This story, from December 2007, was written the Christmas following The Christmas Encounter. The two stories have absolutely nothing to do with one another, except that they’re both based on true stories.

The Christmas Gift

“Momma, you think we’ll have snow for Christmas?” Bobby dawdled over his breakfast as he looked outside at the sunny blue sky.

“In this weather?” Katie laughed. “I’d say the chances are probably slim.”

It was an unseasonably warm December, with temperatures climbing into the 60s, much too warm for snow.

“But it can cool off, right?” Bobby asked from behind his orange juice glass.

“Probably not that much.” Katie laughed again as she dropped a banana into her son’s lunch bag.

“Oh,” Bobby said gloomily, slurping cereal from his spoon.

“Come on, Bobby-O,” Katie laughed once more. “Cheer up. Christmas isn’t all about snow, you know.”

At twelve years old, Bobby was plenty old enough to know what Christmas was about. Grumpily, he almost said so, but resisted. He didn’t think his mother, harried as usual as she tried to get her three children off to school on time, would appreciate the sarcasm.

“Yeah, I know,” he sighed. “But it sure would see more like Christmas if it were snowing.”

“Mommy,” four-year-old Josie piped up from across the table, “How’s Santa gonna land his sleigh on our roof if there’s no snow?”

The third Kilder child, 14-year-old Sally, chimed in. “Santa has to skip the houses where there’s no snow,” she said. “Looks like there won’t be any presents for us this year, Josie.”

“Nuh-uh! You’re lying!” Josie cried. But he looked doubtful. “Mommy, will Santa really skip our house if there’s no snow this year?”

Katie shot Sally a disapproving look. “Jo, your sister is trying to be cute and funny. Santa is magic. He doesn’t need snow.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think there was nothin’ funny ’bout it,” Josey said, scowling at his older sister. “Do you reall think he’ll be here whether it snows or not?”

Katie smiled. “Did it snow last year, Jo?”

Josie thought, then frowned. “I don’t ‘member.”

“Well,” Katie laughed, “the answer is no, it didn’t. And it didn’t the year before that or the year before that. It hasn’t snowed on Christmas Eve since you were born. And, guess what? Santa made it here every year. Actually, I’d say Bobby can’t even remember a white Christmas. It doesn’t snow on Christmas very often in Tennessee. So don’t pay your sister any never mind and finish your cereal.”

“Yeah, but at least it ain’t always hot as summer on Christmas,” Bobby said moodily with his head half-buried in his cereal bowl.

“It might snow, B-B,” Josie said. “Daddy says this is the magical time of year. That means anything can happen.”

“Not when it’s sixty-five degrees three days before Christmas,” Bobby sighed. “I guess we’ll celebrate in shorts and flip-flops. I just want to see one snowy Christmas before I’m dead.”

“Don’t be facetious and crude, Bobby,” Katie said crossly. “There are a lot of terminally ill kids in the world who wouldn’t find that remark funny.”

* * *

It was only coincidence that four streets deeper into the neighborhood, on Maple Street, lived twelve-year-old David Singer. And David, it was growing painfully apparent to his parents, was terminally ill.

“It’s such an ugly phrase . . . terminal illness,” Janie Singer had told her husband, Randy, after doctors delivered the news that they must consider the possibility that their son would not survive his illness. “It sounds like something you would pick up at the airport, like the flu.”

David actually didn’t live at 143 Maple anymore. These days, he made his home at East Tennessee Children’s Hospital in nearby Knoxville, where he was in intensive care. And although he hadn’t been to school in six weeks, it was also coincidence that he happened to attend the same school — Middletown Junior High — as Bobby and Sally Kilder. And further coincidence that David Singer and Bobby Kilder were classmates.

But at the same time Bobby was finishing a bowl of Cheerios and dreaming of a white Christmas before heading off to Mr. Kirkpatrick’s home room, David’s life was slowly slipping away inside room 512 at Children’s Hospital.

David had first been diagnosed with a malfunctioning heart when he was three years old. “Congenital heart defect” is how the doctors had termed it to Randy and Janie Singer. Google had led Janie to the American Heart Association’s website, where she learned that congenital meant that her son, who had appeared completely normal and healthy until he had complained of shortness of breath and she had taken him to the family pediatrician out of fear that he was catching a touch of the bronchitis that had been making the rounds, had been born with the ailment. After routine tests, Dr. Morris had referred the Singers to cardiologists at Children’s.

“David has what we call a hypoplastic heart,” the specialist had said that day nearly a decade earlier. “That’s a fancy way of saying that the right side of his heart didn’t completely form.”

Feeling as if her head had been detached from her body and was floating high above the consultation room at the hospital, Janie heard herself asking a question that seemed surreal: “How long?”

The specialist had cleared his throat uncomfortably, but had been reassuring when he said, “With the proper care and treatment, there’s no reason to think that David cannot live a full life well into adulthood. But,” he had added, “His childhood probably won’t be normal.”

In fact, David’s childhood had been normal. At least, relatively speaking. He was probably the only child at Middletown Elementary to go through an open heart surgery — let alone three by the time he was in the fifth grade. But, yet, he enjoyed most of the same things other children of his age enjoyed, and he and Bobby Kilder had even played on the same kickball team in gym class.

But in early November, David was rushed to Children’s Hospital after collapsing in the cafeteria. After a battery of tests, Dr. Dunnoway — the cardiologist — had said that David’s heart had “simply worn itself out.” He admitted David into the intensive care unit, and the youngster was placed on the national waiting list for heart transplants. ‘With a heart, David will recover completely,” Dr. Dunnoway had told the stunned parents. “But there’s no guarantee that he will be able to hang on until a heart becomes available. Unfortunately, there are too many children battling heart defects . . . and, as you can imagine, there aren’t too many available hearts.”

“Prepare yourself for the worst,” he had added. “I’m not going to be dramatic and tell you that this could be your son’s last Christmas.” He sighed heavily, then added, almost hesitantly, “to be perfectly blunt, if David hasn’t received a heart by then, he won’t make it until Christmas.”

Unable to say anything else, Janie had said, “There has to be something we can do. What can we do?”

Sighing again, Dr. Dunnoway asked, “Mrs. Singer, do you believe in God?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Pray. Pray for a miracle.”

* * *

After school, Sally Kilder bounced upstairs to her room, where she would spend most of her evening like she spent most of every evening — on the phone. Young Josie Kilder, home from pre-school after half a day, had after a day, had busied himself with an assortment of action figures. Bobby plopped down on the sofa to wait on Matt Hinken’s forecast.

Hinken, the chief meteorologist for Channel 6 in Knoxville, was immensely more popular during the winter months, when kids everywhere made the universal wish for a snow day. But it wasn’t so much a snow day — school had let out for Christmas break that day anyway — as a Christmas snow that Bobby Kilder was hoping for.

“It doesn’t snow when it’s been in the 60s for three weeks, Bobby,” Sally had said as she rolled her eyes and pressed her phone to her ear, where she and whoever was on the other end — probably that weird Haley Rollins from eighth grade, Bobby figured — would spend the next ninety minutes chatting about who was hot and who was not in home room class.

“You never know,” Bobby said. “We can hope. It might be a miracle. A Christmas miracle.”

Later that night, Bob Kilner sat his family down for what he called the Kilner Family Tri-Weekly Devotional. Bobby wasn’t overly fond of devotional time. Memorizing the Lord’s Prayer and who had begat whom in the book of Genesis wasn’t necessarily his idea of fun. But he knew better than to say so. The First Amendment didn’t necessarily apply to those who were under eighteen and also happened to live under his father’s roof.

Rarely were others given an opportunity to speak during Bob’s Tri-Weekly Devotional, but tonight he started with a question.

“Can anyone tell me what Christmas is about?”

“Family time,” Sally said. “Presents!” Josie yelled. Wishing uselessly for snow, Bobby thought to himself as he brooded over Matt Hinken’s evening forecast, which had called for temperatures in the 50s all the way through the five-day forecast, which included Christmas Eve the following day and Christmas Day the day after that.

Bob opened his Bible and began reading. “Acts 20 says, ‘In everything I showed you that by working hard in this manner you must help the weak and remember the words of the Lord Jesus, that He Himself said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.’

“Now why do you think he would’ve said that?” Bob asked.

“Because that’s how Christmas came about to begin with,” Bobby said, even without thinking. He didn’t particularly like devotion time. That didn’t mean he wasn’t acutely aware of the Biblical stories that Bob Kilner told his family three nights each week. “Jesus was born to give.”

“That’s right, Bobby-O,” Bob said. “Christ’s gift to mankind was the ultimate Christmas gift. John 3:16 said, ‘For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.’ And that’s why Jesus was born on Christmas Day and wrapped in swaddling clothes and placed in a manger. That’s what Christmas is all about.”

Bob concluded the devotional by asking one of the family members, as usual, to lead the others in prayer. It was Bobby’s turn. After asking God’s blessings on the family and other customary prayers, Bobby ended by saying, “And, God, please let us have snow this Christmas.” He heard Sally snicker from beneath her bowed head. Josie joined in, though Bobby figured he was only laughing because his older sister had laughed.

“You ever see a boy so hung up on snow?” Bob asked his wife later that night. “Oh, I don’t know,” Katie had laughed. “Honestly, a little snow would put us all in the holiday mood.”

* * *

As Bob Kilner read from Acts 20 and John 3, Randy Singer was also reading Biblical scriptures inside Children’s Hospital ICU, where he and Janie gathered each night with David and their younger son, Howie. David was growing progressively weaker, and Randy and Janie exchanged concerned glances over their son repeatedly as they kept vigil inside his room. Doctors, apparently realizing that David wasn’t likely to hang on much longer, allowed Randy and Janie to stay in the ICU as long as they liked. But Howie could only be admitted during regular visiting hours.

“We have to face the reality that time is running out for David,” Dr. Dunnoway had told the Singers in a hushed conference at the side of the room after making his evening rounds. “I thought we would have a heart by now, to be honest. But I’m not sure how much longer we have. The only advice I can give you, and I know it isn’t advice you want to hear, is don’t leave anything unsaid.”

“You’re saying . . . tonight?” Randy asked fearfully.

“I’m saying we really don’t know,” Dunnoway answered. “Tonight, tomorrow, tomorrow night . . . it’s hard to say. But soon.”

“Doctor,” Janie began, then hesitated. “Is there any chance David can make it until Christmas, when his grandparents are able to fly in?”

“I think . . . it would be a miracle,” the doctor said.

“You should know,” he added, dropping his head, “it will be painless. He won’t be in any pain.”

Tears rolled down Janie’s cheeks as she reflected on the word Dr. Dunnoway had used: miracle. It was a funny thing, that word. A few weeks ago, they were hoping for a miracle which meant a phone call saying that a matching heart had been received. Now a miracle meant simply that their son would be with them through the Christmas holiday, two days away.

As Randy gathered his family around David’s bedside, he read from the second chapter of Luke, the Christmas story.

“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a saviour, which is Christ the Lord,” he read. “And this shall be a sign unto you: You shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

“So,” he said. “Howie, what would you like for Christmas?”

“I want a Power Wheels fow-wheeler!” Howie said.

“And, David,” said Randy, “what would you like for Christmas?”

Quietly David said, “For everyone to be happy. And for Howie to get his four-wheeler. And to see him ride it.”

Janie shielded her face so her children wouldn’t see the tears beginning again. “It would be a miracle for him to see Christmas morning,” the doctor’s words ran through her head again. They didn’t have to tell David that it had become apparent he wouldn’t go home again. He knew that.

As Randy and Howie talked quietly about whether Santa Claus would be able to fit Howie’s Power Wheels down the chimney, Janie focused on a Christmas card on the bedside table that had been signed by each of David’s classmates at Middletown Junior High.

“Mom,” David whispered. Startled, Janie glanced up. David attempted to force a smile. “I’m going to be here for Christmas morning,” he whispered. “I promise that. But I know I’ll never be able to see Howie ride his four-wheeler. Would you take a picture of him on it and bring it?” Janie could only nod in response.

* * *

There are some things in life that simply cannot be explained. Why children like David Singer are inflicted with a senseless illness, for example. Or any of a number of other seemingly unfair events or afflictions.

Robby Jacobs would never be able to explain why he chose to climb behind the wheel of his car that Christmas Eve morning while so drunk that he could barely stagger from the house.

The 27-year-old grocer had fought with his wife the night before. It was a humdinger of a fight and she had left for her mother’s. Angry at her for leaving at Christmas, he had drank the rest of the night away. He was more than hung-over the following morning; he was outright drunk. And when his wife of three years had refused his phone call when he had called his mother-in-law’s residence, he had decided to make an old-fashioned beer run to the corner convenience store before the streets became too crowded with holiday travelers and last-minute shoppers, so he could purchase more liquor for the evening. “No sense in spending Christmas Eve alone without Jack and Jim for company,” he had reasoned.

He attempted, and failed, suicide and spent eight years in jail, but could never explain why he had even been drunk at nine o’clock in the morning, much less why he had decided to climb behind the wheel of his car.

* * *

The cashier at the Golden Gallon could never explain the unspeakable horror he witnessed that Christmas Eve morning. He didn’t celebrate Christmas; he didn’t believe in it. It was a good thing, because the events of that morning would have ruined the holiday for him.

He saw the car coming before he heard the crash; realized it was going way too fast before he saw it veer onto the sidewalk. The next two seconds seemed to move in slow motion. He wanted to tell his last customer that had walked out the door to watch out, but the customer seemed oblivious to his surroundings as he walked ont othe sidewalk.

The cashier didn’t see the crash; he was already rushing around the counter when he heard the screeching tires, a soft thud, and a grinding crashing sound as Robby Jacobs’ 2003 Honda Accord crashed into the side of the Golden Gallon.

* * *

Katie Kilder couldn’t explain how she could be too busy to attend to routine errands. It was the first day of Christmas break, and she was trying to become re-accustomed to having three children under foot all day as she hurried about the house, making last-minute preparations for the arrival of her parents later in the evening.

“Bobby-O, could you be a big help and run down to the store and grab a quart of egg-nog?” she had asked, handing him a five-dollar bill. “It’s Grandpa’s favorite and I’m afraid I forgot to pick any up at the grocery store.”

She had just finished rearranging the mistletoe above the fireplace mantle for the third time that day when she heard a pounding at the front door. Opening it, she found herself face-to-face with a breathless Roger Jenkins, who lived just down the street.

“There’s been an accident,” Mr. Jenkins said as he struggled to catch his breath. “You need to come.”

* * *

Bobby couldn’t explain the weather’s turn that day. The previous day had been in the mid 60s, but today was only in the 50s when he had awoken, and the temperature seemed to have dropped since daylight. He was watching clouds building to the northwest when he walked into the store, and perhaps was still watching them after paying for the Mayfield eggnog and taking his change from the cashier. Perhaps that’s why he stepped onto the sidewalk and into the path of a drunken Robby Jacobs without seeing Jacobs’ out-of-control Accord hurtling down the hill towards the Golden Gallon.

* * *

Mr. Jenkins hadn’t said anything other than “there’s been an accident,” but he didn’t need to. The look on his face was enough to convince Katie that something was terribly wrong. A crowd had already gathered around the crumpled Accord, which was resting at an awkward angle against the block side of the Golden Gallon. In the distance, she heard the approaching sirens. As she ran down the hill, she came to an abrupt stop as she saw a yellow plastic eggnog bottle lying in the roadway, the milky white fluid leaking from its busted side. The enormity of what had happened struck her like a pallet of bricks as she raced into the growing crowd of rubber-neckers at the scene.

* * *

Bob and Katie Kilder paced anxiously in the waiting room of the University of Tennessee Medical Center as they awaited a report from a member of the medical team. Bobby had been airlifted from the scene of the crash. As a former billing specialist at the Middletown Memorial Medical Center, Katie knew that patients were airlifted from the small hospital’s helipad whenever possible. Only in the most dire situations was the traffic stopped so that a Lifestar helicopter could make a touch-down at an accident site to pick up a patient. Her eyes had seen what her mind refused to register as EMTs had worked over her son’s crumpled body. Police officers had rushed her back to the periphery of the scene, but she had seen enough. Had her mind registered what she had seen, she might have known that the prognosis wasn’t good, even before she saw the grim face of a young doctor who would turn out to be Gregory Johnston, the on-call ER doctor this Christmas Eve morning.

“Mr. and Mrs. Kilder?” he sked as he emerged from the inner area of the ER. “We have Bobby in a room and you may see him now.”

“How is he?” When are you going to operate?” Bob asked.

Dr. Johnston managed to look into Bob’s eyes, but chose his words carefully. “There won’t be a need for operation, Mr. Kilder.”

“What do you mean?” Bob asked. “Does that mean that the damage was less . . .”

“No, no,” Dr. Johnston interrupted. “Please understand. We can’t operate.”

“What do you mean?” Bob asked again, feeling numb.

“An operation would be useless, Mr. Kilder. I’m very sorry.”

“But we can get a second opinion, right?” Bob asked, feeling stupid and almost giddy at the same time. “How can an operation be useless? Can’t you at least try?”

The young doctor again spoke carefully. “Sir, the impact was simply too much for Bobby’s body to handle. Nearly all of his internal organs were . . . were damaged beyond repair. Even if surgery could make a difference, he wouldn’t be able to survive it.”

Bob started to question the doctor again, but his voice broke off in a sob.

“Sir?” Dr. Johnston said. “Your son is conscious now. He probably isn’t very alert, but he is conscious for the moment. He’s on a lot of medication. He doesn’t feel anything, which is good. He’s on life support, but when he loses consciousness, he will be gone and it will just be the machine beating his heart for him. Please see him. That’s all we can do.”

Leaning on each other, Bob and Katie numbly followed Dr. Johnston down the hallway to Bobby’s room. From his bed, Bobby’s face was unscathed, except for the breathing tube attached to his nose. Katie didn’t want to think about what was hidden beneath the bed sheets, however. What seemed like half a dozen monitors beeped rhythmically as dr. Johnston quietly exited the room and closed the door behind him.

Katie took Bobby’s hand and squeezed, fearing her son had lost consciousness already, but Bobby opened his eyes and looked up.

“Hi, Bobby-O,” Katie said through her tears.

“Mom . . . sorry,” Bobby mumbled.

“Don’t be sorry,” Katie said, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t . . . watching . . . going,” he said in a barely audible voice.

Katie knew her son was internally bleeding to death and would be unconscious within minutes. Her mind raced as she tried to think of what to say, as her husband simply stared from a stupor, too shocked to say anything.

“Mom . . .” Bobby said. He seemed to be summoning his strength to try to say something.

“Sshh, save your strength,” Katie said.

Bobby shook his head. “No. Must say,” he said, weakly. “I was thinking . . . about what Dad said . . . from Acts. About . . . better to give than receive. Tell them . . . want . . . donate . . . organs.”

“No, that’s crazy talk, Bobby,” Katie said. “You’re going to be fine. You’ll be up and . . .” she stopped as Bob squeezed her shoulder. She caught his eye and he gave a gentle shake of his head.

“Son,” Bob said, “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

Bobby nodded. “You said . . . that’s what Christmas . . . is all about.”

Bob nodded as his eyes filled with tears.

“Bobby?” Katie said, but her son’s eyes had closed. He did not answer. “Bobby, we love you,” she said. She felt a slight squeee of her hand in response, then Bobby’s hand went lax.

* * *

After giving the Kilners a few minutes, Dr. Johnston stepped back into the room.

“Bobby said he wanted to be an organ donor,” Bob said. It was all he could think of to say.

Dr. Johnston nodded, not saying what he privately thought: That most of Bobby’s organs could not be salvaged because of the nature of the accident.

* * *

“Sorry I’m late,” Randy Singer told his wife as he walked into the ICU at Children’s Hospital just a couple of miles away. “There was a pretty bad wreck down at the corner market that had traffic tied up. They said someone was killed.”

“That’s terrible . . . right at the holidays,” Janie said absently as she watched her son breathing quietly. David hadn’t been awake since the previous evening, and though no one said so, she knew from the look of the nurses as they came and went that it was just a matter of time. She had been silently cursing Randy for being late, afraid that he wouldn’t be there when . . . when the time came.

“Has he been like this all day?” Randy asked. Janie nodded. “What’s he holding on for?”

“For Christmas,” Janie answered. “He promised us he would be here for Christmas. He wanted to see the look on Howie’s face when he opens his four-wheeler.” A tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away as she heard the sound of voices approaching from the hallway.

“You’d think they could be a little more respectful,” she said shortly.

“Take it easy,” Randy said, putting an arm around her shoulder. “I’m sure they’re just . . .” He was cut off by Dr. Dunnoway bursting into the room.

“Mr. and Mrs. Singer?” he asked, a grin appearing on his face. “We’ve got a match!”

The grin quickly faded and he became sober once again as a team of nurses scurried into the room, unhooking tubes and hooking up new tubes as they prepared David for transport.

“I have to be honest,” the doctor said. “David’s heart is far gone. I’m not sure that we’re in time. But we have a shot. We’ll have to medicate him pretty heavily to try and get his heart responsive enough for the new heart. It’s the only shot we have, and it’s probably no better than 50-50, maybe even as low as 30-70, but it’s a shot. Do I have your permission to try?”

Still stunned, both Randy and Janie could only nod in agreement as a nurse shoved a consent form at them.

* * *

It was 7 a.m. on Christmas morning, and some in the ICU wing at Children’s Hospital must have thought they were still asleep and dreaming as a small boy clad in Superman pajamas came wheeling down the hallway on a bright green battery-powered four-wheeler. The power was turned off; instead, it was pushed by a man in wrinkled slacks and in need of a shave.

Randy pushed Howie into David’s room. Their son, still waking up from surgery the previous day and hooked up to a multitude of monitoring devices, opened his eyes groggily as Howie squealed from his seat on the Power Wheels. “Merry Chrissmas, Davie!” he yelled. “Lookit what Santy brung!”

Randy grinned at Janie. “David wanted a picture, but we brought him the real thing. Dr. Dunnoway said that we could wheel him in here just for a minute if we didn’t disturb the other patients. I think he’s still a little overwhelmed by the turn of events and would’ve let us march a five-piece band in here playing Jingle Bells if I’d asked.”

“Santy brung you a new s-box 360 you wanted too, Davie,” Howie said, bouncing up and down on the seat of the small four-wheeler. “I seen it under the Chrissmas tree!”

From his bed, David, still unable to talk as he recovered, smiled weakly. He whispered something. Randy looked at Janie, puzzled, and shook his head. David tried again: “I . . . told . . . here . . . Smas.”

Janie laughed. “I think he’s trying to say, ‘I told you I’d be here for Christmas.’”

* * *

A heart-broken Katie Kilner, not yet knowing that her son’s heart had saved young David’s life, numbly stepped out of her car to walk into her home. Perhaps again completely by coincidence, it was at the exact same time that Janie Singer stepped out the door at Children’s Hospital for the first time in six days, for a breath of fresh air and a place to say a silent thanks. She was amazed at the sharp turn in temperatures. And, as she stood there, savoring the air that smelled clean instead of medicated, snowflakes began to fall, slowly at first, but quickly gaining intensity.

“Huh. Imagine that,” Janie said to herself. “Snow on Christmas. I guess it really is a day of miracles,” she laughed.

As she watched the sheer beauty of it, she heard — she didn’t completely understand, but she heard nonetheless, from somewhere she couldn’t explain, perhaps riding on the wind:

“He Himself said: It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

– 12/10/07