Editors of Adams Media - A Cup of Comfort Stories for Christmas: Celebrating the Warmth, Joy and Wonder of the Holiday

Avon, Massachusetts

The spirit of Christmas is in every shared joy and in every act of kindness during this wondrous time of year. Yet, in the hustle and bustle of the Christmas season (which seems to begin earlier each year) and with the commercialization of this sacred holiday (which seems to get more brazen each year), it is easy to lose ones Christmas spirit. Fortunately, Christmas-inspired stories are always there to boost your yuletide spirits.

The gifts of the Christmas spirit joy, compassion, peace, hope, love can be found within the heartwarming stories you are about to read in A Cup of Comfort Stories for Christmas . May these blessings grace you every day of the year, every year of your life.

Miracle in Georgetown

By David Michael Smith

H E STAGGERED IN fifteen minutes after the traditional holiday hymn sing had begun, plopping with a thud into the wooden pew directly behind me. It was Christmas Eve night at historic St. Pauls Episcopal Church in the small and quaint town of Georgetown, Delaware, and midnight Mass was scheduled to commence in about twenty minutes. Dozens of candles cast a warm glow throughout the church. Accompanied by the pipe organist, the congregation joined the choir in a unified voice of celebration and joy.

I recall smelling the strong odor of alcohol right behind me. Trying to appear inconspicuous, I nonchalantly turned at an angle while I continued singing so I could glance at the whiskey-breathed intruder. A young man, perhaps age twenty-five, maybe younger, sat alone in the pew, a drunken smile plastered across his unshaven face. His hair was bushy and uncombed, his clothing unbefitting a reverent church service. I did not recognize the fellow and later would learn that nobody else knew him either, which is odd in Georgetown, a friendly place where everyone seems to know everybody else and their family trees.

I immediately realized that the man was confused, and not just with the Christmas Eve service, which for a first-time visitor can be somewhat perplexing. He was disoriented, in general. He stumbled aimlessly through the hymnal and a prayer book like a child leafing through coloring books at the doctors office. He was obviously intoxicated and his behavior made me uncomfortable. Judging by the numerous nervous stares I observed, targeted in the young mans direction, some subtle and some not so subtle, others shared my opinion.

A good-natured parishioner named Bob left his family and his regularly appointed pew and joined the fellow, shaking his hand and introducing himself with a warm smile. Bob helped the man throughout the remainder of the hymn sing, assisting the delighted guy with locating the proper songs and directing him with basic liturgical functions, such as when to stand, sit, and kneel. With each song, the drunken stranger sang zealously louder and genuinely off key, although I suspect he felt he was performing as well as Pavarotti. I found his butchering of the traditional holiday carols both disturbing and amusing at the same time. Though he couldnt sing a lick, he certainly was having fun.

The hymn sing-along ended and the service began with O Come All Ye Faithful, as a procession of priests in robes and acolytes bearing torches entered from the back of the church. Someone in the procession waved a canister of incense around, preparing the sanctuary for worship and Gods presence, but it made my eyes water and I sneezed. The service continued with prayer and Bible readings about the birth of the Savior, the infant Jesus. Good Samaritan Bob continued to befriend the man, who grinned with delight, and I, my heart softening, traded smiles with him.

Why was I at first angry that hed come here tonight? I thought. This is Gods house, not mine, and all are welcomed in the house of the Lord.

I wondered whether the young man was lonely or depressed on this holiday eve, and had first sought the comfort of liquor, drowning unknown sorrows, and had somehow journeyed by our church. Perhaps hed heard the festive Christmas music outside the ancient brick walls. Maybe hed seen the church aglow through the windows, holly wreaths hanging from the huge oaken doors, like one of those wonderful Thomas Kinkade landscape portraits, so inviting. Perhaps something deep within his heart had prompted him to go inside. Maybe he simply needed to be in the warm company of other human beings. I wondered who he was and where hed come from. Did he have a family? Was he married? Did he have children?

The priest moved to the pulpit to begin his Christmas homily. The father had preached for only a few minutes when he abruptly stopped his sermon. I initially thought that hed lost his place or was pausing for oratorical effect. But then I noticed him looking upon the congregation with a concerned frown rippling across his forehead. A low, curious murmur spread throughout the congregation. Everyone, including myself, looked to where the priest was gazing. About four pews back from the front, on the left side, Bill, an elderly man who faithfully attended every Sunday, had slumped over. Several members of the congregation had moved to his aid, thinking he had merely passed out. The situation, however, was far graver.

The service came to a complete halt as one parishioner sprinted to call 911. Several people laid Bill on his back in the pew and attempted to revive him. Although a medical doctor and several nurses were on hand that evening, the matter did not appear good. Bill was unconscious, had stopped breathing, and his pulse was weak. Even from across the center aisle in dim lighting I could see his flesh turning gray.

Stunned, most of us just sat or stood in our pews, paralyzed with fear and disbelief. A beloved member of our church community was dying before our eyes, and suddenly it no longer felt like Christmas Eve. I felt helpless, lost. Then a voice spoke out.

Why dont we all get down on our knees and pray for the old guy, the voice bellowed from behind me. It was our visitor, his voice slurred but strong. Maybe God can help him.

Like a slap in the face, many of us snapped out of our panicked stupor and silently knelt in agreement with the mans suggestion. As several people continued to tend to Bill, who was near death, the rest of the congregation prayed in honest, pleading whispers. I prayed harder and more sincerely than I ever had, my wet eyes tightly shut.

Moments later, I heard a commotion to my left. I opened my eyes just as I whispered Amen and was shocked to see Bill sitting up, his eyes open, the paleness in his face rapidly disappearing. Happy sobs could be heard throughout the church; our prayers had been gloriously answered! Despite numerous inquiries, Bill assured us that he was fine. When the paramedics arrived, racing down the center aisle with their equipment and stretcher, he refused to go to the hospital, insisting on staying for the conclusion of the Christmas Eve Mass. And after everything settled down, the service was, in fact, finished without further incident.

After the closing benediction and song a rousing Joy to the World I turned to shake the young mans hand, but he was gone. He had apparently left during the Eucharist as the congregation filed pew by pew for the bread and wine, the body and blood of our Savior.