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The last of Roger's family and friends
had just left when there was a knock at the door. Thinking
it was a guest who had forgotten a cloak or handbag, Roger
answered the door with a smile, words of "Welcome back!" a
breath away. But when he swung the door inward Roger was
greeted by a young girl, perhaps 12 or 13 years of age.
The flashing tiny Christmas lights from the house across the
street backlit her, defining her golden-chestnut hair and
slight frame. He turned on the porch light and she returned
his smile. Tilting her head up, she blinked at the sudden
brightness, then focused her amber gaze on him.
Taken aback, he motioned her in, saying, "Please, it is cold
out. Come in."
"I cannot, but thank you! My father wants me to ask if you
have a book with names?"
Her accent was foreign to him. Her face pale and she had no
jacket. He wondered if she was new to the neighborhood.
"I'm sorry, I don't know . . ." He made a hasty mental
inventory. "Just a moment, I may have something for you. Are
you certain you won't come in for a moment?"
She nodded. "Okay," he replied and, leaving the door open,
he turned and walked to the kitchen. He was back in less
than a minute. "Here, is this what your father wants?" He
held out a telephone book and she opened her arms. Placing
the heavy tome on her forearms, he worried that it might be
too much for her to carry.
Her face lit up with a grin. "Yes! This is perfect." She
looked down at the book, and then pulled it in to her, as if
for warmth.
His heart went out to her and he added, "Is there anything
else you need? Something more I may do for you?"
"No, this will do." She turned and before stepping off the
porch she looked over her shoulder; the lights caught in her
eyes. "Thank you!" She moved quickly and was soon out of
sight. Roger shook his head, and said a prayer for her and
her father.
~~*~~
After cleaning up from the party, Roger headed for bed. He
had been invited to an old friend's home for Christmas Day.
His friend, Marcus, wanted Roger to share the holiday with
Marcus and his family. Roger lived alone and spent too many
holidays by himself; so said Marcus.
He heard it through a dream stitched haze ??“ the doorbell;
repeatedly ringing. He sat up, alarmed, wondering if it was
the girl again. And if so, why?
He jumped out of bed, leaving his robe on the bedside table,
and quickly ran downstairs. In a T-shirt and flannel pants
he swiftly drew the front door open to find his neighbor,
Valerie, standing there. There was a look of urgency in her
expression when she held her hand up, staying any immediate
comment from him.
"I'm so sorry to wake you, Roger. Please forgive me, but I
am bewildered and somewhat stunned."
Roger motioned Valerie in. "What is it? Can I get you
anything?"
Valerie shook her head. "No. I'm feeling at a loss . . . On
my way home this evening, less than half an hour ago -- I
drove by the empty lot, catty-cornered from my house and
noticed a girl standing by a makeshift fire, there in the
cold."
They stepped into the living room and Roger said, "Please,
sit down." He motioned to the couch and Valerie lowered
herself, but sat on the sofa's edge, her arms crossed as if
she, too, was chilled by the bracing night air.
Roger took a seat in the recliner opposite Valerie. He
inclined his head in her direction, urging her to continue.
"I stopped, rolled down my window and asked her what she was
doing; why she was there." Valerie hung her head ??“ her words
sounded softer and Roger had to lean out from his chair to
better hear her. "She asked me if I had something for the
fire." But Valerie, feeling nervous and uneasy with the
girl's situation, did not give the girl an answer. Instead,
Valerie asked the girl where her parents were, and Valerie
shared that with Roger.
"What did she say?" Roger queried, softly.
"She said her father was nearby. I assumed he was at the 24
hour convenience store. Where else could he be?" Valerie put
her hands up to her face and rubbed her forehead, then
looked up at Roger. "This is where it doesn't make any sense
to me, but she wanted me to tell you that your name and
number were in the book."
Roger's face registered puzzlement and surprise. His number
was unlisted and would not have been in the telephone book.
"What? Did she say anything else?"
Valerie shook her head. "No. I'm sorry."
"You left her there? Alone?"
Valerie's shoulders shook as she began to cry. "I . . ."
Roger jumped up, grabbed the flashlight he kept on the
hallway table, ran to the door, threw it open and jogged
down the street. His breath plumed out behind him as he
neared the field.
The fire was gone. The girl, too. All that remained were
the banked embers of the fire. Roger turned the flashlight
on and shone the beacon on the remains; pieces of the
telephone book. Singed tatters of yellow and white paper. A
small pile from such a huge book.
Roger bent down to examine the remnants more closely. There,
on a strip of the residential section of the book some names
were yet readable. He picked the piece up and found his name
and number on the burnt scrap. His jaw dropped and he
gasped. He picked up another piece and shined the flashlight
on a crumpled piece of the yellow, business section and read
the only two words remaining: Heaven's Numbers.
Roger turned the flashlight off, hung his head, and cried.
"Your name is there, Roger. As my Father said it would be."
A golden light pulsed from behind Roger as he heard the
girl's words. The air around him stirred as the angel's
wings beat softly, back and forth. "Out of the many, your
name will be found in the Book of Names. Merry Christmas,
Roger."
The air suddenly stilled and all was quiet. Roger lifted his
head to his Father and gave thanks.
~~*~~
Copyright 2005 Kathy Pippig Harris |
