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    Abigail's Christmas Miracle
    Abigail's Christmas Miracle
    Abigail's Christmas Miracle
    Ebook113 pages1 hour

    Abigail's Christmas Miracle

    By Murray Pura

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Abigail and her Grandfather have always enjoyed a special relationship. Especially at Christmas time on their farm in Ohio.

    Until this year.

    This year, something is wrong with Abigail's beloved Grandpa. He will not eat, he will not drink, he will not rise from his bed. He only wants to die. Abigail and her family and the doctors are unable to do anything to bring him around.

    It will take a miracle. A miracle Abigail sees no signs of happening no matter how hard she prays.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMillerWords, LLC
    Release dateNov 1, 2019
    ISBN9781393278641
    Abigail's Christmas Miracle
    Author

    Murray Pura

    I'm born Canadian, live in the blue Canadian Rockies, sound Canadian when I talk (sort of) ... but I'm really an international guy who has traveled the world by train and boat and plane and thumb ... and I've lived in Scotland, the Middle East, Italy, Ireland, California and, most recently, New Mexico. I write in every fiction genre imaginable because I'm brimming over with stories and I want to get them out there to share with others ... romance, Amish, western, fantasy, action-adventure, historical, suspense ... I write non-fiction too, normally history, biography and spirituality. I've won awards for my novels ZO and THE WHITE BIRDS OF MORNING and have celebrated penning bestselling releases like THE WINGS OF MORNING, THE ROSE OF LANCASTER COUNTY, A ROAD CALLED LOVE and ASHTON PARK. My latest publications include BEAUTIFUL SKIN (spring 2017), ALL MY BEAUTIFUL TOMORROWS (summer 2017), GETTYSBURG (Christmas 2018), RIDE THE SKY (spring 2019), A SUN DRENCHED ELSEWHERE (fall 2019), GRACE RIDER (fall 2019) and ABIGAIL’S CHRISTMAS MIRACLE (Christmas 2019). My novels ZO, RIDE THE SKY and ABIGAIL’s CHRISTMAS MIRACLE are available as audiobooks as well. Please browse my extensive list of titles, pick out a few, write a review and drop me a line. Thanks and cheers!

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      Book preview

      Abigail's Christmas Miracle - Murray Pura

      Dedication

      to Ivy Goodwin

      friend, family, blessing

      DECEMBER 24th

      CHRISTMAS EVE PART 1

      Abigail King, woolen hat snug over her white prayer Kapp , made her way through the snow to the barn to check on the horses. The snow was about half a foot deep. A storm had swept through the valley the day before and gifted most of Ohio with a winter wonderland. Especially Holmes County, where she lived with her family and her Amish community. Now there was a high-pressure system, the sky was as sapphire as her eyes, and the cold bit through her thick woolen parka. It was fifteen below. Thank goodness, once she pulled back the barn door and slipped inside, it was so much warmer. She could not see her breath and the water in the horses’ buckets, she noticed right away, had not frozen.

      There were six of them and the sudden plunge in temperature didn’t seem to be bothering the geldings or the mares. She went to one stall after another and gave each horse an apple after rubbing them between the ears. There were three mares and three geldings, all Morgans. "How are you? How are you? Ja, the apples are your treat. It’s Christmas Eve. That special time. The Bible does not say, but in my heart, I know for certain there were horses in the stable when he was born. So, who can prove me wrong, hmm? One of the geldings neighed and threw back its head and Abigail laughed. See? You know, Longfoot, you know."

      It was only nine in the morning. She had mucked out the stables between six and seven-thirty while her two younger sisters and brother did the milking of their dairy herd. She’d had her breakfast at eight. Hours before that, she had gobbled down a sticky bun at five to six, so hot from the oven she burned her mouth. Her mother had not been able to keep herself from laughing as Abigail hopped about the kitchen, gulping cold milk to ease the pain, refusing to spit any of the sticky bun out. Now she bit into an apple as her horses chewed and slobbered on theirs. An Ambrosia. One of her favorites because they were always crisp and sweet. Obviously, you love them too, she said to the horses, who looked to her for more. Oh, so, when it’s dark I’ll bring each of you another.

      She wandered to another part of the barn after double checking that the horses had their oats and hay. All the tack was clean, in good order, and hanging properly. There was even a harness with bells they hadn’t used for several years, not since Grandmother Stoltzfus had gone to be with the Lord, and Grandfather had lost his sparkle, as Abigail’s mother put it quietly. Prayer had not helped Grandfather, nor had Scripture, or sermons, or hymn singing. He would still come out in the evening and help Abigail with the horses. And he could still handle a buggy well. Nor could anyone stop him from stacking firewood or wheelbarrowing it to the house. He kept himself busy. But, as her mother whispered, his joy was gone. I would rather not be here, he had told them at the dinner table only a month before, during the Thanksgiving meal, despite the fact the children were still present. Heaven is a better place for me than earth.

      Our Lord has a plan for you, her mother had admonished him, upset. After all, he was her father. That is why you remain on earth. There is more for you to do, Papa.

      He had shaken his head. There is nothing for me to do.

      The bishop visited him weekly. So did several of the men his own age in the church, two of them widowers like himself. Grandfather Jakob Stoltzfus was friendly and polite. But they could not budge him much. Father said he wished his own Papa were still alive, Grandfather King, because he had always been able to get through to Jakob Stoltzfus. Now, it seemed, no one could. Except the horses. They would talk to him and Grandfather would smile and talk back in German, the good German they used in church for worship.

      He will be here to see you in a few hours, she promised the horses who were watching her from their stalls. He will have the carrots. I know how much you like those. And I know how much you like him.

      She walked to the far end of the barn where the light was dim. A saddle was sitting on a wooden stand, a saddle rarely used, since whenever she was allowed to ride, it was usually summer or spring, and she went bareback. Hanging from a stirrup on the other side of the saddle, unseen, was a rope of braided horse hair of different hues of brown – dark, light, honey, russet, chocolate. It was very long. Abigail laid it out on the boards of the barn floor and it was about ten feet. She prayed the rope would help. She had been working on it all fall so that she could give it to Grandfather Jakob at Christmas. It was made of long strands from the tails of all six horses, including his favorite, the mare Sunup, named by his wife. The bright honey-colored hairs belonged to the mare and Abigail had used more of hers than she had of the other mares and geldings. He could not fail to notice this and she hoped the long beautiful rope would cheer him up, if only for a few minutes.

      It is not as if our Lord does not understand this, does not know the human heart, the bishop had told her and her parents one evening. After all, he walked among us once. He wept at the grave of his friend. Wept over the coming doom of Jerusalem. Observe the Psalter. People mistakenly say the psalms are all about praise. They are not. Our Lord, in his wisdom, made sure many of them were about struggle, and suffering, and disappointment. Why? To show us he knows we shall go through troubled waters. Just as he did. He understands our griefs and losses. He does not say we must be so spiritual we feel no pain or hurt. No. He says to us, you will feel these things and experience them. When you do, tell the Father. Tell him all about what you are going through. Give your burdens to him. You see that all the psalm writers do that. Whether it is David or someone else. We must do the same. I know this is what Jakob is doing, amen, even though his night has been long, oh, I feel, good Father in heaven, too long.

      Abigail ran the rope through her hands and was happy with its strength and suppleness. Long hairs she’d brushed from Sunup’s tail were draped over a nail in the wall. She climbed into the saddle and began plaiting them, one after another, into the rope. Her fingers were quick and nimble. At nineteen, she had already become accomplished at sewing, stitching, knitting, darning, spinning and weaving. Plaiting a rope of horse hair was not a problem. Her hands knew what to do without her putting any thought into it. So, her mind began to drift.

      Christmas Eve. When Grandmother Stoltzfus had been alive and healthy, she and Grandfather had hitched two Morgans to a sleigh, tossed about two dozen bales of hay into the back, and run sleigh rides for the community from dawn to

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