic. Here, he reasoned, was the solution to his problem.
         The tablecloth was gigantic, more than large enough to cover the hole in the sanctuary wall. And it was beautiful. Obviously handmade from fine lace with gold thread running through it, it would look spectacular hanging on the church wall. Six dollars and fifty cents made it his.
         The day before Christmas was clear, but windy and cold. As he unlocked the church he spotted an older woman standing at the curb, apparently waiting for a bus. Knowing the next bus wouldn't be along for at least a half-hour, he invited her to wait in the church where she could stay warm.
         In halting English she thanked him for his kindness and casually mentioned she lived across town. She was only there that day because she was trying to get a job. A well-known family in the area was looking for a housekeeper/baby sitter. She didn't get the job, she said, because of her poor English. A war refugee, she had only been in the United States a few years.
         The minister said he had work to do, and headed for the sanctuary to cover the unsightly hole in the wall. She thanked him again and slipped into a pew in the back of the church.
         As he unfolded the tablecloth, stretched it to its full width and started fastening it to the wall, the woman suddenly shouted, "That's mine! That's my banquet cloth!" Rushing to the front of the church she showed the stunned minister her initials embroidered on the cloth. Breathlessly she told her story.
         "My husband and I lived in Vienna before the war," she said. "We didn't like the Nazis, and were going to flee to Switzerland." In order to avoid suspicion, she explained, her husband sent her ahead. He promised to send their belongings, and then follow soon.
         Their worldly possessions never arrived in Switzerland, nor did her husband.
         "I later learned he died in a Nazi concentration camp," she said, fighting back tears.
         Nearly in tears himself, the minister insisted she take the cloth that obviously meant so much to her. She hesitated for a moment, then said no. It looked beautiful on the church wall, and besides, living alone she didn't give banquets anymore. Without another word she slowly left the church to catch the bus.
         At the Christmas Eve service, the church did look spectacular. The tablecloth seemed to glowthe gold threads sparkling like hundreds of tiny, golden stars. As the congregation left the church, the minister received nothing but praise about how majestic the church looked.
         One old man, though, stayed longer than the others. When he finally walked to the door, he told the pastor how wonderful the church looked. Then almost as an afterthought, he said, "It's very strange. Many years ago my wife had a banquet cloth like that one," nodding toward the altar. "But that was long ago when we lived in Vienna. My wife is dead now, killed in the war."
         It was a frigid night, but the chill the minister suddenly felt running down his spine wasn't caused by the night air. Taking several deep breaths to steady himself, he told the man about the woman who had been in the church that morning.
         "Can it be that she is alive?" gasped the man, grabbing the minister's hands, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Where is she? How can I find her?"
         In the midst of the joy the pastor mentally panicked. How, indeed, could they find her? He had no idea where she lived. Momentarily his heart sank. Had he brought hope to an old man only to dash it?
         Then he remembered the name of the family she had been interviewed by that day. Rushing to the phone he called the family residence. Hastily he explained why he had to have the woman's name and address.
         Minutes later in the minister's beat-up car, the two men drove to the woman's apartment. With apprehension and excitement, they knocked on the door. The few minutes it took her to answer seemed like hours. When she finally opened the door, the minister saw the culmination9 of what was to him a miracle.
         For an instant the husband and wife, separated for nearly a decade, stared at one another, not daring to believe their eyes, almost afraid to blink for fear the vision would vanish. In another instant they were in each other's armstearfully, joyfully, and excitedly clinging to each other.
         All the heartache and loneliness of ten years was wiped away. The moment each had dreamed about but never expected to see fulfilled had miraculously come true. They were together again.
         Was it a miracle, fate10, or a string of incredible coincidences that came together at just the right time and place? Different people had different opinions. For many, though, coincidence and fate couldn't explain the reunion; they fittingly called it the Christmas Eve tablecloth miracle.
* * *
Christmas Miracles
Compiled by Joan Wester Anderson

Erin's Angels
         Kathy and Mike Felke's daughter, Erin, had been sickly since birth, but her pediatrician11 always dismissed their concerns. On the morning of December 24, 1980, however, the 2-year-old seemed unusually listless12, with large circles under her eyes. Kathy decided to take her to another physician.
         "Erin is gravely ill," the doctor reported after the examination. "You can keep her home for Christmas, but bring her to the hospital early on the twenty-sixth."
         Shocked, Kathy and Mike broke the news to relatives and close friends. Erin's grandmother pinned a little angel onto Erin's red jumper. The priest at Christmas Mass asked the congregation to "fight for this child" with their prayers. Later, neighbors conducted a prayer vigil at the hospital. The news was not good. Erin had a rare blood disease that usually proved fatal. A blood transfusion13 was begun, but no one seemed hopeful.
         Afterwards, the doctor looked at the frail toddler and shook his head. "You'd better prepare yourself," he told Kathy. "We're losing her." Devastated, Kathy clutched Erin's limp hand. "God," she pleaded, "send healing to Erin, please!"
         That night, Erin seemed to be fading away. Her color was poor, her breathing labored. Kathy refused to leave her daughter's side, even for a moment. Her world had narrowed to a crib and a repeated prayer. God, please. God, please....
         Suddenly just before dawn, Erin opened her eyes. "Lights, Mommy, lights!" she whispered, her gaze fixed above Kathy's head. Kathy turned, but saw nothing. "Where are the lights, honey?" she asked. "What are you seeing?" Erin looked thrilled. "Bells, Mommy!" she cried, her voice slightly stronger. "Lights and bells!"
         Kathy couldn't hear anything. Her skin prickled. What was happening?
         "Pretty ladies, Mommy, see?" Erin raised a tiny hand and pointed to the corner of the room. Her face bore an expression of joy. Kathy was afraid to turn around. Was Erin glimpsing Heaven? Were angels coming to take her Home? But no. Somehow, Erin seemed more alert, more alive than she had been in months. Was that a tinge of pink in her cheeks, Kathy wondered?
         A few days later, tests showed that Erin's blood was now completely normal, and she was sent home from the hospital. Today, at 16 years old, Erin has annual blood tests, but has never had another trace of the blood disease. "I've come to believe that God brought healing to Erin just as I'd asked," Kathy says. What more precious Christmas gift could Heaven possibly provide?

The Invisible Truck Driver
         Mary Beth Cole had completed her training as a long-distance truck driver and was on a trip with her husband, Wayne.
         "Think you can take over for a while?" Wayne asked, yawning. "I need some rest."
         "Sure," she replied. Mary Beth's only fear was driving the truck in inclement14 weather. But on this wintery day, the Indiana turnpike15 was cold and dry. In a moment, Wayne had fallen asleep, and she was driving the huge rig all alone, feeling completely in control.
         Well, not really, Mary Beth reflected as she stayed safely in the right lane. It had been a long time since she'd really felt in control of anything. Her life had become very difficult. Where was God, she often wondered. Did He see? Did He even care? With Christmas approaching, she longed to have a deeper faith in Him.
         Suddenly she tensed. Was that rain on the windshield? Mary Beth's heart began to pound as the sky darkened and heavy drops pelted the truck. She couldn't drive now; she'd have to wake up Wayne! Yet she seemed to be paralyzed with fear.
         "Hey, Metropolitan!" Suddenly a man's voice on the CB radio16 broke into her terror. "You're looking pretty good!" Mary Beth's truck had a "Metropolitan" logo.
         "Thanks," she responded shakily. "Where are you?"
         "I'm that Ryder/PIE that just moved ahead of you," the man answered. Strange. Mary Beth always paid careful attention to trucks passing her, yet she hadn't seen a Ryder/PIE at all. Where was he? She scanned the road ahead, but no truck was in view. Perhaps she missed him in what was now a driving rainstorm. "What's going on, Ryder?" she asked.
         The two lapsed into casual conversation, the kind CBers often exchange. Yet Mary Beth sensed a warmth underlying the man's words. A wonderful peace seemed to be flooding the truck cab. Slowly, despite the storm, she felt her fear fade, her spirit lift. Hours passed and the talk continued. Although the trucker indicated he was just in front of her, Mary Beth thought it odd that she couldn't see him at all. And why could she only hear his voice? Usually, other drivers interrupt CB conversations. But today she and her invisible companion seemed in a world all their own. Eventually, the rain diminished. "I'm turning off at the exit just ahead of you, Metropolitan," the man said. "You take care now."
         "I will," Mary Beth answered. "And ... thanks!" As she approached the exit, she had a wide unrestricted view. Now she was sure she'd see Ryder/PIE as he went down the ramp. She watched for him, and watched, but no truck ever appeared.
         Christmas was a joyful day, filled with great promise. Life might be hard sometimes, Mary Beth realized, but Godand His messengersalways had her in view.

Nature's Special Blanket
         It was 11 P.M. when Patti and Dan Burnett, members of Colorado's Search and Rescue team, received the call about a lost boy. Ryan, 16, had become separated from his father while grouse17 hunting. He was somewhere in a wilderness area high in the Rocky Mountains, wearing only jeans and a thin shirt. Patti looked out her window at the fog and sleet. No one dressed so lightly could survive long tonight, she feared.
         Rescuers drove to the area, and Patti felt a great sense of urgency as she and her search dog, Hasty, began to walk. "The sleet had turned to snow, and the wind was strong," she recalls. "I couldn't help thinking that Ryan's wet clothes were probably frozen."
         Hasty picked up Ryan's scent and forged ahead. Even with her head-lamp, though, Patti had difficulty seeing. She heard other searchers and the whir of a National Guard helicopter. But there was no sign of Ryan.
         Struggling through the marshes, Patti thought of her own children safely asleep at home, their Christmas gifts wrapped and hidden. She thought of Ryan's distraught family. God, please help us, she prayed. And please keep Ryan warm. As the hours passed, the exhausted searchers began to lose hope. Then, shortly after dawn, Patti heard unbelievable news: Ryan had been found alive, without any signs of frostbite! But how?
         Later, surrounded by rescue workers, the teenager explained. Lost in the dark and shivering uncontrollablyone of the first stages of hypothermiahe'd laid down under some trees and slipped into a deep sleep. Considering the subfreezing temperatures, he should have frozen to death, but something wondrous happened. Ryan awakened in the middle of the night, feeling warm and comfortable. Astonished, he discovered that, despite the rifle at his feet, two female elk18 were lying on either side, protecting him from the freezing weather.
         The searchers were dumbfounded, since such behavior is completely uncharacteristic of elk. But there was no other explanation for Ryan's healthy condition. Later, evidence of the animals' presence was found under the trees where Ryan was found. Patti drove home, exhilarated that her prayers had been answered.

A Surprise Gift
         For many years, Vivian and Lenny Morton had preached in any town that welcomed them. Like most missionaries, they asked for nothing in return. The couple lived on what God, through others, provided. If they had anything extra, they gave it to the poor.
         One December, Vivian and Lenny were staying in Springfield, Missouri, in a little house at the end of a lane. Times had been tough that year. As Christmas neared, Vivian's faith wavered a bit. She needed something to cheer her up. "If you happen to come across any extra money," she told Lenny, "I'd like to have a white scarf with red dots for Christmas." Although it seemed like an unusual request to him, Lenny longed to buy Vivian the scarf she wanted. But their cash had run out. In fact, they hardly had any food in the house. How would they manage? When Christmas Day dawned, Vivian answered a knock on the door. It was an elderly woman she'd never seen before. Apparently, the old woman knew Vivian often fed the poor. "May I have some breakfast?" she asked.
         "Not today, I'm afraid," Vivian replied. "We have nothing to share."
         "Look again," the woman suggested, as she came in and sat down on a kitchen chair. Vivian opened her flour can and was surprised to see about a cup of flour. The can had been empty the day before. Quickly she made four tiny biscuits. While they were baking, she inspected her tea box and discovered a spoonful of tea. How odd! The biscuits turned out to be enormous, golden brown and delicious. When Vivian and her visitor had each eaten one, the latter suggested taking the others to Lenny, who was still asleep. As Vivian did so, however, she heard a door close. She turned. The kitchen was empty, but a little package sat on the table. "Oh, she's forgotten something!" Vivian said as she grabbed the package and flung open the door. The lane was completely empty. It was then that Vivian opened the package and understood Who had sent a Christmas visitor with the reassurance she needed. In her hands lay a white scarf with red dots.
         * * *
My Angel in Disguise
By James Dodson
         Two winters ago, around Christmas time, I ran over a boy on a sled. He flew out of nowhere during a serious snowstorm, a small figure darting down a steep farmyard into the road just as my truck came over the knoll19. Through the veil of snow, I caught only the briefest glimpse of himan impression of startled eyes behind eyeglasses, a blue parkabefore I sharply turned the wheel.
         I remember hearing the awful crunch, a muffled cry, and then my truck was sliding down a steep incline, plowing sideways through deep drifts, coming to rest almost on its side. I sat there with groceries strewn all over the place for perhaps ten seconds. Then I ripped off my shoulder belt, kicked open the door with my boot, and clawed my way through the knee-deep snow back up the bank. The boy was lying in the middle of the road, eerily still. "My legs. My legs," he cried softly. "I can't move my legs."
         Crouching by his side, I remember thinking two things with an almost military clarity. First, I had to get him off the road or we would both be run over by the next vehicle to come over the knoll. Second, this kid was going to die or at least never walk again because I'd crushed him.
         As I knelt there with snow pouring down like cinders from heaven, a flood of soft paternal20 words began flowing from my mouth. "Listen to me, Son. You're going to be okay. But first we have to get you off the road. Try and relax. Everything will be fine."
         I don't know whom I was trying to convince most. He closed his eyes, nodded and I moved his limp body gently to the shoulder of the road, aware that I could be doing even more damage by moving himsevering what was left of a mangled spinal cord or destroying whatever muscle tissue or nerve connections remained. But I couldn't risk a plow truck roaring down on us at any second.
         "Can you move your fingers?" I said.
         "Yes," he replied, and showed me. Snowflakes were accumulating and melting on his flushed face. I studied his eyes to see if he was slipping into shock. They were clear. I guessed that he was 12 or 13 years olda good-looking kid, I realized, and damn brave.
         Then from behind us rose a heart-rending wail. I turned and saw a large, coatless woman struggling to maneuver through the snow, two children in her wake. "Oh, my God, oh, my God!" she cried. She lost her footing and tumbled comically into the drift at the bottom of the driveway, and I had no option but to go help her out. I extended her my hand and pulled her from the drift. Her face was a mask of anguish, the face of a mother confronted with the unthinkable.
         We stood there in each other's odd embrace for a moment, performing a little minuet21 on the slippery road, staring briefly into each other's eyes until we heard a small sound, and we simultaneously turned to face the boy.
         He was standing up.
         "It's okay, Mom," he said, rubbing his back. "I think I'm okay."
         His name was Matthew, and he was the son of a church caretaker. He sat on a chair in his mother's warm kitchen, holding back sobs.
         "Why are you crying, Matthew?" asked his mother. "Are you injured?"
         "No," he said with a trembling voice. "I was just thinking ... I don't know why I wasn't killed."
         His younger sister Rose explained what had happened. When school was called off for the day, they'd gone into the back meadow to sled. But the farm's steeper front yard tempted them. They never even considered the danger of the road.
         "I could've been killed," Matthew repeated, in a kind of daze. "I don't know why I wasn't killed."
         "Because we were both incredibly lucky," I answered.
         "No, I think it was more than that. I think it was a miracle," said his mother.
         Later, I went outside to watch the wrecker winch my truck out. Two tires were flattened; the fender was bent. "I don't see how you missed running clean over him. It's amazing," said the police officer, indicating the intersecting skid pattern and sled track.
         "Damn near a miracle," piped up the driver of the wrecker.
         I went back to say goodbye to Matthew and his mother. He'd gone to lie down, and his mother thanked me profusely22. We actually embraced, and she began to cry. I told her I would call in a day or so to see how everyone was doing.
         "Are you okay?" she asked, studying me.
         "Yes," I replied. "I'm fine."
         But I wasn't. In fact, I had never been more deeply shaken in my life. No matter what the police officer had said, I knew that the boy had disappeared under the front of my truck, yet somehow survived with only an angry welt on the small of his back to show for it. I just couldn't explain it.
         I, too, might have said it was a miracle, if I believed in such things.
         I went home and sat for a couple of hours watching chickadees23 dive-bomb our bird feeder. I didn't feel like moving or talking. My wife took our two small children, Maggie and Jack, out shopping. As I sat there, alone, the movie projector between my ears played the accident over and over.
         Before I hit Matthew, I had been having what my wife calls my "annual Christmas crisis," a private little tempest of the soul that begins somewhere around the winter solstice24, when darkness descends like a closing curtain and news programs flood us with the year's most memorable human and natural disasters.
         On the morning of the big snowstorm I was still in a funk25, and I couldn't understand why. And so, at the height of the storm, disgusted with my disgust, I decided to go to the grocery store. It was empty, save for a lone clerk totaling the items of an elderly woman. She was buying a magazine and a potted plant. I noticed she was wearing running shoes instead of boots. "It's beautiful outside, isn't it?" she said, smiling at me. "But you know, some people always drive too fast when it's snowing."
         Kooky old bird, I said to myself. But I smiled back and agreed. Then I got in my truck and headed home. Turning onto Meadow Cross Road, however, I kept thinking about what she had said. As I approached the knoll by the farm, I cut my speed by half. An instant later, Matthew flew under my wheels.
         In the aftermath of the accident I kept wondering, how do you say thank you to someone who enters your life for 15 seconds? All I knew about her was that she likes houseplants and could use a new pair of boots. Then I happened across a copy of Time magazine, with, of all things, a painting of an angel on its cover. "The New Age of Angels" read the headline.
         I started reading. "In her best-selling collection of angel encounters, A Book of Angels," the article said, "author Sophy Burnham writes that angels disguise themselvesas a dream, a comforting presence, a pulse of energy, a personto ensure that the message is received, even if the messenger is explained away...."
         Once again, I sat in my den mulling this one over. It was then that I considered the possibility that my guardian angel was an old lady in sneakers who thought the world would be a better place if we all slowed down and noticed the passing scenery.
* * *
"I Knew You Would Come"
By Elizabeth King English
         Herman and I locked our store and dragged ourselves home to South Caldwell Street. It was 11:00 P.M., Christmas Eve of 1949. We were dog tired.
         Ours was one of those big old general appliance stores that sold everything from refrigerators, toasters and record players to bicycles, dollhouses and games. We had sold almost all of our toys; and all of the layaways26, except one package, had been picked up.
         Usually Herman and I kept the store open until everything had been claimed. We wouldn't have woken up happy on Christmas morning knowing that some child's gift was still on the layaway shelf. But the person who had put a dollar down on that package never returned.
         Early Christmas morning our 12-year-old son, Tom, and Herman and I were under the tree opening gifts. But I'll tell you, there was something humdrum about this Christmas. Tom was growing up; he had wanted just clothes and games. I missed his childish exuberance27 of past years.
         As soon as breakfast was over, Tom left to visit his friend next door. Herman mumbled, "I'm going back to sleep. There's nothing left to stay up for."
         So there I was alone, doing the dishes and feeling let down. It was nearly 9:00 A.M., and sleet mixed with snow cut the air outside. The wind rattled our windows, and I felt grateful for the warmth of the apartment. Sure glad I don't have to go out on a day like today, I thought, picking up the wrapping paper and ribbons strewn around the living room.
         And then it began. Something I had never experienced before. A strange, persistent urge. It seemed to be telling me to go to the store.
         I looked at the icy sidewalk outside. That's crazy, I said to myself. I tried dismissing the urge, but it wouldn't leave me alone. In fact, it was getting stronger.
         Well, I wasn't going to go. I had never gone to the store on Christmas Day in all the 10 years we had owned it. No one opened shop on that day. There wasn't any reason to go, I didn't want to go, and I wasn't going to go.
         For an hour I fought that strange feeling. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer, and I got dressed.
         "Herman," I said, feeling silly, "I think I'll walk down to the store."
         Herman woke with a start. "Whatever for? What are you going to do there?"
         "Oh, I don't know," I replied lamely. "There's not much to do here. I just think I'll wander down."
         He argued against it a little, but I told him that I would be back soon. "Well, go on," he grumped, "but I don't see any reason for it."
         I put on my gray wool coat, then my rubber boots, red scarf and gloves. Once outside, none of those garments seemed to help. The wind cut right through me and the sleet stung my cheeks. I groped my way the mile down to 117 East Park Avenue, slipping and sliding.
         I shivered, and tucked my hands inside my pockets to keep them from freezing. I felt ridiculous. I had no business being out in that bitter chill.
         There was the store just ahead. In front of it stood two boys, one about nine, and the other six. What in the world? I wondered.
         "Here she comes!" yelled the older one. He had his arm around the younger. "See, I told you she would come," he said jubilantly.
         They were half frozen. The younger one's face was wet with tears, but when he saw me, his eyes opened wide and his sobbing stopped.
         "What are you two children doing out here in this freezing rain?" I scolded, hurrying them into the store and turning up the heat. "You should be at home on a day like this!" They were poorly dressed. They had no hats or gloves, and their shoes barely held together. I rubbed their small icy hands, and got them up close to the heater.
         "We've been waiting for you," replied the older boy. He told me they had been standing outside since 9:00 A.M., the time I normally opened the store.
         "Why were you waiting for me?" I asked, astonished.
         "My little brother Jimmy didn't get any Christmas." He touched Jimmy's shoulder. "We want to buy some skates. That's what he wants. We have these three dollars. See, Miss Lady," he said, pulling the bills from his pocket.
         I looked at the money in his hand. I looked at their expectant faces. And then I looked around the store. "I'm sorry," I said, "but we've sold almost everything. We have no ... " Then my eye caught sight of the layaway shelf with its lone package.
         "Wait a minute," I told the boys. I walked over, picked up the package, unwrapped it and, miracle of miracles, there was a pair of skates!
         Jimmy reached for them. Lord, I prayed silently, let them be his size.
         And miracle added upon miracle, they were his size!
         When the older boy finished tying the laces on Jimmy's right skate and saw that it fitperfectlyhe stood up and presented the dollars to me.
         "No, I'm not going to take your money," I told him. I couldn't take his money. "I want you to have these skates, and I want you to use your money to get some gloves."
         The boys just blinked at first. Then their eyes became like saucers, and their grins stretched wide when they understood I was giving them the skates.
         What I saw in Jimmy's eyes was like a blessing. It was pure joy, and it was beautiful. My spirits rose.
         After the children had warmed up, I turned down the heater, and we walked out together. As I locked the door, I turned to the older brother and said, "How lucky that I happened to come along when I did. If you had stood there much longer, you would have frozen. But how did you boys know I would come?"
         I wasn't prepared for his reply. His gaze was steady, and he answered me softly, "I knew you would come," he said. "I asked Jesus to send you."
         The tingles in my spine weren't from the cold, I knew. God had planned this.
         As we waved goodbye, I turned home to a brighter Christmas than I had left. Tom brought his friend over to our house. Herman got out of bed; his father, "Papa" English, and sister Ella came by. We had a delicious dinner and a wonderful time.
         But the one thing that made that Christmas really joyous was the one thing that makes every Christmas wonderfulJesus was there.
* * *
Gift of the Heart
By Norman Vincent Peale
         New York City as Christmas approaches is overwhelming. Store windows blaze with lights and color, furs and jewels. Golden angels, 40 feet tall, hover over Fifth Avenue. Wealth, power, opulence.
         Through the gleaming canyons, people hurry to find last-minute gifts. Money seems to be no problem. If there's a problem, it's usually that the recipients so often have everything they need or want that it's hard to find anything suitable, anything that will really say, "I love you."
         Last December, as Christ's birthday drew near, a stranger was faced with just that problem. She had come from Switzerland to live in an American home and perfect her English. In return, she was willing to act as secretary, mind the grandchildren, do anything she was asked. She was just a teen. Her name was Ursula.
         One of the tasks Ursula's employers gave her was to keep track of Christmas presents as they arrived. There were many, and all would require acknowledgment. Ursula kept a faithful record, but with growing concern. She was grateful to her American friends; she wanted to show her gratitude by giving them a Christmas present. But nothing that she could buy with her small allowance could compare with the gifts she was recording daily. Besides, even without these gifts, it seemed to her that her employers already had everything.
         At night from her window Ursula could see the snowy expanse of Central Park and beyond it the jagged skyline of the city. Far below, taxis hooted and the traffic lights winked red and green. It was so different from the silent majesty of the Alps that at times she had to blink back tears of homesickness. It was in the solitude of her little room, a few days before Christmas, that an idea came to Ursula.
         It's true, she thought, that many people in this city have much more than I do. But surely there are many others who have far less.
         Ursula thought long and hard. Finally, on her day off, which was Christmas Eve, she went to a large department store. She moved slowly along the crowded aisles, selecting and rejecting things. At last she bought something and had it wrapped in gaily colored paper. She went out into the gray twilight and looked helplessly around. Finally she went up to a doorman, resplendent28 in blue and gold. "Excuse, please," she said in her hesitant English, "can you tell me where to find the poor street?"
         "A poor street, miss?" said the puzzled man.
         "Yes, a very poor street. The poorest in the city."
         The doorman looked doubtful.
         "Well, you might try Harlem. Or down in the Village. Or the Lower East Side, maybe."
         But these names meant nothing to Ursula. She thanked the doorman and walked along, threading her way through the stream of shoppers until she came to a policeman. "Please," she said, "can you direct me to a very poor street in ... in Harlem?"
         The policeman looked at her sharply and shook his head. "Harlem's no place for you, Miss." And he blew his whistle and sent the traffic swirling past.
         Holding her package carefully, Ursula walked on, head bowed against the sharp wind. If a street looked poorer than the one she was on, she took it. But none seemed like the slums she had heard about. Once she stopped a woman, asking, "Please, where do the very poor people live?" But the woman gave her a stare and hurried on.
         Darkness came sifting from the sky. Ursula was cold, discouraged and afraid of becoming lost. She came to an intersection and stood forlornly on the corner. What she was trying to do suddenly seemed foolish, impulsive, absurd. Then, above the traffic's roar, she heard the cheerful tinkle of a bell. On the corner opposite, a Salvation Army man was making his traditional Christmas appeal.
         At once Ursula felt better; the Salvation Army was a part of her life in Switzerland too. Surely this man could tell her what she wanted to know. She waited for the light to change, then crossed over to him. "Can you help me? I'm looking for a baby. I have here a present for the poorest baby I can find." And she held up the package with green ribbon and the gaily colored paper.
         Dressed in gloves and an overcoat a size too big for him, he seemed an ordinary man. But his eyes were kind. He looked at Ursula and stopped ringing his bell. "What sort of present?" he asked.
         "A dress. For a small, poor baby. Do you know of one?"
         "Oh, yes," he said. "Of more than one, I'm afraid."
         "Is it far away? I could take a taxi, maybe?"
         The Salvation Army man wrinkled his forehead. Finally he said, "It's almost six o'clock. My relief will show up then. If you want to wait, and if you can afford a dollar taxi ride, I'll take you to a family who needs just about everything."
         "And they have a small baby?"
         "A very small baby."
         "Then," said Ursula joyfully. "I wait!"
         The substitute bell-ringer came. A cruising taxi slowed. In its welcome warmth, Ursula told her new friend about herself, how she came to be in New York, what she was trying to do. He listened in silence, and the taxi driver listened too. When they reached their destination, the driver said, "Take your time, miss. I'll wait for you."
         On the sidewalk Ursula stared up at the forbidding building, dark, decaying, and saturated with hopelessness. A gust of iron-cold wind stirred the garbage in the street and rattled the ash cans. "They live on the third floor," the Salvation Army man said. "Shall we go up?"
         But Ursula shook her head. "They would try to thank me, and this is not from me." She pressed the package into his hand. "Take it up for me, please. Say it's from ... from someone who has everything."
         The taxi bore her swiftly back from dark streets to lit ones, from misery to abundance. She tried to visualize the Salvation Army man climbing the stairs, the knock, the explanation, the package being opened, the dress on the baby. It was hard to do.
         Arriving at the apartment house on Fifth Avenue where she lived, she fumbled in her purse. But the driver flicked the flag up. "No charge, miss."
         "No charge?" echoed Ursula, bewildered.
         "Don't worry," the driver said. "I've been paid." He smiled at her and drove away.
         Ursula was up early the next day. She set the table with special care. By the time she had finished, the family was awake, and there was all the excitement and laughter of Christmas morning. Soon the living room was a sea of discarded wrappings. Ursula thanked everyone for the presents she received. Finally, when there was a lull, she began to explain hesitantly why there seemed to be none from her. She told about going to the department store. She told about the Salvation Army man. She told about the taxi driver. When she finished, there was a long silence. No one seemed to trust himself to speak. "So you see," said Ursula, "I tried to do a kindness in your name. And this is my Christmas present to you...."
         How do I happen to know all this? I know it because ours was the home where Ursula lived. Ours was the Christmas she shared. We were like many Americans, so richly blessed that to this child from across the sea there seemed to be nothing she could add to the material things we already had. So she offered something of greater value: a gift of the heart, an act of kindness carried out in our name.
         Strange, isn't it? A shy Swiss girl, alone in a great impersonal city. You would think that nothing she could do would affect anyone. And yet, by trying to give away love, she brought the true spirit of Christmas into our lives, the spirit of selfless giving. That was Ursula's presentand she shared it with us all.
* * *
Discussion Questions
         Following are a number of questions which can be applied to each of the stories in this magazine. After reading each story, you can choose several of these questions for discussion. You do not necessarily need to ask or discuss every question after reading every story, but please choose those which apply and are helpful.
         1. Is there anything that could have been done to avoid the difficult situation the people in this story found themselves in?
         2. The people in the story responded in one way to what happened to them.What are some other ways that people might react if the same thing happened to them?
         3. Does this story show you anything about the benefits of the training, education and instruction you have received? Please discuss.
         4. How might you have reacted if this had happened to you? How do you think you should react in similar situations? What would you pray and ask God to do?
         5. Did you feel that the people in these stories could have been more of a witness? If so, how?
         6. What lessons could you learn from a situation like this?
         7. Why do you think God allowed this situation for these people?
         8. Is there anything in these stories that you don't understand?
         9. Did the Lord do a miracle in this story? If so, how did He use the miracle in the lives of the people in the story? Did it bring a change in their lives?
         10. What specific answers to prayer are there in this story?
         11. Does this story encourage your faith that God will help you in difficult, dangerous or seemingly impossible situations?
         12. Have you ever experienced the Lord doing a miracle to save your life or someone else's? If so, what was it? Did it change your outlook on life or your relationship with the Lord or others?
* * *
Glossary for Young Readers
         (The meaning given is for the use of the word in the story and does not cover every meaning of the word.)

         1 treacherous: dangerous
         2 hypothermia: a condition of reduced body temperature caused by exposure to extreme cold
         3 Inuit: a member of any of the Eskimo peoples of North America, particularly of Arctic Canada and Greenland
         4 ominous: threatening, like a sign of something bad about to happen
         5 frigid: very cold
         6 affluent: wealthy, rich
         7 ferocity: the state of being severe, savage
         8 sodden: thoroughly soaked
         9 culmination: coming to completion
         10 fate: something that is supposedly inevitably destined to happen to a person
         11 pediatrician: a doctor specializing in the care of children and babies and childrens' diseases
         l2 listless: lacking energy
         13 blood transfusion: the injection of blood from one person into another in cases of severe accidents, injuries or illnesses
         14 inclement: stormy
         15 turnpike: a toll road, expressway with tollgates
         16 CB radio: two-way radio used by truckers, other motorists and radio hobbyists. CB stands for Citizen Band, the radio frequencies reserved for such use
         17 grouse: any of various plump, chicken-like game birds, chiefly of the Northern Hemisphere and having mottled or grayish plumage
         18 elk: large deer-like animal
         19 knoll: a small rounded hill
         20 paternal: fatherly
         21 minuet: a slow, stately dance for groups of couples, originating in 17th century France
         22 profusely: plentifully, pouring forth abundantly
         23 chickadee: any of several small, plump North American birds, having predominantly gray plumage and a dark-crowned head
         24 winter solstice: the day of the year with the shortest amount of daylight. In the Northern Hemisphere it is December 21st
         25 funk: a state of severe depression
         26 layaway: a payment plan in which the buyer reserves an article of merchandise by placing a deposit with the retailer until the balance is paid in full
         27 exuberance: unrestrained joy and enthusiasm
         28 resplendent: splendid or dazzling in appearance

(Definitions condensed from the Amercian Heritage Dictionary, and Chambers Twentieth Century Dictionary.)