THE COVID CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

by Cynthia Reeg

            I pressed my face against the living room’s cold window pane. This winter my chin rested three inches higher above the cross piece than last year, when I was only ten. A frosty circle appeared as I sighed. Behind me, Mom and Dad stood huddled in the kitchen. They spoke low. I edged into the hallway and peeked around the door.

            “It won’t be much of a Christmas this year, Sonia.” Dad’s heavy words said more.  Somehow, he blamed himself for losing his job—even though COVID had shut so many things down already. 

He jammed his hands deep into his pockets, as though he expected to find forgotten treasure there. Like money, or jewels, or a Christmas miracle maybe. That’s the way the silly TV shows that my little sister Mia watched always solved their problems. With a Christmas miracle.

            “Don’t worry,” said Mom, pressing her hand to her heart. “We’ll make this Christmas special. You’ll see.”   

            I saw Dad shake his head. He pulled on his stocking cap and strode out the door. 

            I felt a tug on my jeans.

            “Come on, Tony. Play Christmas with me.” Mia stood with her hands on her hips, white paper wings masking-taped to her back. She always pretended to be the angel.

            “We’ve already played Christmas,” I said, squatting to her level. “Can’t you find something else to play—without me?”

            “You can be all three of the wise men,” said Mia. “And you won’t be lost anymore because I’ll show you the way to the manager.”

            “The angel doesn’t do that,” I said. “The star leads the wise men to Bethlehem.”

            “I bet the angel could if they asked her to.” Mia hopped in place, trying to flap her droopy paper wings.  

“Tony!” Mom’s call from the kitchen came just in time. 

            “Sorry, Mia. Got to go.” I flicked one of her floppy wings as I scooted past.

            The warm kitchen smelled of chicken and spices. My stomach growled. 

“What do you need, Mom?” 

            “Here’s some soup I want you to take to Mrs. Hosea.” Mom snapped the plastic lid in place. “She’s still moving pretty slow after her fall. Wear your mask and keep your distance.”

            “Oh, man! I’d rather play with Mia.” 

A visit with our neighbor, Mrs. Hosea, was like torture—in slow motion. But I tugged on my jacket and face mask and cradled the warm soup in my gloved hands.

            I knocked on Mrs. Hosea’s door. Her scratchy voice commanded me to come in.

            Once inside, I tried not to breathe the musty smell or spread any germs. “Here’s some soup, Mrs. Hosea. Hope you get to feeling better.” I put it on the old-fashioned table by the door and started sliding out.

            “Set it down. Here. Beside me.” She motioned to an end table stained with water rings. Her floppy hands reminded me of Mia’s droopy wings.

            As soon as I set the bowl down next to her, Mrs. Hosea’s hands flapped again.

            “I need you to help with one more thing.” She pointed toward the hallway closet. “Look in there for a red box.”

            A red box. What could Mrs. Hosea hide away in a red box? Would it a big or little box? Would I even be able to find it? Old people horded stuff like crazy. I’d watched shows on the Discovery Channel about that.

Slowly, I pulled open the creaky closet door, expecting mountains of stuff to fall. But the closet was mostly bare. I pushed aside a cobweb and spotted a few boxes behind a winter coat. I pulled out a dusty red box.

“That’s it,” said Mrs. Hosea, sitting up straighter in the worn brown leather chair. Next, she pointed to the scuffed-up coffee table before her. “Put it here. Yes, gently. Gently. It’s breakable.”

            Without a bit of a smile or a thank you, Mrs. Hosea waved me out the door.  

            I couldn’t believe it! She wasn’t going to let me see what was inside.  

            Fine. I shouldn’t stick around this maybe germy place anyway. I slammed the door behind me.

            The next day was Sunday. Dad still looked sad as we walked to church. But he tried to sing angel songs with Mia—who had finally taken off her wings. At church, we sat spaced far apart from the few others there. We all wore our masks, making our prayer responses sound muffled and sad somehow. 

After we returned home, Mom called me to the kitchen once more. “Mrs. Hosea asked if you could bring her lunch again today. I told her I’d be happy to come by instead.” Mom squeezed my shoulder. “But she wanted you.”

            “Why me?”

            Mom only smiled and pressed the brown sandwich bag into my hands.

            I slumped across the street. The bag seemed to weigh a ton. I knocked with a clunk on her paint-chipped front door. My mask hid a major frown. 

When I stepped inside, it was the same fluttering hands and the same bossy voice, this time coming from behind a pink-polka dot mask. But what made my eyes open wider than wide was the coffee table.

            A colorful ceramic nativity spread across it. A wooden stable sat in the center with Joseph, Mary, and the most joyful baby Jesus I’d ever seen. Shepherds, sheep, a donkey and a cow joined the holy family. They snuggled close like old friends. Three fancy wise men stood a foot away, but they looked eager to reach the stable. 

“Oh, wow” I said, pointing to an angel more beautiful than Mia could imagine. It hung proudly above the stable doorway. An angel with an attitude just like my little sister. “Mia should see that! She’s all about angels.”

“Is she now?” Mrs. Hosea paused and tapped her masked chin. “Go,” she said, pointing down the dark hallway. “Look under my bed. For a gold box.” 

I rolled my eyes, another mystery quest. But an excited quiver zipped through my belly. This detective work was sort of fun. 

 With the virus lockdown, I knew Mrs. Hosea was more alone than ever. And more crippled after her fall. I rarely saw her standing at her front window anymore. For a whole month at least, she hadn’t once yelled at us neighbor kids when our soccer ball kicks sailed wide into her bushes. Yep, she was probably enjoying bossing me around for a little while. 

            I gulped in a breath of air behind my mask and tramped down the hallway. The musty smell seemed worse back here. When I turned on the bedroom lights, I discovered walls covered with photographs. Three children, two boys and a girl. A man in a military uniform. A smiling bride and groom.  Could that possibly be ancient Mrs. Hosea? But where were all these photo people now?  Was it only because of the lockdowns that none of them were here with her—bringing her lunch and looking for her silly boxes? 

            I peeked under the metal bed. The light barely shown there, but I saw it. The gold box. Not as big as the red one. Nor as heavy. I glanced at all the photographs one last time and switched off the light.

            “Here,” I said, dropping it on Mrs. Hosea’s lap. I turned to go. 

“Wait.”  Mrs. Hosea’s cold hand grabbed me. “Do … do you want to see?”

“Nah.” I shook my head. “I better get back.”

Mrs. Hosea’s wrinkles bunched up under her watery eyes. I could tell that beneath her mask she grinned. “Are you sure?”

            Unable to resist, I nodded and stepped closer than I should. She handed me the box. I lifted the lid and pulled back the tissue paper. 

            “Wow!” I gasped. A brilliant golden star, studded with fake sparkling jewels. Red, green, gold, and blue.  

            “It’s a Christmas tree star,” said Mrs. Hosea, her voice not as scratchy this time. Ever so gently, her knobby finger traced the shining star. A soft moan escaped her mask. “I don’t have a tree to put it on this year.”

            Or anyone to put it up for you. I thought of all those photos. A feathery flutter tickled my stomach again.

            “Here,” she said, pushing the open box against my chest. “Take it. For your tree.”  

            “No.” I shook my downcast head. “No, thank you.” I blinked hard and set the box down on Mrs. Hosea’s lumpy sofa. In a huff, I rushed for the door. 

Outside, I ripped off my mask and gulped in a breath of air. I couldn’t tell Mrs. Hosea we didn’t have a tree this year either—or much hope of getting one. 

            My dad sat glumly on our front steps, staring into space. He looked as lost as the three wise men must have. Without a star—or an angel—to guide him. His big hands lay clenched in his lap. 

A huge sigh formed in my chest. It pushed hard against my heart. I tried to breathe the hardness out. But the ache stuck firm. 

Until I saw it. 

           The tree. 

Right beside my dad. Hidden in plain sight. The scraggly evergreen tree that grew in front of our house. And in plain view for Mrs. Hosea to see as well. It was a Christmas miracle—or close enough.

With a yell, I waved my mask in the air. “Dad!” I cried, not waiting a second to tell him my brilliant Christmas Miracle Plan. 

“Wow.” Dad’s almost forgotten laugh made me laugh too. “That’s some plan for sure. All we need now is for your Mom and Mia to help us.”

Stirring up a mini-cloud of dust, we scrounged through the battered basement boxes. Only snarled tinsel and chipped ornaments lay hidden inside. 

“These can still work, right?” I said.

My dad nodded. “We’ll make them work.”

“Popcorn will pull it all together,” said Mom, with a wink. “Help me, Mia.” In a flash, they were stringing fluffy white popcorn. 

I taste-tested a few kernels. “The birds will love it.”

Mia giggled. “Don’t eat all our decorations.”  

Mom hummed carols. Dad and I decorated as best we could with the ratty tinsel and shabby ornaments. Mia and Mom wrapped their popcorn strands around and around. Somehow the scraggily tree didn’t look so lost and droopy anymore.

             I sprinted across the street and knocked on Mrs. Hosea’s door. “Look,” I said, all out of breath. “I found a tree for your star.”

She leaned against my arm as I helped her onto the porch. I pointed to where my family stood, surrounding the newly decorated tree. Now it was her turn for a surprise. Above the mask, her cloudy gray eyes opened wide.  

            “Oh my!” Mrs. Hosea’s wrinkles crinkled into a hidden smile. She motioned inside to where the star still lay on the sofa. “Go get it,” she said. “For our tree.”

            I grinned from one side of my mask to the other. 

            But before I could move, she squeezed my shoulder, halting me in mid-step. “You should bring her over. Your little sister. To see my manger.” She held up a knobby finger. “If she promises to wear her mask and stand back. Absolutely no touching.” This time, though, her raspy command was sprinkled with a dusting of Christmas cookie sweetness.  

            “Okay,” I said, too surprised to remember to thank her. 

With careful steps, I carried the boxed star across the street. 

Mia danced in place, flapping her angel wings. “I told you. I told you. Tony’s all three of the wise men in one. See. He even brought a gift.”

Dad laughed and wrapped me up in one of his famous bear hugs. I handed him the star. Mom waved to Mrs. Hosea—now watching us at her window. I waved too. We all sang Angels We Have Heard On High, as Dad held up a winged Mia. My little sister ever-so-carefully placed the star atop our new found Christmas tree.

            With a sigh, I stepped back. Amid the gray December dusk, the decorated tree suddenly stood triumphant and hopeful in our front yard. 

Mom was right. Christmas was special this year. Who knew Mrs. Hosea—or especially us—had any hidden treasures? And who knew we’d end up sharing them with each other to make our own COVID Christmas Miracle.   

THE END

This story is dedicated to my mom, Marjorie. 

Mom died this month amid the COVID pandemic, forcing us (like so many other families) to mourn our loved one from a distance. 

Even as children, Mom taught us about sharing and caring and being good neighbors. 

My mom was a wise woman who knew the greatest gift of all is the gift of LOVE. 

Mom will always be our family’s special treasure. 

Sending Wishes

for a Merry Christmas

& a Happy and Healthy New Year

to All of You!