>>> Item number 6522 from WRITERS LOG9212A --- (497 records) ----- <<< Date: Fri, 4 Dec 1992 11:39:51 JST Reply-To: WRITERS Sender: WRITERS From: Mike Barker Subject: submission: an ecumenical miracle (xmas story, sort of) Xmas stories? this is a change-of-pace I wrote a couple of years ago, maybe you'll enjoy it. An Ecumenical Miracle uncopyright m. barker 1992 3875 words There's a Catholic church where every spring the minister of a local Methodist church brings his son and a cooler full of snow collected that winter. They pile the snow near one of the statues and pray, then leave. The priest is careful to tell the people who clean the church to leave the snow until it melts. If anyone asks, he has a mimeographed sheet to hand out labeled "The miracle of snow." The story is something like this... Dean blinked back tears as the smell of the disinfectant swab the nurse was using bit at his nose. His son lay in the bed, watching her change the IV bottles. When she left, Dean looked at the doctor standing at the end of the bed. The pale blue smock made the doctor's young face look even younger. Dean shook his head slowly. "Look, Ken, I'm sorry, but I don't think I can take your word for it. A simple fall in a parking lot can't be that serious." Ken looked at the clipboard he was holding, then up again. "Normally, you'd be right. But in this case, the trauma to the spine caused by falling on those skis is quite serious." Dean's eyes drifted around the room. The sunshine was bright through the big window, even though the snow on the ground outside was shaded by a jutting part of the second floor. He stared at the building wall, wondering why architects had started making buildings so uneven. Then he turned back to Ken. "I'll get another doctor. I want another opinion." Ken looked at the clipboard and frowned. "Of course you can do that. But Reverend Dean.. we've had neurology, pediatrics, and just about every specialist in the hospital look at him. We all know you and wanted him to have the best. This is not just my opinion." "But it can't really be that serious." Phil, his son, cleared his throat. Dean looked at his face, eyes avoiding the bedsheets twisted around the framework that kept his lower back and legs immobile. First the emergency room, then tests and more tests, several hours of surgery, recovery time, tests and more tests, and now they said he might never walk again. He might never even get up again. All Dean had asked was when he would be leaving the hospital. He knew they wouldn't be able to take advantage of the unusually late spring snowfall for skiing as they'd planned, but this was.. Phil's face was pale, but he smiled at his father. "Listen to him, Dad. He's trying to talk to you." "Of course I'll listen to him. But.." Phil's eyes flicked toward the doctor. "Just listen." Ken was looking out the window, waiting. "Would you rather talk outside or in my office? He'll be asleep soon from the sedatives in that IV." Phil cleared his throat again. "Please..." Dean glanced down at him, then faced the doctor. "No, this is important for both of us to understand. Now, are you telling me something was wrong with the surgery? Do we need to go to another hospital or something?" The doctor looked at Dean, then at the boy. He turned and walked over to look out the window as he talked. "No, that's not what I was saying. The surgery was the best that can be done, and the results are excellent. But the spinal cord was damaged by the original injury. That kind of damage normally results in permanent paralysis at best." "But not always? I mean.. he's young, right? And it might.." Ken shook his head. He looked around the room, then pointed out the big window in front of him. "Look at that snow. It's not normal for snow to fall this late in the year, but now that it's happened, I can tell you it'll melt soon and be gone. Right?" Phil answered him. "I wish I could play in it. Just for a little." Dean looked down at him, then back at the doctor. "Right, but what's that got to do with him?" "Well, his chances of walking are about as thin as the chance of that snow lasting. I mean, his accident was as unlikely as having snow now, but now that it's happened, I can tell you his chances of healing are.. It would take a miracle for him to get well. Can you understand that?" Dean couldn't help a small amused snort, almost a choked chuckle. "You might say that's my specialty. But you're really serious, aren't you?" Ken did smile, then let his professional mask slide back into place. "Yes, I'm serious. He's not going to walk again, and I want both of you to start thinking about that." The boy turned his eyes toward the window. Dean looked at him, noticing the redness in the corners of his eyes and the small spot on one cheek where a tear reflected the sunlight. "The snow.. if the snow lasts, I might get well? Dad, did he say that?" Dean started to reach for him, then stopped as the doctor stepped forward. "Not exactly, son. He meant you probably won't get well." "But I can play in it if the snow lasts?" Ken started to say something, and Dean glared at him. "Son, the doctors have done all they can, and it's not enough. So now it's in God's hands. Don't worry about it. Now, can you rest while I finish talking to Ken? I'm going to talk to him outside for a few minutes. Alright?" The boy looked again at the snow. "I hope the snow lasts a long time. I didn't get to play in it before this happened, you know?" Dean smiled down at him, his throat tight. "I know, son. Maybe it'll last. Back in a minute, now." He turned, grabbed the doctor's arm, and walked out the door. He walked the doctor down the hall several steps, then let go of his arm. Ken started to rub at his arm, while the minister turned toward the wall and grabbed the railing with both hands. He twisted at the bar, right hand going over and left inwards and down, then reversing, several times. "You shouldn't let him think there's a chance." Dean let go of the bar and swung around, putting his hands on the bar again while leaning back. He stared upwards as he took a deep breath. "I will not let you take away all hope from that boy. He's my son. Now, can you understand that? 'Cause if you can't, I'll find another doctor." Dean looked back down at the doctor, his eyes slitted. The doctor backed up a step. "I.. it's better to face it now then be surprised later, isn't it?" Dean stared at him. "I.. well, there's.." "Doctor, get this straight. I've been a minister now for ten years. One of the things my profession handles is the wreckage yours' likes to leave after taking care of physical matters. Keep your big mouth shut and let him hope a little." Ken's face paled. He looked around the hall quickly. The minister took another deep breath. He closed his eyes for moment, then opened them and stepped forward. The young doctor bumped against the wall, and turned his head as though expecting to be hit. "No, no. I.. sorry, doctor. I'm tired and upset, and shouldn't have said that. Or at least I shouldn't have said it that way. I'm sure you're a good doctor, but please don't take away the little bit of hope my son has. We.. we're going to need to work together now." The doctor looked back, then down at Dean's hand held out in front of him. He shook it, briefly. "As long as you understand very clearly that he is probably not going to walk again. He may never get up again. Do you understand that, even if you're going to let him keep hoping?" Dean put his hands together and pressed in an isometric movement, then relaxed his arms again. He gripped his hands together then and pulled outwards. "Well? Do you understand it?" Dean looked at Ken, arms pulled tight across his chest. "I'm working on it. But there's really no other treatment or hospital that could help? I've heard good things about Children's Hospital." The doctor let the clipboard in his arms hang. "No. First, he shouldn't be moved any more than necessary for a while anyway. Second, we ran a description of his accident through the public health network. Children's hospital is on the net. Reverend, there isn't anyone else left to try." The minister let go of his own hands and reached over to put his hand on Ken's shoulder. "You know that's not true - and I think it's about time I tried out my contacts." The doctor puzzled over that for a minute, then jerked his thumb toward the ceiling. "Oh.. you mean.." Dean nodded. "I think I need to talk to God about this. How about you?" "Well, I did say it would take a miracle. But I've got other patients.. and I need to let the hospital board know how you and your son took the news." Dean looked at him, head tilted slightly. "So you were the messenger. Where they afraid to tell me themselves?" "Ashamed, I think. We really did try, but.. some things just can't be handled yet." "I understand. Tell them.. tell them thank you for their efforts." Ken lifted his hand. "One thing you were right about. No matter what we've done for the physical side of things, the mental side is going to be very important for him. And you know better than I do how to handle that. But, Reverend, he's going to have to work hard to walk, even with crutches. The sooner he starts, the better." Dean watched the doctor walk down the corridor and into the elevator. Then he stepped back into the room and over to his son. The boy was staring out the window at the snow. "Dad.. it's late and the snow is still there. So maybe it'll last a while, huh?" Dean walked over and looked out the window, noticing the little sparkles that showed where water was melting off the snow. He rubbed at his nose. "Yes, son, it might. I'll bet it'll last a long, long time. Now, you're probably supposed to be sleeping. Why don't I sit down here until you fall asleep." "If that snow's still there, I'm going to play in it when they let me go. Ok, Dad?" The minister slid into the seat beside the bed and looked out the window. From there, he could just see the top of the mound under that balcony. He looked back at the boy, noticing how the fine hairs on his upper eyelid flicked as he blinked. "You bet. But right now, you've got to rest and get better." The boy obediantly shut his eyes. Dean watched him, tracing the curve of jaw and eyebrow, listening to the slowing breath. He noticed the adam's apple jump and slide back down once as the boy swallowed. It had gotten darker in the room when he stood up again. The boy's breathing was slow and steady now, and he knew he could leave for a while. He remembered too many times in rooms like this with other people, urging them to take a short break while the patient slept. He stepped into the little hospital chapel and started to reach for the lights. Then he let his hand drop back by his side. No need for that. The backlighting on the cross was plenty to see by. He walked forward slowly and sat down in the nearby pew. Softly cushioned, the shaped wood was comfortable. He stared up at the cross, and let his thoughts drift. The movement in front of him was a surprise. He must have jumped or made a noise, because the dark figure turned around in the seat. "Senor? Ah, Padre, you frightened me." He recognized the voice, he thought. He started to get up. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I.. I'll find somewhere else to.." The dark figure got up quickly and came back. He smelled paint and cleaning fluids, and realized who it was. "Padre, please don't leave. I was just resting for a little before catching the bus. I would be very happy to sit with you, if it is okay." "Santos, is that you? Why are you sitting in the dark?" "Yes, Padre. Is it all right for a Catholic to use your chapel?" The voice sounded worried. "Of course. This chapel is God's, it doesn't belong to me. I'm sure he'd be happy to know you were using it. But, Santos, what are you doing?" "Ah, Padre. I finish work, then wait for the bus. Outside is always noisy. But in here it is quiet, so I wait here. I don't.. I just rest. You are here to pray for your son?" Dean sat back down. "Sit down, Santos. What have you heard?" "They say he will not walk again. Is this true?" The minister found himself telling the whole story again, his thoughts running along with it. Somewhere inside him a trained response said "Shock!" and he realized that he was acting just like any of the people he listened to so often. Still, he couldn't stop. Santos listened quietly, standing nearby. Eventually Dean ran down and stopped. Santos face had grown slightly clearer as the minister's eyes adjusted to the dark. "So, your son's healing would be a miracle. Like the Holy Virgin, no? But I don't understand this thing of the snow." Dean chuckled, grimly. "It was a mistake by the doctor. My son loves playing in the snow. The doctor made him think that if the snow outside his window lasts, he might get better." "What snow? Most of it melted today." "Outside B-109. There's a pile there that lasted through today." Santos closed his eyes for a moment. "Si, under the balcony. It is shady, but tomorrow it will probably melt." Dean's head dropped. "And then he'll lose his hope." "Padre, hope is.. you should not lose hope. Even when there is earthquake or fire, you must hope." The minister shook his head. "Well, Santos, sometimes that's hard. But thank you for listening to me for such a long time. You haven't missed your bus, have you?" Santos looked at him for a long minute. "No, Padre. I think it will be all right. And I hope your son can keep his hope, too." Santos slipped quietly out of the chapel. Dean put his head in his hands and cried for a while, then wiped off his face and prayed. The chapel seemed to have gotten darker when he left. "Phil, do you understand? You'll be able to walk, and play, with crutches if you work at it." Phil turned his head away from Dean. "I won't do it. Why?" Dean pointed out the window. "Look out there. You want to enjoy the snow, right? You want it, this is the way to get it." Phil looked. The highlights on the snow seemed to be reflected in his eyes. "Dad, the snow won't last. I can't.. I can't learn fast enough. Don't tease me that way." Dean looked out the window. "Will you promise to try? There'll be more snow next year." Phil closed his eyes. "I don't know. I'm tired, and I'm never going to walk again." "Dad, can you pull the curtains back now? I want to see if the snow's still there." Dean pulled the curtains back and looked himself before stepping back. "Still waiting for you. And the doctor said you can start rehabilitation today, so you can get ready to go out there." Phil stared out the window, then looked down at the blankets covering his legs. His hands moved, picking at the fuzz on the blankets. "Maybe I should wait until I can feel something in my legs. I thought I felt something yesterday." Dean picked up his hands and squeezed them. "Phil, I think you'd better do what the doctor says. If.. if you really want to play in that snow, you have to learn how to walk again." Phil swallowed and looked at the snow. Then his face firmed. "I'll do it." As the days slowly passed, Phil checked again and again on the little mound of snow. One evening, he looked at his father, sitting beside the bed, then out the window again. "Dad, it's still there." Dean turned and looked, then smiled back at his son. "It must be the shade. Or maybe it's waiting for you." His son's face glowed in the light from the sunset. "I think it's waiting for me. And I'm going to get better." Phil woke from a dream of making a snowball and throwing it at his father, looked around, and started crying. A nurse bent over him. "Does something hurt?" Phil turned his head into the pillow. "I'm never going to throw a snowball again. Never." Dean wiped the tears away and turned Phil's head to the window. The little mound of snow sat in the shadow. "Now look. If that snow is going to wait for you, you have to do your part. Ready for another try?" Phil stared at the snow, still sparkling in the shadows. Then he turned to his father. "All right. Tell them I'm ready." The nurse bit her lip as she called the physical therapist. The nurse massaged Phil's back. Dean could see the tears running off his cheeks and into the pillow. "Stop, please. Phil, if it hurts that much, maybe you should take it slower." The nurse raised her hands. Phil turned his head towards Dean and the window. He took a breath and bit his lip. "They said.. they said it would hurt, but it was o.k. And that snow's still waiting for me." Dean watched him stare out the window at the mound of snow. He laced his fingers. "All right. Nurse, please, go ahead." The nurse started in again, pressing and kneading the muscles. Phil grunted a little now and then when she hit another sore spot, but he kept his eyes on the snow through his flowing tears. The doctor looked at Dean, then at the boy. "I'm sorry, but.. I've learned something that you should know. Please wait a minute." He went into the hall and brought Santos back in front of him. He stood him at the end of the bed. "Now, Santos, explain to these people what you told me." Santos looked at the minister, then at the boy in the bed. He wiped his hands on his jeans. "Hello, Padre. And you must be the padre's son, no?" The boy smiled, faintly. Then his eyes turned back to the window, looking at the snowdrift. Santos glanced out the window, then back at Dean. The minister stood up. "What is it, Santos?" "Padre, uhm, you know when we talked before in the chapel?" Dean nodded. "Well, after that, I did something that maybe I shouldn't have. But my real padre said it was.. he said it was all right." He twisted his head to look at the doctor. Dean took a deep breath. "Santos, I'm sure that whatever you did is okay. But what did you do?" "At confession this week, the padre said I should talk to the doctor about it. He said you wouldn't be angry. But I think he was wrong." The doctor stiffened. "Not exactly. But tell them, Santos." "Si, Senor. So.. Padre, you said your son needed a miracle like the Holy Virgin. We don't go to the same church, but I understand this very well. Then you said his hope was in the snow, and when it was gone, his hope would be gone. You said that, do you remember?" The minister looked quickly down at his son, then back at Santos. "Yes, I suppose I did. But the snow has lasted, and his hopes are very strong now." "Well, senor, that's very good. I am very happy to hear that." The doctor shrugged his shoulders a little. "Santos." Santos looked sideways at him, then back to the boy. "Son of the padre, I.. I wanted very much to help the padre, to help you. And I think about the Holy Virgin. You know, she died, but we see her in church all the time. She is made of plaster, but even plaster can help us remember to hope. Do you know this?" Dean raised his eyes and looked at Santos and the doctor, then glanced out the window. His eyebrows lifted. Santos nodded his head. "Si, si, the padre understands. But the little boy needs perhaps some details. I thought about the plaster, and about how you love the snow. And that night I.. I make the snow that you can see from plaster. So it will not melt, and your hope will not go away." The boy's eyes had grown wide during this. He looked out the window, then at Santos. "That's not snow?" "No, it is plaster. But it looks like snow, you see? I.. don't know how to make a miracle, but I can make plaster look like snow." The boy looked at the doctor, who was seriously glaring at Santos. Then he looked at his father, who kept glancing at the snow and back at Santos. Finally, he looked at Santos. "You.. It's not snow. That's why it doesn't melt." "Si, senor. Only plaster." The boy suddenly started laughing. The doctor moved forward, his eyes worried. But Dean looked at Santos, then down where Santos was looking beside the bed. Phil stopped laughing, and looked too. Santos hung his head and turned towards the door. "I'm sorry I couldn't help." The doctor stopped him and turned him around. "Santos, wait. The original prognosis had a high likelihood of total paralysis. I didn't expect this boy to ever get out of bed. Now look. Reverend, can you explain to him?" Dean looked at his son. Phil waved at the crutches beside the bed. "Here, Dad, let me show him." He shoved himself around on the bed and sat up. He put his arms in the crutches and balanced on the edge of the bed. Then he slid off and stood, before walking to Dean's arms. He turned there, and looked at the doctor and Santos. "And tomorrow I'm going outside." Dean turned to Santos and smiled over Phil's head. "Santos, you have given me a miracle. The miracle of hope. Thank you. Thank you very much." And that is why a Methodist minister brings an offering of snow to a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary in a Catholic church, and the priest happily blesses them and their private miracle as the minister's son walks out of the church into the sunlight, his braces and crutches gleaming. Outside, he usually hits his father with a snowball he's sneaked along, but his father never seems to mind. --