We hadn’t had a real winter since we moved from Illinois to Texas, at least not as far as I was concerned. Then, the day before Thanksgiving when I was seven years old, the weather turned freezing cold. “Cold enough to snow?” I asked my mom. “It doesn’t ever snow here,” she told me for the hundredth time. “You’ll have to get used to it.”
That night I sat on my bed, staring out the window. If I wish hard enough, like Pinocchio, maybe it will happen. I picked out the biggest, brightest star in the sky and squeezed my eyes shut. “Star light, star bright. . .” I recited enthusiastically. I stated my wish with gusto. Then I looked: no snow.
Defeated, I flopped back on the bed and crawled under the covers. Nothing to do but say my prayers and go to sleep. “Dear God, please bless Mom and Dad and . . .” Wait a minute. God could make it happen, couldn’t he? “Just a few snowflakes,” I prayed. “I would be so happy. Amen.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, sleepyhead,” Mom said the next morning. “Have I got a surprise for you. Put your robe on and come see.”
She led me through the living room and opened the front door. A blanket of white covered the ground. Sparkling crystals fluttered from the sky. It was truly a day for thanksgiving for my snow, and for my God who gave it to me just because I asked.
