Jack Canfield - Chicken Soup for the Soul: Miracles Happen: 101 Inspirational Stories about Hope, Answered Prayers, and Divine Intervention

Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen are the co-founders of Chicken Soup for the Soul. Jack is the author of many bestselling books and is CEO of the Canfield Training Group. Mark is a prolific writer and has had a profound influence in the field of human potential through his library of audios, videos, and articles. Jack and Mark have received many awards and honors, including a Guinness World Records Certificate for having seven books from the Chicken Soup for the Soul series on the New York Times bestseller list on May 24, 1998. You can reach them at www.jackcanfield.com and www.markvictorhansen.com.

Amy Newmark has been Chicken Soup for the Souls publisher, coauthor, and editor-in-chief for the last six years, after a 30-year career as a writer, speaker, financial analyst, and business executive in the worlds of finance and telecommunications. Amy is a Chartered Financial Analyst and a magna cum laude graduate of Harvard College, where she majored in Portuguese, minored in French, and traveled extensively. She and her husband have four grown children.

After a long career writing books on telecommunications, voluminous financial reports, business plans, and corporate press releases, Chicken Soup for the Soul is a breath of fresh air for Amy. She loves creating these life-changing books for Chicken Soup for the Souls wonderful readers. She has coauthored and/or edited more than 100 Chicken Soup for the Soul books.

You can reach Amy with any questions or comments through webmaster@chickensoupforthesoul.com and you can follow her on Twitter @amynewmark or @chickensoupsoul.

Angels deliver Fate to our doorstepand anywhere else it is needed.

~Jessi Lane Adams

I wasnt looking forward to Christmas. The past year had been a downer. I hadnt counted on missing my mother so much. Often, Id driven by her apartment building on my nursing rounds, thinking I would run in for a quick coffee. Then I would rememberno more coffee perking, no cookies, no Swedish coffee cake, no Mom.

She left too soon. One day, she wound up in emergency for a little sore on my leg, as she put it. Within twelve days, she was dead from a widespread infection that couldnt be stopped. The tough lady I knew was no match for necrotizing fasciitis.

I ached for her. She seldom left my mind. The day she died, I started writing songs. That was a year and three hundred songs ago. Memories of her live in everything I write.

We sang her to Heaven in the hospital room with Angels Watch Oer Me, a song I penned while I mopped her fevered brow. How could I drum up Christmas spirit this year? I didnt think I could.

Hi, Gloria! Coming out tonight? It was one of my band mates.

I had forgotten. Wednesdayjam night. Bluegrassers from the town gathered for a night of music, or jamming, coffee and treats at the community hall on Maple Street. It was usually a fun time for me.

NahIve got a lot of paperwork, and its going to take me a while, I said.

Paperwork? Whered that come from? I had no paperwork. Actually, I wanted to put up my little Christmas village. I had bought some new pieces, and my granddaughter would be looking for it.

Aw, come on. Its the last one before Christmas.

Jeez, she got whiny sometimes. Couldnt she tell I just wanted to have my own little pity party tonight?

Besides, its your turn to pick up Isabelle, my band mate said.

Isabelle. I couldnt disappoint her. I loved this woman. She was an elderly blind lady we met at a concert a few years back. Attended everything we put on. She was our best ambassadorand she made fantastic hermit cookies.

Isabelle had no family that we knew of, and couldnt drive, so she depended on the Bluegrass Guild members to bring her to the jams. She sang and played guitar too.

Ill phone her and pick her up, I said.

Maybe the jam would pull me out of this funk. Grabbing my mandolin and my autoharp, I headed out. The Christmas village would have to wait.

The aroma of coffee greeted me, and made me miss my mother again. People rose to help Isabelle to her seat.

Coffee, Isabelle? someone asked her.

No, maybe later, she answered. Lets sing. Key of G, Blue Ridge Mountain Blues. It sure didnt take her long to unpack and tune up.

When coffee time rolled around, I hated to stop. It was one of those rare nights when everyone was clicking. The music was top notch, everyone playing his or her best.

As we prepared to go back to jamming, a stranger came in, carrying a guitar. She looked a bit lost, so I went over to greet her. I remembered my first time there, same feeling.

Come on inIm Gloria. Have a seat. Still lots of coffee.

Thanks. Im just in town for a conference tomorrow at your hospital. I saw the jam notice in the paper. Mind if I join you? Im Violet, by the way.

Not at all. Were just getting ready to start up again. Love to hear you play, Violet. Her pale face was lined and tired, eyes sad. This woman had a story.

I worked at the hospital. I knew the conference had something to do with development of a new treatment centre. Maybe she was a presenter.

Oh, Im not that good. I just like playing along, Violet said. Mmm. This coffees good.

With that, she sat down across from Isabelle and me, as the banjo signaled the beginning of Katy Daley.

Violet played a mean guitar, but she seemed distracted by Isabelle. It was not unusual. People stared at Isabelle when they first saw her. Her eyes were continually wandering upwards. She sometimes wore dark glasses, but tonight she had chosen not to.

I finished Dream of a Miners Child with harmony and backup from my band mates. Isabelle stood up. In a soft voice, she began singing Silent Night. We played along in the background, but I noticed that Violet had put her guitar down to search for something. Probably a Kleenex, because tears streamed down her face. The old carol must have hit the same nerve as me, especially as sung by Isabelle, hauntingly beautiful. Music moved some people that way.

As the carol ended, Violet got up and walked over. She took Isabelles hand. The room fell silent. People gaped, including me.

Mom?

Violet? Is that you? My girl? The two fell into each others arms, sobbing openly.

By the end of the evening, we were treated to a duet from Violet and Isabelle, and a heartrending story of how and why they had drifted apart. Violet was on the road, speaking to organizations about her life as a former drug addict.

Isabelle didnt say too much. She did tell us she always prayed Violet was all right.

It was the best jam ever, and I am glad I didnt miss it. My mother was still on my mind, but the events of the evening did much to dull the sorrow I had felt earlier.

The music was good, Isabelles cookies were delicious, and we were witnesses to a miraculous reunion on Maple Street. To this day, I think angels had something to do with it.

~Gloria Jean Hansen