MIRACLE IN DENVER
~A fictional story based on a true event ~
My car sputtered and died as I coasted into a busy gas station. The engine wouldn’t turn over. Blast it. I’d be late for the meeting and my friend would be upset.
While pushing my car into a parking space at the front of the convenience store, a driver behind me laid on the horn. The five o’clock traffic was turning my hair gray, but at least I wasn’t blocking the street for Denver’s police to ticket me.
I lifted the car’s hood to test my skimpy knowledge of automotive repair.
A pretty young woman left the convenience store with haggard circles under her eyes. She passed me and slipped on a patch of ice. Falling to her knees, she was seemingly more overcome by sobbing than from an injury. Folding her hands and closing her eyes, she let tears slide down her cheeks. “God, don’t let my kids see me crying, and please send help.”
Her situation snapped into focus as I retrieved her rolling nickel: the praying woman, the ancient Suburban crammed with stuff, three children in the back, one in a car seat, and the gas pump reading $4.95.
I handed her the coin, and she said, “Thanks, mister.”
A driver, wanting to pull up to the gas pump, beeped his horn.
I helped her to her feet and ushered her out of the way.
The breeze swirled the dress against her legs, and an area of fabric at her waist was threadbare from where she’d planted a child on her hip. She’d chewed her fingernails down to nothing, and her small hands were dishwater-rough. Her brown hair smelled like lilacs, and she’d fastened it with colorful combs.
I raised my voice above the rush-hour traffic. “Were you praying?”
She held back another sob and said, “Uh-huh.”
Her children pressed their noses against the window, watching me and smudging their fingerprints on the glass.
My pastor encouraged me to help needy people, so I hugged her and swiped my credit card through the reader at the gas pump. “Fill up your car, but don’t leave. Park over there, and I’ll be right back.”
At the next-door McDonald’s, I purchased two large bags of burgers, chicken nuggets, and fries, along with several books of gift certificates and two cups of coffee.
When I returned, she’d moved her car to an empty parking space. Her kids opened the side window and scrutinized the paper sacks like they were gold.
I gave the sacks to the woman, and she handed one to her children.
Within minutes, they wolfed down what seemed to be their first meal in two days.
Together, she and I ate a burger and sipped our hot coffee.
She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks, mister. Do you do this all the time, helping damsels in distress?”
I’d just made a friend and smiled. “Only when they have three children.”
Her lips twitched and morphed into a smile. “Why?”
“It’s my nature, I guess. I’m a sucker for youngsters.” I pointed to the packed car. “Where are you from?”
Her face darkened. “Kansas City, Missouri.”
She didn’t want to reveal much, so I changed the subject. “You have lovely kids.”
She seemed to grow an inch. “Thanks.”
“What are their names?”
Her shoulders straightened. “Aaron, Amy, and Andrew.”
“Interesting,” I said, “their names start with an A.” And I learned something that she hadn’t told me. I looked at the daughter. “Amy is your spitting image. You’re both beautiful.”
She blushed and played with a button on her sweater. “They’re five, four, and two. Aaron is protective of the younger ones. Amy loves to wear her pink dress. Andrew has his father’s eyes.”
I remained quiet, not wanting to vocalize the obvious question.
She fidgeted for a minute, then blurted out, “Alright. He didn’t think I was pretty and divorced me for another woman.”
It was understandable why she was touchy. “A man worth his salt will tell his wife she’s lovely and definitely won’t leave her. Where are you headed?”
She bit her lip. “To stay with my folks in California. We haven’t spoken in five years because I ran away with my boyfriend. When I called the other day, they said we could stay with them until I got on my feet.”
We were quiet for several minutes as gas station customers came and went, and traffic in the street eased up. While we waited, I leaned against her car and kicked a pebble.
She whirled with fire in her eyes. “Alright, you don’t have to be so judgmental with your suffocating silence. I made a stupid mess of my life.”
I held up my hands. “Whoa, I’m not here to judge. No one can change their past, and I want to help you move forward.”
She closed her eyes and regained her composure. “Sorry, mister. My life’s a mess, and I don’t know how we’ll get to California on this.” She opened her fingers to reveal the coin I’d picked up.
The last piece of my plan fell into place. “Wait here.”
In ten minutes, I returned with a pre-paid gasoline card. “There isn’t much on this, but it’s enough to get to Sacramento.” I pointed to the other McDonald’s bag. “There are certificates in there for about three days. You’ll have to sleep in the car, but if you’re careful, you’ll arrive without a problem.”
Her mouth hung open. “Tha … thank you, mister.”
I helped buckle her children into their booster seats, picked up their scattered trash, and got her settled behind the steering wheel.
She asked through the open window, “Why are you doing this?”
I grinned. “I’ve always been a sucker for a lady with three kids.”
“Really?”
I pointed upward. “You prayed, remember?”
“Are you an angel or something?”
“Allison, in six months you’ll meet a young man who’ll be proud to become the loving father that your kids deserve, and your parents are waiting to meet your beautiful children for the first time.”
She kissed my cheek. “Thanks for all your help, mister. I don’t know your name.”
“My name is Gabriel.” I patted her arm. “You should get as far as possible before darkness sets in.”
She started her Suburban, waved goodbye, and maneuvered into traffic.
I walked to my car and got in. It started with no sign of trouble. I knew it would.