The Sign

The hail stung my face and my feet burned, wet and cold in my second-hand boots. The last storm of the season was brutal. In a way, I was glad for the ice, because it disguised the tears streaming down my face.

This was my first day back to work in the city. I’d secretly hoped to stay home with my first born, at least for a few more months, but it was not to be.

You see, my husband quit his job in order to have more time to devote to being a recording engineer. “This is my last chance to make it, honey. For you. For the baby.”

Who could argue with that?

Our brand new car was gone. Stolen. Probably by the guys who installed the alarm. Brought up in Vermont, I was pretty naïve, even at thirty.

My parents refused to help, not even twenty bucks for some groceries and a bag of diapers.

God? I just don’t think I can believe in you anymore.

My normal subway stop was blocked because of the weather, so I had about a mile to walk. The despair of leaving my baby, of wanting more from my spouse, of just wanting, was so great I don’t know how I took another step.

I would’ve ended it all if it weren’t for my little Emily.

There was no God. There was no greater plan for me. There was just nothing.

Then I saw it! It was sitting on top of an icy garbage bucket in front of a brownstone. A plastic Santa from the 50’s. The white electric cord is wrapped around the base.

Santy?

My mother put out two when I was growing up. My older sister was given one, my brother, being number two in birth order, was given the other.

I loved those damn things.

Wow. Suddenly it dawned on me that I’d been given something that very few experience.

A sign. God was watching. He heard me that day.

And with faith and hope, all things are possible.

Many years have gone by since then. I have a great job, am still happily married to my dreamer, and my two girls are off on their own, successful entrepreneurs.

And I still believe.

Merry Christmas.