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    Christmas Miracles: Foreword by Don Piper, Author of 90 Minutes in Heaven
    Christmas Miracles: Foreword by Don Piper, Author of 90 Minutes in Heaven
    Christmas Miracles: Foreword by Don Piper, Author of 90 Minutes in Heaven
    Ebook233 pages2 hours

    Christmas Miracles: Foreword by Don Piper, Author of 90 Minutes in Heaven

    By Cecil Murphey and Marley Gibson

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    About this ebook

    Celebrate the season of hope and miracles with these inspiring true stories that will warm the heart and touch the soul…

    A man lies gravely ill in the hospital on Christmas when he hears angels singing and immediately makes a full recovery. A little boy with dyslexia sits down to read a Christmas book and realizes that his disability has vanished. And a woman's faith is renewed by the chance discovery of a simple nativity set.

    Many ordinary people experience God's grace during those special moments when Christmas becomes more than just a holiday, but a time for miracles. Cecil Murphey and Marley Gibson bring you the real-life stories of everyday people who have experienced these life-changing moments of hope, comfort, and transformation—all during the most wonderful time of the year.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMacmillan Publishers
    Release dateOct 13, 2009
    ISBN9781429987943
    Christmas Miracles: Foreword by Don Piper, Author of 90 Minutes in Heaven
    Author

    Cecil Murphey

    Cecil Murphey, author of 112 books, has also assisted well-known personalities in writing their biographies.

    Read more from Cecil Murphey

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    • 3/5
      A nice selection of inspiring stories.

    Book preview

    Christmas Miracles - Cecil Murphey

    1. My First Christmas

    Cecil Murphey

    I SANG WITH THE SMALL GROUP THAT GATHERED AROUND the piano. Shirley, whom I later married, played carols and sang alto. My best friend, John Burbank, had a beautiful tenor voice. Others harmonized so their voices blended nicely. I knew enough about music to realize it sounded better if I moved away and listened.

    I walked over to the window and stared into the dark evening. The snow had started to fall shortly after lunch on that Thursday—four days before Christmas. By now, at least two inches had accumulated. The streetlight made the heavy flakes glow as they hit the ground.

    Just then, Shirley began to play O Come, All Ye Faithful. Of all the carols, that was and continues to be my favorite. Momentarily I closed my eyes and listened to them sing. When they finished the third stanza, I asked, Would you sing it again? Just for me?

    Shirley touched the keys and they sang.

    That was one of the most perfect moments in my life. Each Christmas I reflect on that scene. Many years have passed so my memory may not be accurate on every detail. It doesn’t matter: That was my first Christmas—the first time I grasped the meaning and the purpose of that holy day.

    I was a month away from my twenty-second birthday. I had grown up with a limited exposure to the church during my first eleven years. That’s when I decided that church was for old ladies and dumb kids. I had walked out of a Sunday school class, out of the building, and as far from Christianity as I could. For a decade I never walked inside a church building.

    At age twenty-one, my world crashed over an aborted love affair. In my pain, I thought about God, and went to a church service. I’m not even sure why. On my way out, I picked up a free New Testament. I didn’t return to that church, but I did read the New Testament.

    After months of almost-daily reading, I decided I believed what I read. If I believe, I need to do something about this, I said to myself. That’s when I seriously attended church. I met Shirley and we fell in love. Six weeks before Christmas I was baptized in her church.

    As the group reached the crescendo with Christ the Lord, I smiled. I understood those words. It’s not that they had been unintelligible; it was that I had been unable to personalize the Christmas message.

    I knew the story—what child didn’t? But until that night, the meaning of Christmas had been lost on me. The season had been one of giving and receiving gifts, of constant music in stores, and greetings everywhere of Merry Christmas. People decorated their houses and sometimes their yards. The theaters released their cheery and sometimes sappy Christmas films.

    At home my mother always made mince pie—her favorite, I suppose. Friends gave me gifts and I bought presents for them. In general, people seemed a little nicer and maybe a few degrees happier.

    On that Thursday night before Christmas, I understood. Christmas is a night of promise—a promise to the entire world. God presented his greatest miracle to the world. In God’s quiet way he was saying, This is to show you my love. I’ve given you my son. One day he will grow up and willingly die for you. That’s how much I love you—enough to give you the most important thing in the universe—a part of myself.

    Tears surfaced and I turned away from the group. I suppose I was too embarrassed to let them see my tears. But those were what I called happy tears.

    This is my first Christmas. Now I know what it means.

    In the years since, I’ve celebrated Jesus’ birth in many places and under varying circumstances. Many of them were special moments for me. But none of them have ever touched me quite as deeply as that first one.

    Perhaps that’s the reason: It was the first. It was an awakening. From someone who had no interest in spiritual things, God performed a special miracle in my life. That baby was a living love letter to me.

    2. Miracle in the Storm

    Elizabeth M. Harbuck with Marley Gibson

    CHRISTMAS 1967 MIGHT HAVE BEEN A DELIGHTFUL BUT ORdinary time except for one thing. Mother and Daddy drove from Alabama to Massachusetts to spend the Christmas holiday with us. They traveled in their new four-door Thunderbird, which was the prettiest car they had ever owned. Before they made the long trip north, Daddy had it serviced at the local garage.

    We had a wonderful time together and did all the seasonal things. We attended Christmas Eve service at church, wrapped and later unwrapped presents, talked, joked, baked, and argued about whether this year’s dressing in the turkey was as good as last year’s.

    The beautiful white Christmas was perfect for New England. Then the day came for my parents to leave. The snow had piled high on the ground and the weather reports predicted more. I was a little worried and asked them to stay.

    Daddy wasn’t concerned. I’ve driven in heavy snow many times, he reminded us. He also pointed out that they would drive on the then-new interstate highways. Besides, I have a new car and it’s in top condition. I don’t expect any problems getting home.

    They considered stopping at a motel until the storm blew over, but decided to drive through to Alabama. Somewhere in Connecticut, a blinding snowstorm caught them. Daddy had about a five-foot visibility. He slowed the car to a crawl. They hadn’t seen any other vehicles for a long time and no snowplows had come through.

    Just then, his right-rear tire blew. The car jolted and thudded as the rim of the wheel took the weight. He pulled the car to the side of the road. The visibility hadn’t improved and snow pelted the car. He was weak and feverish. Neither he nor Mother had any idea where they were except somewhere in Connecticut. This happened long before the day of cell phones.

    Daddy had a choice: He could wait until someone came along to help—and neither of them had any idea when that would happen—or he could get out in the blizzard and change it himself.

    Sit tight, he told Mother. I’ll change it as quickly as I can.

    Let me help—

    One of us out in the storm is enough. No sense in your getting sick. Stay inside, pray, and keep warm.

    Mother was upset over the flat tire. She also felt concerned about his safety. They had heard terrible stories of people being robbed on the highway. After Daddy got out of the car, she folded her hands together, closed her eyes, and prayed, Dear God, please help us.

    No sooner had Daddy opened the trunk to take out the jack than two young men

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