St. Christopher

There is a story I ask my Grandfather to tell every year at Christmas. It has become legendary, a storyteller’s gift, and one I think worth sharing.

It was Christmas Eve in Toronto in the fifties. Leaving the office at four o’clock, Grandpa rushed home to Willowdale. He and my Grandmother tucked the kids under some blankets in the back seat, packed away luggage and gifts, and set off in the fading winter light.

Darkness comes early in December, and the night was ‘black as the ace of spades,’ as Grandpa says. In the bitter cold, everyone looked forward to the journey’s end: my Great-Grandmother’s house on Phillips Street in Kingston.

These were the days before the 401. The Highway 2 journey was long and winding. By the time the family made it past Napanee, Kingston beckoned. The warm glow of the city was almost within reach when the car sputtered to a halt, exhausted.

Christmas Eve, a silent highway, and not a drop of gasoline. The nearest light was a farm a mile or so away. Grandpa thought seriously of heading there for help. Imagine: a stranger from the city, on Christmas eve, coming through the frozen fields to beg a jerry can of gas.

In that moment of fear and uncertainty a car appeared. ‘We’re out of gas,’ Grandpa sheepishly admitted to the gentleman stepping out of his vehicle. ‘No problem, friend,’ said the stranger.‘There’s a station just down the road from here. I’ll head there for a jerry can and bring it to you shortly.’

A handful of minutes later the stranger returned. Grandpa thanked him profusely for the gas and asked how much he owed. ‘Just settle up with the lad at the station down the way. You can’t miss it. He’ll be expecting you.’

Five minutes along the quiet snowy roads, and no gas station. Ten minutes and still nothing but emptiness and brush.  The family was almost in Kingston before they reached a station. But the stranger returned from his quest so quickly- how could he have driven so far?

To be sure, Grandpa asked the attendant if someone had been by with a jerry can. No one had stopped there for well over an hour. To be doubly certain, Grandpa asked whether there were any other stations along the road he might have missed. The chilling answer: no other gas stations on that stretch of highway.

Fifty years later, the mystery of this story could probably be solved if we wanted to spend enough time and energy unwrapping the well-worn tale, devising various hypotheses to explain away a miracle.

Instead, we simply delight in it. As we prepare to celebrate light in the darkness, may we remember to be kind to the traveler. To welcome the stranger.  To celebrate unlikely angels in our midst who make heaven and earth sing together.