Just before midnight I drove home from a holiday party. I had to be up early in the morning for the Christmas Eve meeting of my prayer group. I turned down a dark street and felt a thump.
I swung my car around and switched on my high beams. On the street lay a little black Scottish terrier. He must have darted into the street!
A family ran out from their house. “That’s my dog!” the boy yelled.
“I’m sorry,” I cried. The boy’s father bent to pick the dog up. “No!” I said. “Get something flat for a stretcher.”
We slid the dog carefully on a board into the back of my car. I drove as fast as I could to the 24-hour vet clinic. The dog had to make it. Christmas was the worst time for grieving.
X-rays showed the damage. The dog’s pelvis was broken in four places. “Tomorrow we’ll move him to the animal hospital,” the vet said. “They can set the bones there in surgery.”
I made plans to meet the family in the morning at the animal hospital. “I’ll come right after my prayer group,” I told the boy. “We’ll pray for your dog.”
The group prayed an extra long time. Afterward the boy met me at the door of the hospital and pulled me into a room where his parents and the vet were looking at new X-rays.
The bones had come together on their own. Even closer than the surgeon could have set them, the vet said. The dog went home Christmas morning. Christmas was the best time for miracles.
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