Mini Miracles
The Church Dogs of Charleston #1
Melissa Storm
© 2018, Melissa Storm
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Editor: Megan Harris
Cover & Graphics Designer: Mallory Rock
Proofreader: Falcon Storm & Jasmine Bryner
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Partridge & Pear Press
PO Box 72
Brighton, MI 48116
Contents
A Free Gift
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
What's Next?
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Get Text Updates
More from Melissa Storm
About the Author
A FREE GIFT FOR YOU!
* * *
Thank you for picking up your copy of Mini Miracles. I so hope you love it! As a thank-you, I’d like to offer you a free gift. That’s right, I’ve written a short story that’s available exclusively to my newsletter subscribers. You’ll receive the free story by e-mail as soon as you sign up at www.MelStorm.com/Gift. I hope you’ll enjoy both stories. Happy reading!
Melissa S.
To Sky Princess and Mila:
My own personal Chihuahua miracles
Prologue
Pastor Adam
Some say that whenever it snows in Charleston, God is giving a miracle to His most favorite of places. I tried to remember that as the cold reaching fingers of the wind poked and prodded my cheeks, nose, and everything else not already covered up by my scratchy winter getup.
But the more I tried to be optimistic about the shocking turn in the weather forecast, the harder that miraculous snow swirled. Soon it had bleached out the entire sky so that it was hard to tell where earth ended and the heavens began. We had a veritable snow storm on our hands just in time for the celebration of His birth.
I mumbled a quick prayer that those traveling tonight would remain safe and hugged my threadbare coat tighter around my shoulders. Head down, I fought against the wind, marching ever closer toward my destination.
Leave it to me to get so caught up in my Christmas Eve sermon that I’d forget my cell phone right there on the pulpit! Lucky thing I did, though, because as I finally reached the front doors of the sanctuary, I discovered a most disturbing sight.
Our locally famous nativity scene had been on the fritz all week, but now the angels’ glowing halos had plum run out of power, casting the entire display into darkness. And on Christmas Eve, no less.
Ignoring the cold, which had found its way straight up underneath my clothes, I stepped closer to investigate the source of our power outage. Last summer old Mrs. Clementine had taken it upon herself to plant a little garden right outside the church. How could I say no to her request when she said all the food from our newly christened vegetable patch would be donated to feed the hungry?
And so with more than a little trepidation, I said yes, and unfortunately so did every little critter within a twenty mile radius. Even with the crops resting for the winter, I had no doubt that one of Mrs. Clementine’s rabbit friends had tried to make a home of Christ’s manger—and a snack of His power cords.
Upon closer inspection, I found that—yes, just as I’d suspected—a tiny ball of brown fluff had nestled into the nativity right there between Mary, Joseph, and the kindly shepherds who’d come to pay their respects.
Darn varmits!
Well, that’s what I wanted to think, but then I stopped myself. These poor creatures hadn’t expected the sudden snowfall either. They just wanted to get warm, and maybe God had sent me back to offer assistance on His behalf.
My toes began to go numb, but I tried to ignore that tingly sharpness as I stepped in for a closer look at the trembling animal.
Imagine my surprise when I found not just one creature, but five!
Right there next to the little Lord Jesus lay a mother dog and her four newborn pups. How they’d managed to survive this long was truly by the grace of God.
I didn’t want to leave them, but I couldn’t carry them all at once either. At least not on my own. After retrieving the box that our latest batch of hymnals had arrived packed inside, I stripped off my scarf and made a little nest. Then one by one, I lifted the mama and her puppies into the cardboard carrier and brought them into our church to get warm.
My lungs could scarcely take in a single breath of air until I made sure that each pup was alive and well. Only by the glory of God each of these tiny newborns moved just enough to show me they were okay. You must understand these dogs were hardly bigger than my own thumb. They could have easily been mistaken for rat pups if not for that brave mama dog.
A quick search on my newly retrieved phone confirmed that these were not just any dogs. They were the most diminutive of all dog breeds.
I didn’t even stop to question why the Almighty had sent me five Chihuahuas in need as an early gift for His birthday. I didn’t have to, because right then I knew beyond the shadow of any doubt these dogs were meant to find us. Surviving that cold Christmas Eve outdoors was only the first of many miracles that mama dog and her pup would bring to our congregation…
Chapter 1
Abigail
Abigail Sutton sat in the dark living room waiting for her father to return from his Christmas Eve sermon. Much to his chagrin, she’d refused to attend church with him that evening. She also wouldn’t go tomorrow morning, next Sunday, or any other day for the rest of her life as long as she could avoid it.
Avoiding church when your father was the pastor took quite some effort, but Abigail had committed herself to just that. The last time she’d stepped foot into the Eternal Grace sanctuary had been for her husband’s funeral, which had forever tainted the place as far as she was concerned.
It had destroyed her relationship with God, too.
She’d happily praised His name all her life, and for what? The first time she’d truly needed God, He’d failed to show up. What good is having an all-powerful Heavenly Father if he couldn’t even take the one second that w
as needed to shield her husband from the bomb blast that had claimed him far too soon?
Then there was the guilt.
Abigail herself had been the one to convince Owen to take a second tour of duty before they’d settle down to start their family. If she’d just asked him to stay home, they’d be together singing holiday hymns at church with her father and planning the start of their family side by side, hand in hand.
Instead, Abigail sat alone. She’d moved back in with her father about two months ago. Back to her childhood home in Charleston.
It was an odd thing returning to your hometown when you thought you’d already left it behind. It was almost as if her life with Owen hadn’t even happened, like the world wasn’t just burying his body but also his memory. But it couldn’t get rid of her husband that easily, for Abigail still had two very good reminders.
One was the glistening gold band on her finger. They said people wore rings on their second smallest finger because it had a vein linked straight to the heart. She’d always liked that.
Her other reminder of Owen was also near to her heart, as in literally growing just beneath it. Their child. The last piece of Owen anyone would ever have in this world.
She didn’t know how to feel about becoming a mother and a widow at almost the exact same time. She’d only found out about her pregnancy a few weeks before the solider with downcast eyes and a blank expression had delivered the folded flag to her doorstep. She’d called to tell Owen the news even though it was still early, and conventional wisdom said not to tell anyone until the first “dangerous” twelve weeks had passed.
But the news of their child was supposed to keep him safe, give him something that much more special to which he’d returned. Instead, she would always have to wonder if it had been the distraction that knocked him off his game and ultimately ended his life way out there in that horrible desert so far from home.
She hated picturing it, but she couldn’t stop either. Every time Abigail closed her eyes, she saw her Owen smiling and wiping away tears of joy at their wedding. But in an instant, his handsome face would be replaced by a bloodied, torn visage mangled by pain. It was this last haunting version of Owen that remained with her, and it didn’t even look like him.
But what about their baby? If it turned out to be a boy, would it look like Owen? The real Owen?
She didn’t know whether that would make things easier or not. Would having a little boy the spitting image of his father break her heart every time she looked at him—or would it soothe her?
Abigail wished she didn’t have to consider these things. She wished she could be a normal mother expecting her first child and expecting her husband home healthy, happy, and in time for dinner.
A part of her also wished that she had never met Owen at all. Each time Abigail thought this, though, a tremendous wave of guilt overtook her.
When would the tears stop coming? When would the guilt stop eating her from the inside out? When would she actually be happy about this baby?
Never couldn’t possibly be the answer, but it was the one she expected. She’d given God her everything, only for Him to take it all away at the first chance He got.
She glanced at the clock on her cell phone. Her father should have been home at least half an hour ago. She groaned and curled her legs up beneath her on the chair. It wasn’t that she needed his company, but she liked to have benchmarks by which she could measure the passage of time.
Her biggest comfort these days was simply that time pressed ever onward. After all, it was supposed to heal all wounds. And Abigail had few other options left when it came to finding some way—any way—to begin to feel normal again.
Another five minutes passed before she heard the sound of her father fiddling with the doorknob outside. “Abigail, can you help?” he called through the thick wooden door. “I have a surprise!”
Slowly, she lifted herself from the chair, bracing herself for whatever came next. She’d asked him not to make a big fuss of Christmas this year, but that didn’t mean he’d chosen to listen. Her sweet father was always coming up with grand schemes, and they all too often involved her. Even before Abigail had moved back home, he’d often call her out of the blue and stop by the base to invite her on an impromptu day trip.
Normally she loved his zeal for life, but lately it was just too much. She needed him to be calm, reserved, forgettable. Then maybe she could put these painful days of grieving behind her, too.
Somehow she doubted that would happen. She took a deep breath, then placed a shaking hand on the door knob and twisted it open. The surprise that greeted her on the doorstep was quite possibly the last thing she’d ever have expected…
Chapter 2
Abigail
Abigail took a step back as her father rushed past her into the house. In his arms he carried an old cardboard box. He’d taken off his coat and flung it over the top so that she couldn’t see what was inside.
She heard it, though—a mix of whimpers and squeaks that surely meant they were in for a calamitous holiday.
“Oh no.” Abigail gave her father a stern look. “Did a squirrel have babies in the attic again? You know you don’t have the time to look after them. You were too upset last time when—”
“Yes, I know what happened last time.” Her father turned to her with a huge grin on his wind-chapped face. “But this time will be different.”
She gave him a fatigued sigh. She hated to dampen his spirits, but she just didn’t have the energy for yet another ill-fated rescue attempts. “Different how?”
“Well, they aren’t squirrels, and I’m not raising them.” His eyes glowed like the beginning sparks of a fire. There was no stopping him now. “You are,” he concluded with an enormous Cheshire grin.
Abigail wanted to argue that she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, but the baby growing inside her seemed to imply otherwise.
“Take a look,” he said, setting the box on the carpeted floor and finally raising his coat to offer her a peek inside.
“Puppies!” she shouted, eyeing the wriggling balls of pink, black, and brown with hesitation. “Where did you get a box of puppies? And how when you were supposed to be giving the Christmas Eve sermon?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “This happened after.”
Abigail slowly approached and let the mother dog sniff her hand. She was half fawn colored and half white with giant ears flanking either side of her head. She looked from her nursing pups to Abigail and squinted before letting out a tremor that shook her whole body.
“Oh my gosh!” Abigail cried. “Is she okay?”
“That’s Mama Mary, and she’ll be just fine. She got her babies to safety. I found them cuddled in the manger right next to the little Lord Jesus himself.”
“I suppose that’s why you named her Mama Mary,” Abigail said with a smirk. Even her cold, dead heart warmed a bit to the sweet puppies and their heroic mother. “And there are four puppies. Did you name them after the four gospels?”
He laughed as they both stood transfixed by the squirming pups before them. “They don’t have names yet, although that isn’t a bad idea. I figured we’d let the Sunday school kids bestow the honor.”
“Wait, does that mean you’re planning to keep them?” She glanced to her father in shock. While he’d always loved all of God’s creatures, he’d never exactly been a pet person. What had happened with the squirrels several years ago had been quite the anomaly—and she thought they’d all learned their lesson from it.
When a sheepish grin lit her father’s face, she knew there was no way she’d be able to convince him to take the dogs to a shelter.
“I thought they could be a Christmas gift. The fact they found us in that storm has got to be a sign. This isn’t just one miracle—it’s a whole litter.”
“And Mama Mary makes five. Five dogs!” She wanted to be supportive, but someone needed to be realistic here. “How on earth are we going to give a proper home to five dogs?” s
he demanded.
Her father was completely nonplussed by Abigail’s attempts to protest. He simply smiled and pointed above. “The Lord will provide a way,” he said.
“You always say that.”
“It’s always true.”
Abigail hid the smile that tried to creep across her normally placid face. If nothing else, her father was consistent, and that was something she’d always found comforting. In that way, it was nice to be home. She should be grateful that she at least had a loving home to return to. It was hard to imagine things could be worse, but of course they always could.
These nearly frozen over pupsicles were proof enough of that.
“You know we at least have to look for the owners,” she pointed out softly.
“I know that, but I also know nothing will come of it. I prayed a lot on the drive over. God wanted us to have these dogs. That’s why He sent them.” He rubbed his hands and blew air into them, then let them hover over the pups, using this makeshift heater to warm them further.
So God saw to it that these five dogs were saved, but my husband wasn’t important enough to warrant his attention? Abigail thought bitterly, hating herself as she did. She should be happy that the little animals hadn’t caught their deaths outside, not jealous.
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