A Treasury of Christmas Miracles (13 page)

Marilyn was a pianist and was scheduled to play the piano for the Christmas cantata. Although she had missed choir practice
on occasion, her attendance was crucial that evening. So at six-forty-five Martha went upstairs to Marilyn’s room and leaned
inside.

“Wake up!” she announced. “We’re leaving in twenty minutes for practice.”

Marilyn moaned and rolled over once in bed. Certain that her daughter was awake and would now get up and get ready for practice,
Martha returned to the kitchen.

At seven-ten, when Marilyn had still not emerged from her room, Martha trudged back up the stairs. The young woman lay on
her bed still sound asleep.

“Marilyn!” Martha said loudly, moving toward her daughter. “What’s wrong with you? You need to wake up right now and get ready.
We have to leave!”

Marilyn nodded. “Yeah, I think I’m awake now,” she said, shaking her head and opening her eyes wider. “I’ll get ready as fast
as I can.”

Martha went down to wait while her daughter frantically ran around upstairs trying to get ready before her mother had to come
up again. But try as she might, she was unable to finish until seven-twenty-five. Just as she came down the stairs toward
where her mother stood waiting disapprovingly, the house went pitch-black.

“Great,” Martha muttered. “Now we’ll really be late.”

* * *

Donna, Rowena, and Sadie had been best friends since grade school. As far back as they could remember, their families had
attended West Side Baptist Church, and for years they had sung in the children’s choir. Each of the girls loved to perform,
and in their private moments they had always dreamed about forming a singing group and being famous one day after they graduated
from high school.

Now that they were teenagers, too old for the youth choir and too young for the senior choir, Martha Paul had devised a way
to keep them involved. She created the West Side Girls Trio, a special choir for the three friends in which they could work
on musical pieces and perform them occasionally for the congregation.

The number they had been practicing for the Christmas cantata was their most beautiful yet, and none of the girls could wait
to present it that evening at practice.

“Let’s get there early,” Rowena suggested to the others. “That way we can visit a while before practice.”

The girls made a plan and arranged for Donna to borrow her father’s car and pick up Rowena and Sadie at their homes by seven.
That way they could all be at the church by seven-fifteen.

But at seven-ten that evening, after watching out her front window for several seemingly endless minutes, Rowena finally pursed
her lips in frustration. Donna was never late when they made plans to do something. She picked up the telephone and dialed
her friend’s number.

“Hello?” Donna answered.

“Donna? What are you doing? You’re supposed to be here to pick me up.”

“Rowena, what are you talking about?” Donna said. “I’m waiting for Sadie. I thought she was going to pick both of us up.”

“No, that wasn’t the plan,” Rowena said. “I can’t believe this! Now we’re all going to be late and no one’s going to take
us seriously.”

“Ro, I’m telling you Sadie is supposed to be doing the driving tonight.”

Rowena sighed. She had no transportation other than catching rides from her friends, and she was determined to work out their
misunderstandings so that they could get to choir practice.

At seven-twenty-five Donna called and explained that she had the car keys in her hand, Sadie was waiting outside, and she
was on her way out the door. Just before the girls hung up, everything in both their houses went black.

* * *

Theodore Charles was not accustomed to being apart from his wife, Anne. The couple had been married fifteen years and had
rarely spent a day away from each other during that time. But that spring Anne had some family matters to attend to in nearby
Lincoln, and she wouldn’t be home until the next morning.

“Don’t worry, Theodore,” she told him before she left. “I’ve made plans for you and the boys. You’ll be having supper with
the McKinters on Wednesday night while I’m in Lincoln.”

Theodore was pleased with this arrangement. The McKinters were a kind couple well past retirement age, and Margaret McKinter
was one of the best cooks in Beatrice. He knew that he and the boys, ages eight and ten, would be in good hands while Anne
was gone.

They even had plans for after the meal. Wednesday night was choir practice, and he and Anne usually took the boys along with
them. The fact that Anne was gone didn’t change things. Theodore and the boys would have dinner at the McKinters at six o’clock
and leave shortly after seven so they would make practice early enough to visit with his friend, Herb Kipf, since both men
were busy the rest of the week and rarely had time to talk.

As he’d expected, Margaret McKinter’s meal was wonderful: corned beef with biscuits and gravy and homemade apple pie for dessert.

“I must say, Margaret,” Theodore commented after the meal. “You make the meanest apple pie this side of the Blue River.”

“Oh, now, that ain’t so,” Margaret gushed. “That pretty little wife of yours makes a pie just as fine as any around town.
I remember when she was just a wee little thing, that Annie girl. Yes, sir, just a little girl with the prettiest dresses
and . . .”

Theodore had expected this. Along with Margaret’s good cooking she was also quite the conversationalist. Often a person could
rest ten or fifteen minutes while Margaret did a fine job of carrying on a conversation all by herself.

That being the case, Theodore was not surprised to find himself nodding in agreement and glancing at his watch as seven-fifteen
slipped past. At seven-twenty-five he silently determined to cut into Margaret’s monologue, apologize profusely, and quickly
exit with his boys before he missed choir practice altogether.

“And so like I was saying”—Margaret McKinter drew in a quick breath—“whenever Thelma does her laundry without the bleach—I’m
talking about her underclothes and all the rest—and then hangs them out to dry on the—”

Suddenly everything in the McKinter house went dark, and for the first time in nearly an hour there was utter silence in the
room.

* * *

Gina Hicks was unsure about what to do that evening. She very much enjoyed being a member of the West Side Baptist Church
choir and planned on singing a solo in the upcoming Christmas cantata. Certainly the choir director would expect her at practice
since the performance was less than two weeks away.

But then there was her mother to consider.

Norma Hicks was a charter member of the Ladies’ Missionary Group, which met one Thursday each month at a different home. That
month the women planned to meet at the Hickses’ home, and the meeting was set for the following night.

“Gina, I know you need to go to practice,” her mother had said earlier in the evening. “But I could really use your help.
Besides cleaning, I have some baking to do, and I’d like to get it all finished tonight.”

Gina’s younger sisters and brother would be taking their baths and getting ready for bed, and Gina knew there was no one else
to help her mother. Still, she struggled with her decision. She lived so close to the church she could hurry right home after
practice to help her mother. But maybe her mother really needed her, and in that case she would definitely stay home.

Gina looked at the clock. Seven-twenty. There was still time to get to the church before practice. She’d just begun searching
for her coat when she heard her mother struggling to break up an argument between her two sisters.

Gina sighed softly.

“Mom!” she yelled across the house. “Don’t worry about things. I’ll stay and help.”

After all, she figured, God might want her to sing in the choir—but first he’d want her to help her mother. She began humming
the melody to her solo number and headed toward the kitchen. Quickly she dialed her friend and fellow choir member, Agnes
O’Shaugnessy.

“I won’t be there tonight. Tell Mrs. Paul I’m working on my number, and I’ll get with her about it later.”

“Okay, Mary and I are just about to leave. We’ll let her know.”

Gina hung up the phone, but just as she began washing dishes, there was a distant roar. Suddenly the windows began rattling
and the ground beneath her feet began to shake.

Norma came flying down the stairs with the younger girls racing behind her. “Oh, dear Lord!” she cried out. “What in heaven’s
name was that?”

At that instant they were enveloped in black.

* * *

Mary Jones and Agnes O’Shaugnessy were young mothers who always carpooled to choir practice at West Side Baptist Church. Usually
by seven o’clock they had finished dinner and gotten their toddler-aged children ready for bed so that their husbands would
have no trouble taking over while they attended practice.

That Wednesday it was Mary’s turn to drive and she arrived at Agnes’s house at seven-fifteen. Agnes lived just two blocks
from the church, so usually the two women talked for a few minutes before leaving for practice. But on that night Agnes was
caught up in the final segment of a favorite TV show and she motioned for Mary to sit down.

“This is great,” she said. “You’ve got to see this guy.”

The program was one of the neighborhood favorites, and Mary soon found herself hooked. Even after the phone call from Gina
Hicks, Mary and Agnes continued to watch the program. Before either woman realized what had happened, it was seven-twenty-five.

“Oh, no!” Agnes gasped. “We’re going to be late. I’m so sorry, Mary. I lost all track of time.”

Mary stood up quickly, eyes still turned to the final moments of the television show. Just then Agnes’s husband, Paul, joined
them with the baby in his arms.

“Aren’t you going to be late, girls?” he asked, looking at the clock.

“Nah,” Mary said. “Besides, I love this show, and we’ll still be there by seven-thirty. The church is just around the corner.”

In less than a minute the credits began rolling on the screen as the program ended and both women said goodbye to Paul and
headed for the car. Just as they opened the car door they heard the sound of a terrifying explosion, the force of which shook
the ground and nearly knocked them off their feet.

* * *

Pastor Nubert had finished dinner by seven o’clock that evening and was helping his wife with the dishes. Susan, their six-year-old
daughter, was already dressed and waiting by the front door, so their evening was right on schedule. The pastor smiled. He
was looking forward to choir practice since the cantata was coming up so quickly. Everyone was excited about the performance,
and it brought an even greater purpose to their gathering together and singing.

“Should be a good turnout tonight,” he commented to his wife.

Before she could answer, Susan walked into the kitchen.

“Daddy, I’m thirsty,” she complained.

Pastor Nubert looked at the clock on the wall. Seven- oh-five. They needed to leave in the next two minutes if they wanted
to arrive by seven-fifteen.

“Honey, can’t you wait until after practice? We’ll have punch and cookies when we’re all done singing,” he said, stooping
to her level and brushing a lock of hair from her eyes.

The little girl shook her head adamantly. “My throat hurts and I want a drink now, please,” she said politely. “Please, Daddy.”

The pastor sighed. “All right, but we have to leave in just a minute. Drink it quickly, okay?”

Susan clapped her hands happily. “Yes, Daddy. I will.”

He walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of red punch, then poured some into a cup and handed it to her.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she said, turning around and walking out of the kitchen. Pastor Nubert watched as the child rounded the corner
into the living room and then tripped on the throw rug, dumping the red drink down her pinafore dress. Immediately the liquid
seeped into the beige rug, and Susan cried for help.

“I’m so sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to.” Tears had formed in her eyes and the pastor’s heart went out to her. He moved quickly
to the little girl’s side. “It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll clean it up.”

In an instant the child’s mother joined them with a rag and a bucket of water, working as fast as she could to dilute the
stain on the carpet and clean off Susan’s dress.

“You’ll need to change, dear,” she said patiently.

The pastor looked at the clock once more. Seven-thirteen.

“We’re going to be late,” he muttered as their daughter left the room.

“Everybody should be late once in his life,” his wife said with a smile. “Don’t let it kill you, George.”

He sighed again and began helping with the cleanup. “You’re right. Go help Susan. We’ll get there when we get there.”

Fourteen minutes later, just as the Nuberts had finished cleaning up the mess and were preparing to leave for practice, the
house suddenly shuddered and the lights went out. They were left standing in utter darkness.

“What is it, George?” his wife whispered. “What do you think happened?”

The pastor held his car keys in his hand and led his family carefully through the unlit house to the front door. “I don’t
know. Let’s get down to the church and see if the lights are off there, too.”

* * *

Herb Kipf had finished dinner and was working on a letter he was writing to the secretary of another Baptist church across
town. He often helped out with paperwork in the church office and that included writing letters.

At age twenty-nine, Herb was a machinist and a bachelor who lived at home with his parents. He often worked long hours and
nearly every day volunteered some of this time down at West Side Baptist Church. He’d been a member of the congregation all
his life, and he’d sung in the choir since he was twelve. In fact, most of the choir was made up of a core of people who had
sung together for the past seventeen years. “Herb, aren’t you going to be late for choir?” his mother called to him that evening.
“It’s ten after seven.”