The Man at Midnight Mass

Midnight mass seemed like an impossibility that Christmas Eve.

My husband was in the hospital with complications from a brain tumor. That left me our eight-year-old daughter and five-year-old son to look after—and I was pregnant. But the kids loved our Christmas tradition. “Please!” they begged.

The only open parking spot was six blocks from the church. The weather was bitter cold, the road icy. We barely made it on time and found three seats in the back.

Ten minutes in, both kids fell asleep. Shaking my head, I began to worry. My son was a deep sleeper. In my condition I couldn’t carry him and drag my daughter six blocks up the icy street.

The parishioners filed by to leave. I stayed sitting, about to cry. Then I felt a warm hand on my shoulder.

It was a tall man, with the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. “Are you in trouble?” he asked. I felt so comfortable that I told him my dilemma.

In one sweeping gesture, he lifted my son on his shoulder and helped my daughter up with his other arm. We walked in a quiet group to my car.

“I couldn’t have done this without you,” I said, turning around after I had secured the kids in their seat belts.

But my words disappeared in the night air. The snowy street was deserted. No footprints except my daughter’s and mine.