Tucked in between two mountains sits a quiet little village where generations of people live and love, struggle and survive. Smoke rises from the chimney of the northernmost house and with it the prayers of each inhabitant within. For their very existence is threatened tonight by those without care for the cost their hostile plans elicit. And across the village, each house sends the same prayer. Come Lord Jesus. Help us.

Snow swirls in the wind, rushes across the plain, and hits the town community center, shaking it with gusts topping fifty miles an hour. But the townspeople within ignore it. They join in little circles of twos and threes and fives as they pray for help against a force far greater than the wind outside. Come Lord Jesus. Heal us.

Lights blink on and off in the city where light and dark coexist. But in little apartments, fancy penthouses, small neighborhoods and boroughs throughout the meandering streets come whispering voices. For down those streets walk those whose intentions are for usurpation. Come Lord Jesus. Rescue us.

And through the expectant air of a Christmas Eve comes their answer. If hopelessness expects nothing, it usually receives it. But if hope calls for a miracle? Oh that blessed, beautiful miracle will come as surely as the One from whom all hope of heaven and earth descended and brought forth glorious LIGHT!

This miracle story depends upon the reader. It waits to hear the prayer, to learn the heart, and to examine the faith. Pray, my dear readers, pray as though your life depends on it. And we of stout heart and unquenchable faith will wait together through the night as we watch for the miraculous dawn.

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