Miracle Stories

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He was a stranger who helped me that night in 1996. Was he God's representative in disguise?

It was my first January in Canada. I was still new to the freezing temperatures. I hated it when I couldn't even feel my fingers and toes, and Rudolph could have vied for my red nose.

To gain Canadian experience, I took up the first few jobs I could find. They were things I had never done before, but so what? They could get me Canadian experience that was a vital ingredient in the recipe of landing a job, and I went for them.

I was working the late shift those days and I would return to my lodging around 9:30 at night. I was living with a family my parents knew. I had got the house key cut so I wouldn't inconvenience them whenever I returned late.

One day in mid January, Karen had told me over breakfast that they wouldn't be home that night when I got back. They had been invited to a party.

It had been snowing all day that day and I realized it only as I stepped out of the office that night. Trudging to the bus stop in knee-deep snow, I managed to catch my usual bus.

The soles of my feet tingling, I imagined myself thawing on the homeward-bound ride. I really loved the way the snow drifted close to the surface of the road as the vehicles passed. I loved how the falling flakes beneath the lampposts looked so cheerful as they fluttered down. I loved how the lights of the city, reflected off the sheets of snow, lit up the sky. I admired the symmetry of the discernable flakes that withstood the warmth of the window's pane. The sights were sure pretty, I thought, but the bone-chilling numbness was not.

My feet still impalpable inside my boots, I alighted at Summer Circle, to begin the seven-minute jaunt that sometimes turned into a run, to my den. Walking felt better. I was not so cold. By the time I reached home, the flurries had subsided. I took the glove off my right hand to pull out the keys from my bag. I checked for the right key under the light of the street lamp. I inserted it into the keyhole and made the usual twisting motion with my hand. Yes, I turned it the right way. But, it would not budge. I jiggled it in the hole. I even tried turning it the wrong way. It was still stubborn. My fingers were freezing by this time. I had to put my glove back on. And then, of course, I didn't have a proper grip. I had to slip my hand into my coat pocket for a few minutes to be able to get at least a little feeling back. Flexing my fingers vigorously, I took my right hand out to face the attack of the cold and to take on the obnoxious keyhole again.

I prayed and I tried but the key just wouldn't turn. I couldn't feel my hands again. I had to slip them back into coat-pocket heaven while I scoured the surroundings for any sign of human movement. The houses across the street and to the left and right had all their lights turned off. I prayed for at least a car to pass by. But, no! It looked like the most deserted street on earth. I was afraid that I would freeze to death outside. I had been out there for more than half an hour. I was even scared of the thicket behind the house. I had the darkest thoughts about someone lurking there, spotting me, jumping out, and doing the worst possible thing to me. I stormed heaven; I looked out for earthlings. I was on the verge of tears.

I jogged in place to keep myself warm. I was hungry and felt weak. I prayed and used the key again. I shook the door. And then, I prayed even more. I even kicked the door. I turned the knob and hurt my frozen knuckles. I warmed my fingers inside my coat. Ah, at least I could feel my toes. But, toes couldn’t hold the key to open the door.

The frigid air couldn't possibly stop my prayers. My ears pricked up at the sound of a car pulling into a driveway. My heart leapt with hope. I picked up my knapsack and scooted to the car, two houses down the street. I ran up to the car window and accosted the middle-aged driver.

He was surprised to see me and rolled down his window. "I need your help," I said. "I've been out here for about forty-five minutes, trying to get into the house. My key doesn’t work." He was a tad wary of me at first. He questioned me, asking if that was my house. My explanation quickly gained his trust and he tried to pacify me. "No problem, don't you worry. I'll come over and try."

He took the key from me and set to work. The key and keyhole were determined not to yield. Who was this stranger, after all? He tried the knob; he tried to jolt the door. The key wouldn't turn. The extreme cold had caused its erratic behavior, he explained. The door would have to be broken, Mr. Perry told me. But, he was not prepared to do it. He did not want to be responsible for the repairs, and it wasn't safe even for me, even for a night, living in a house with a broken door. But, I coaxed him to try again, and to try not to break the door. He was hesitant. If his manly strength this far couldn’t get the door to yield, what could, if he tried another time? But, he kicked. The door shuddered. A flicker of paint flew off the region of impact. An almost unnoticeable scratch remained to tell its history. Mr. Perry then tried the key while twisting and teasing the knob. Miraculously, it relented! It had had its obstinate hour.

I thanked Mr. Perry profusely as he handed me his business card. "That's my new card, with my newest number. The last four numbers 8768 are a month new. Call me if you need any help."

I was so grateful for the warm blankets that night. In the wee hours of the morning, I was dead to the world as the Smiths made their way in, after the party. At breakfast, I related the ordeal I had been through to Karen, Mark, and the girls. But, they did not believe me. Their key had worked like a charm when they got back.

That evening, I was determined to call Mr. Perry to thank him once more. I carefully dialed the number only to get the automated message tell me that the number I dialed was not in service. I even called Bell Customer Service and they explained that there had been no activity at that number for over two years.

Where was Mr. Perry? Who was he?

Copyright © Stacey-Anne Bistak

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