Short Stories
Mirabelle
and the Christmas Miracle
By Harold O. Wilson
“How unobtrusively and simply do those events take place on earth
that are so heralded in heaven!
On earth it happened in this wise: There was a poor young
wife,…”
It was the traditional family reading of Martin Luther’s Christmas
sermon and Mirabelle Arablla Southerland was in no mood for it. She
was still upset and bothered, and the self-assured calmness of her
father’s voice only added to her disquiet. How could everyone be so
calm? Little Ian wedged in between her mother and father was almost
asleep. All of them gathered in the living room two days before
Christmas reading these silly words. How could they act as though
nothing had happened.
Mirabelle kept glancing under the corner of the couch where three
days earlier they had found Roger all scrunched up, cold, and
lifeless. What a terrible morning that was. For as long as she could
remember, Roger had been her companion. Her mother told her he
licked her face first thing when she came home from being born. He
was there to greet her each day when she returned from school,
jumping straight up in the air, one, two, three, four, five times at
least and then gently biting her fingers. This silver-gray poodle
had filled her with warmth, confidence, and love for the full twelve
years of her life. And
now he was gone. Just like that, he was gone, and she was the only
one who seemed to care. Even though Ian cried like the Missouri, he
was only five and seemed to be reacting more to his sister’s sorrow
than to Roger’s death.
The family had held a little service in the backyard where Roger was
buried and through the day her father and mother had discussed the
nature of life and death with her and little Ian. They explained how
life and death are mingled with each other like a stream that joins
a river becomes a part of that river. Life never goes away. It is
always there, part of us, and Roger will always be part of us
because he shared our lives. Every time he jumped when he saw us,
nibbled our fingers, or rolled over on his back and gave himself to
us with such complete abandon, he changed our lives and helped make
us who we are. He would
never go away. They said that was important and someday she and Ian
would understand.
But Mirabelle didn’t understand and didn’t really care to
understand. All she knew was that Roger wasn’t there anymore. And to
make matters worse, they weren’t even going to be home for
Christmas. They were leaving the next morning to spend the holidays
with a friend of her mothers in
“Let us, then,
meditate upon the Nativity just as we see it happening in our own
babies,”
her father read. “Behold
Christ lying in the lap of his young mother. What can be sweeter
than the Babe, what more lovely than the mother! What fairer than
her youth! What more gracious than her virginity! Look at the Child,
knowing nothing. Yet all that is belongs to him, that your
conscience should not fear but take comfort in him.”
Mirabelle took no comfort, however. She missed Roger and she and Ian
would be far from home and among strangers on Christmas Eve.
The little town of
Marble Conner lived alone in a small white
The house was cozy and warm. A big fire in the fireplace produced
dancing shadows on the walls of the living room and made the ruby
eyes of the owls supporting the andirons glow fiercely in the dim
light. Little Ian sat in front of the fire and stared fascinated at
the glowing eyes. The fleeting shadows, the soft glow, the deepness
of the black star-filled sky framed by a picture window at the far
end of the room, and the ruby eyes following, steadfastly following
her movements opened in Mirabelle a feeling of smallness and at the
same time a sense of wonder. The room was close, the shadows strange
and cavorting all about, and yet it opened on the vastness of the
universe. How many mysteries were there to be unraveled, she
thought. And the wonder of the room and the presents under the
Christmas tree almost made Mirabelle forget her hostility.
The next day was Christmas Eve and there was a lot of work to
prepare for the pageant that evening. Marble Conner had been in
charge of the event for many years and was proud that people in
costume and live animals made up the manger scene. Starting at the
church, the holy family, complete with Mary on a donkey, would set
out on their journey followed by the people of Barton. After
stopping at a number of houses and being refused a place to stay,
they would arrive at the crude stable erected in the middle of the
common — a three sided shed with sheep, cows, goats, and a donkey
tethered in the hay.
Mary and Joseph would take their place next to the trough surrounded
by the animals and the church choir. The townspeople would then
gather around for the reading of the Christmas story and the singing
of carols.
This particular Christmas Eve was no different except that it was
still as death and so cold the snow made a dry squeaking sound as
Mary mounted the donkey and started off. The evening was absolutely
clear and the stars looked as though they could be plucked from the
night sky one by one. Truly, no one would have been surprised to see
children empty their pockets of shining stars on going to bed that
night.
Holding Ian’s hand, Mirabelle and her mother and father followed the
holy family. Except for the squeaking snow, not a sound was made. In
the whole crowd, no one spoke a word, not even the children. Mary
and Joseph would stop before a house, knock and as the front door
opened spilling warm light across the steps, Mary would reach out
and with her open hand ask for shelter. A head would shake and the
door would close. From house to house the sad entourage moved in
silence until they arrived at the manger. With everyone gathered
around, the Christmas story was begun.
“In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world
should be enrolled....” And then the choir would sing,
“O come, O come, Emmanuel, and
ransom captive
Mirabelle was standing on her tiptoes holding her father’s hand
still thinking all this was foolishness. Ian was held by his mother
as the voice read, “And in
that region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch
over their flock by night. And the angel of the Lord appeared to
them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were
filled with fear. And the angel said to them, ‘Be not afraid; for
behold, I bring you good news of a great joy which will come to all
the people; for to you is born this day in the city of David a
Savior, who is Christ the Lord.’”
In the stillness that followed while they waited for the choir to
begin the next hymn, Mirabelle said, “I hear a baby crying.”
“Shhhh!” said her father.
“No! No!” cried Mirabelle, “I hear a baby!”
And she pulled loose from her father and pushed in front of
the crowd to the edge of the crèche. “There is a baby!” Mirabelle
said. “I can hear him!” And Ian wriggled down from his mothers arms
and pushed through to his sister and took her hand. Then all the
children in the crowd began to come to the crèche. One by one they
left their parents. By twos they came, and then in whole groups they
worked their way forward until all the children were gathered before
the crib.
Mirabelle saw that there was only a doll in the manger but still she
heard the soft crying of the infant. Then a clear strong voice from
among the children began to sing,
“It came up-on the midnight
clear, That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth, To touch their harps of
gold: Peace on the earth, good-will to men, From heaven’s all
gracious King.”
Mirabelle and all the children then began to sing as if with one
voice, “Silent night, holy
night, All is calm, all is bright Round yon virgin mother and child.
Holy infant so tender and mild, Sleep in heavenly peace, Sleep in
heavenly peace.”
In the silence that followed the children’s singing, the infant’s
crying softly filled the common, and everyone was amazed — everyone
except Mirabelle. She had heard it first and recognized what it was
and said to herself, yes.
She thought of Roger, and said, yes. She thought of things
she had done and the things that frightened her most and said, yes.
She shivered at the uncertainty of the years to come and said, yes.
She let her mind and body fill with the cold, the quiet, and
the mystery of the night and said, yes.
When they arrived back at Marble Conner’s house, Mirabelle’s mother
told the children they could each open one present before going to
bed. Ian opened a package that contained a red front-end-loader and
he clapped with delight. Mirabelle chose a package that displayed
some mysterious holes. When she turned it over she heard a curious
scratching and out tumbled a little ball of brown fur. Mirabelle was
on her knees and the puppy ran toward her, jumped in her lap,
climbed up her front, licked her face, and tumbled end over end back
to her lap where he nibbled on her fingers for a moment.
Then he curled up into a little ball and went to sleep.
Mirabelle looked at her father and mother and said, “What an amazing
night this has been.”
“What’s his name going to be?” her mother said.
“Well, he’s not Roger,” Mirabelle said, “But he’s wonderful and he
says his name is Ralph.”
Then, after thinking for a moment she said, “Papa.”
“Yes Mirabelle.” said her father.
“Please read the story again.”
Mirabelle’s father picked up the book,
“How unobtrusively and simply
do those events take place on earth,” he read,
“that are so heralded in heaven!”