“Do you want anything from the kitchen?” Faith asked, checking her watch. “I’m going to be shutting down the fryers and grill soon.”
“No, thank you,” Micah whispered. “Coffee will do.”
The waitress nodded and disappeared into the back.
Micah let out a heavy breath and sipped his coffee. How long would it take for him to stop feeling like an idiot? He could never tell Nick and Wendy about this. At least, not for a long time. But probably never.
He sighed again, and his entire body felt heavy as if gravity was working overtime, dragging him toward the floor. “When I asked you to spare a miracle,” he mumbled, “you could’ve just said no. You didn’t have to play some nasty joke on me.” He rubbed his eyes and brought back damp fingertips. “But at least I know now what to expect from you.”
Was he being fair to God? He didn’t know. Was it really God’s fault he was stupid enough to believe in a movie magic moment? Regardless, he wouldn’t be praying for any more miracles.
Muffled sniffling rattled him from his despondent thoughts. Micah turned and looked at the old man in the booth by the window. He wasn’t quite as old as Micah first thought—late fifties, early sixties, maybe. His overcoat was tattered but clearly of expensive origin. The man’s grayish hair was slightly long and thinning on top, his eyes drawn and tired as they focused on the worn photo in his hands—old hands that trembled and shook.
Micah thought about his own father. He would’ve been about this man’s age had he still been alive. Would he have been this haggard and beaten by life? Micah hadn’t seen him since he’d left him and his mom that cold Christmas Eve day when Micah was just fifteen. From what Micah understood, his dad drank himself to his deathbed and died alone. When he tried to summon pity for the man—there was none. Not when his dad’s destructive, heartless behavior had sent Sarah Rose to an early grave.
His dad didn’t even have the decency to attend her funeral and show some shred of grief and remorse. If he had, some of the damage inside Micah may have healed a bit. If the man had just beensorryfor what he’d done to the woman who loved him. Micah didn’t even care if he was sorry for what he’d done to his own son—he’d just wanted him to feel remorse for hurting his mom so bad she couldn’t come back from it.
The old man at the table laid the photo down, his fingers trembling over the surface of the picture. His stubbled chin trembled, and weary eyes glistened. He reached an unsteady hand inside his jacket and came back with a folded note and pen. With some effort, he managed to unfold the paper, but gripping the pen seemed a more difficult task. His throat worked as he attempted to write, thwarted by his quaking limb. A tear weaved through the aged grooves of his face and seeped into the tiny bristles of beard stubble.
Micah watched the old man as his own “trauma” of a moment ago continued to echo through him. Rather than sit there and contemplate his own foolishness, he picked up his coffee cup and left the counter and approached the old man’s table.
“Sir?” Micah spoke low, gentle. “Is everything all right?”
The old man raised his head slowly, his eyes watery with a wall of unshed tears. Despair furrowed his wrinkled brow. He didn’t speak.
“Do you need some help…?” Micah indicated the pen and paper.
Fresh tears welled as the old man stared up at him, what appeared to be gratitude reflecting in his tired eyes, but still, the old timer didn’t say a word.
Micah felt confused—should he sit down? Leave the old man alone? The look in his eyes seemed to beckon to Micah, but maybe he was misinterpreting it. After themisconceptionwith Ben, his faith in his own elucidation was greatly lacking. Had he not heard the old man mumble athank youto the waitress earlier, he might have thought he couldn’t speak.
Nodding slowly, Micah retreated a step and offered quietly, “I’m sorry to bother you. Have a Merry Christmas.” It was time to go home. There was nothing for him here, no “Christmas miracle” to witness. God had had his little laugh at Micah’s expense—haha—and now, he just wanted to get out of here and try to forget the humiliating experience.
His thoughts remained sour toward God as he turned away from the old man’s table.Laugh it up, big guy, because I won’t be so quick or foolish to believe in your “miracles” again-
“Stay…”
Micah faltered—had he imagined the old man’s voice? He shifted back around. “Did you say something, sir?”
The old man stared at him, his aged chin trembling. “Please…stay.”
