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A light dusting of snow had just begun to coat the streets and houses that made up the quaint and peaceful village of Middleburg. As the cold frosty evening began to turn into night, most of the shops lining the town’s main street were now dark and shuttered. Since it was Christmas Eve, many of the shopkeepers had closed their stores earlier in the afternoon so they could go home and begin celebrating Christmas with their families.
On Center Street there was only one store with its lights still on. Inside Miller’s House of Music, Philip Miller was preparing to close. He had already turned off the lights in the back of the store, locked the cases that held the small instruments and accessories, and just punched the worn red button on the cash register that caused the drawer to spring open. As he prepared to begin counting the money he was suddenly interrupted by a heavy rapping on his shop door.
At first Philip didn’t even look up as he took out the money and began to count it. But the rapping persisted and got louder.
Shaking his head, he stopped and slowly made his way to the door. As he pulled up the shade he could see Jack Addams standing in front of his shop. The tall man was leaning down looking into Philip Miller’s face as he peered through the glass of the locked door.
“Mr. Miller,” Jack Adams called to Philip through the door, “I know you’re closed, but I was wondering if you could open up. I just got off work. I had to stay at the plant, there was a problem on the line and we all had to work overtime to get a big order out before we could close for Christmas. This is my last chance to get Jason’s Christmas present. Could you please help me?”
Jason Addams was Jack’s thirteen-year-old son and the young boy had just started to take an interest in music. Philip had noticed him coming into his shop almost every day after school for the past three weeks to stare at the guitar display in the front of the store.
“Please Mr. Miller,” Jack was now almost pleading. “I hate to disappoint my boy on Christmas by not giving him the one thing he really wants.”
Addams’ voice seemed to stir Philip out of his daze.
Looking through the door at the man, who had bent down to get closer to his level, Philip frowned, reached out his hand and turned the knob that snapped open the latch.
“OK Jack, come in, but I’m trying to get home, so if you know what your boy wants then pick it out and make it quick,” Philip said in such a gruff tone of voice that even he was surprised at how harsh it had sounded.
“I won’t be long Mr. Miller,” Jack said with a smile on his face. “My boy’s shown me so many pictures of what he wants that I know it by heart. Here it is,” he said as he put his hands on a red and chrome electric guitar.
Philip Miller quickly boxed the instrument, rang the register and hustled his last-minute customer out the door.
“Thanks a million, Mr. Miller,” Jack said as he walked through the door. Standing once more in the snowy night air, he turned back to look at Philip framed in the doorway of his shop, then his smile brightened and he added, “and Merry Christmas to you.”
Philip looked away from the smiling man, abruptly closed the door in his face, turned the lock, and quickly pulled down the shade. After he finished counting the register money and put it in the safe, he turned off the last of the lights and walked away from his dark and silent shop.
Because Philip’s house was only a few streets from his store, he rarely drove. Tonight he was even happier that he lived so close to his shop as he quietly walked home through the deepening show that crunched under his feet. Halfway across Market Street Philip Miller paused and looked up at the church directly in front of him. A warm glow of light streamed from its stained glass windows and he could hear the choir warming up for their annual Christmas Eve cantata. But he forced the joyous sound out of his head and rushed by. In years past Philip Miller would have closed his shop much earlier than he had this night in order to get to the church and its choir. In fact, he would have been standing in front of the choir, leading it as director.
Walking even faster through the snowy town, Philip climbed his way up the hill where he lived, passing rows of houses decorated with brightly colored holiday lights and Christmas trees cheerfully displayed in each and every window.
Only one house on the street was dark and cold. Not one light could be seen decorating the trees and bushes in its front yard. No Christmas tree stood in its window and its front door held no gaily decorated wreath. Quickly making his way past the other houses, Philip Miller pushed through his front gate, and trudged up the walk.
Reaching his porch, he unlocked the front door and prepared to enter his darkened house when suddenly he heard a swift WHOOSH, followed by a loud THUD and finally a cry of “OUCH!”
Philip spun around and stared in the direction he had just come from. Through the veil of snow that was now falling even faster and heavier, he could see a young boy lying in the street. The child appeared to have been riding a snowboard down the steep snowy sidewalk and had fallen. Rushing down the walk and out into the street, Philip got to the boy just as he was beginning to stand up.
“Are you hurt?” Philip asked with concern in his voice.
“No, I’m fine; I think I hit a rock in front of your house. It was hidden by the snow.”
“Are you sure you’re fine?” Philip frowned at the boy. “You look like you hit your head.”
And as he spoke Philip touched his gloved hand to the left side of the boy’s head where a lump was quickly forming.
“Ouch!” the boy jumped back at Philip’s touch. Then he wobbled and began to fall to the ground as he started to lose consciousness.
Philip caught the boy, picked him up in his arms and carried him into his darkened house.
After laying the boy on the couch in his living room, and quickly turning on a few lights he scurried into the kitchen and grabbed the phone hanging on the wall. Worried, Philip was just about to call 911 when he heard a stirring coming from the living room.
Putting the phone back on it’s hook, Philip made his way back into the living room where he saw the boy now sitting up, rubbing the side of his head.
“What’s wrong?” Philip asked with great concern.
“I guess I fell harder then I thought,” he said, “I really did see stars.”
“You’re just lucky you didn’t fracture your skull or break your neck, young man,” Philip added as he continued to frown at the boy whose snow-covered boots were dripping water onto the Oriental rug on the floor of his living room.
“I’m OK… eh, Mr. Miller.”
“How do you know me?” Philip said with a suspicious tone in his voice.
“Well, don’t you own Millers Music Store in town? I thought that’s who you were?”
“Yes, I own the store,” Philip said in a short staccato answer. “But what are you doing out on a night like this? You should be home.”
“I wanted to try out the snowboard. I just got it. My friend gave it to me for Christmas. He’s a great boarder and after watching him for so long I decided to try it for myself.”
Philip looked out his door at the scuffed blue snowboard lying on the porch. Something about it looked familiar, but he dismissed the thought—he was in no mood to entertain delinquent children on a night like this.
“Well, didn’t anyone ever tell you that you just don’t strap it on and take off like a fool?”  Philip said as the furrows in his forehead got even deeper. “You need to practice balancing, and you don’t take your first run down the steepest hill in town.”
“Sorry, I guess I didn’t think about that,” the boy said as he looked sheepishly at Philip. “I know my friend can ride like the wind. He always made it look simple, but I can see that’s not as easy as it looks.”
“I daresay it’s not.” Philip sighed.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Philip asked as he once more noticed the lump on the boy’s head. “I still have a notion to call 911.”
“No Mr. Miller, really I’m fine, I just need a minute or two to rest.”
“Would you like some hot tea or cocoa to warm you up?”
“Oh, hot cocoa would be so nice, thank you.”
“Very well, but then I want you to promise me you’ll go right home. Little boys should not be out alone on nights like this.”
“OK Mr. Miller, I’ll leave after my hot chocolate, I promise.” the boy said.
Philip made his way to the kitchen. After putting the kettle on the stove, he took down two mugs from the cupboard. Then he walked over to the pantry and got a tea bag for himself and some hot cocoa mix for the boy. It had been a while since he’d made hot cocoa for a young boy he thought to himself… not since… but then Philip made a sour face and pushed the notion aside.
From the kitchen he shouted, “What’s your name?”
“Hosanna,” the boy responded.
“What?” Philip shouted again. “It sounded like you said Hosanna?”
“That’s because that’s what I did say. My name’s Hosanna.”
“Um…” Philip thought, “that’s a strange name.”
As if the boy were reading Philip’s mind his voice echoed in from the living room.
“Well, that’s what they named me.”
Philip didn’t answer. Instead, he tore open the pack of hot cocoa mix and emptied it into the mug. Then he placed the tea bag in the second mug, went to the stove, and fetched the kettle just as it was beginning to whistle.
After the drinks had been prepared, Philip took them into the living room. He wrinkled his brow as he saw that the wet puddle from the boy’s boots had grown even larger on the rug.
After handing the mug of hot cocoa to Hosanna, he sat in the easy chair opposite the couch and studied the boy as he drank his cocoa.
He looked to be about 12 years old. His ski cap had been rolled up and sat perched on his head showing a shock of blond hair streaming out of it. As he cupped the mug and drank the hot cocoa, he seemed to be enjoying every sip.
You know, young man… Hosanna… you said?”
The boy nodded.
“Hosanna, you really should be home, after all it’s Christmas Eve.”
“I know,” Hosanna said and looked deep into his now half empty mug. “I… well… I guess I ran away.”
“RAN AWAY?” Philip said with a gasp.
Not only was he dealing with a child who may have injured himself, but a runaway as well!
“Young man, I really think that I should call the police,” Philip said.
“NO, PLEASE Mr. Miller,” Hosanna pleaded. “I promise when I’m done I’ll go. I’ll go back. I only ran away because I was scared.”
Now a part of Philip that had long been dormant, or at least a part he had forced to be dormant, suddenly emerged and his fatherly instincts rose to the surface.
“Scared?” Philip startled. “Hosanna, did someone hurt you? Did someone do something bad to you?”
“No, Mr. Miller, its nothing like that. There’s something I was supposed to do, but I got scared and thought if I left I wouldn’t have to do it.”
The conversation was getting more puzzling by the minute. By now Philip’s tea had gone tepid and he noticed Hosanna had finished his mug of hot cocoa. Standing, he went over to the boy, took his mug from him, and walked back into the kitchen.
Pouring his now cold tea down the kitchen drain and setting Hosanna’s empty mug on the counter, he looked out the window.
In the alley behind his house he could see the snow falling furiously. The familiar shapes of his neighborhood were now slowly disappearing under a deep blanket of white silvery snow.
Suddenly finding himself concerned about someone had reawakened feelings that he thought he had locked away forever.
It had been ten months since Timothy had died. His little boy, his treasure, the only thing he had left from his dear wife who had been gone these past seven years. And it had only taken six months, six very short and sad months from the time the doctor in the clinic had told Philip that his son had an inoperable brain tumor growing with a wicked and terrible vengeance inside of him.
First Loretta, then Timothy; the God who had done this to him wasn’t a God at all. In fact, no real God would have allowed this to happen; to take and then take again, leaving him with nothing but a dark and empty house and sad memories.
Suddenly he returned to his senses. Walking over to the phone he once again lifted it up and prepared to press the buttons that would summon the police, when without warning the sound of a piano drifted through the air.
Philip released the receiver of the phone from his hand and it quickly dropped to the ground and bounced on the floor. Propelled like a wild beast, he tore through the dining room, across the living room and into the music room where he saw Hosanna sitting in front of the keyboard softly playing.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he screamed at the boy. “What are you, some kind of little thief going through my house, making a mess and touching things you have NO BUSINESS touching?”
At the very beginning of Philip’s tirade Hosanna’s eyes opened like saucers. He moved to the opposite side of the piano bench and almost fell off it. Terror spread across his face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Miller, I’m sorry. I didn’t… I just… I’m sorry… Hosanna kept repeating over and over.
Staring down at the cowering little boy, Philip suddenly stopped. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror on the opposite wall and didn’t recognize the man glowering back at him.
“What kind of a monster…” he thought, then he dropped to the opposite side of the piano bench slumped down, laid his head in his hands and began to sob.
For a few minutes, the only sounds in the room were the sobs and gasps for breath that came from Philip Miller as he sat in the music room of his house and cried.
In fact, it was the first time he had even entered this room since Timothy’s funeral.
Philip had been in love with music since he was a small child. After he and Loretta met in college, he confided to her that his secret dream in life was to own a small music store and teach music lessons to the children in his old home town of Middleburg.
With her encouragement, they moved back to the town after they graduated and Philip opened his store. At first it was a struggle, but Loretta took a job as a music teacher in the local elementary school and they managed to live off her income. Every time he would get discouraged, she wouldn’t let him quit. Eventually his business became successful. His knowledge of music and instruments won him respect from not only the local musicians in his area, but even the professional musicians from Jackson City who played in the symphony orchestra.
Soon the word spread that Philip Miller was a fair and honest businessman who went out of his way to serve his customers. Even his teaching was prized as the people sent their sons and daughters to him for music lessons. Philip’s kind and gentle ways made him an excellent teacher.
After his son Timothy was born, his life was complete. As Timothy grew, he seemed to be a natural at music. Like his mother, the little boy could sing like an angel and his strong clear voice often could be heard throughout the church where Philip was the choir director.
But it seemed that Philip’s happiness had been just a cruel joke played on him by an equally cruel God. Five years after Timothy was born, Loretta had been killed in a car accident. Devastated as he was by the death of his beloved wife, he took consolation from the fact that she would live on in their son, whose looks and gentle ways reminded Philip so much of her.
Then Timothy had been taken and the only other thing he had ever loved and cared for was gone.
Music had been a central part of his entire life, but when Timothy died it seemed as if that part of him had died along with his son.
The cruelty of it all was that he still owned the music shop. It pained him every day to have to listen to customers, beating on drums, playing keyboards, strumming guitars and blowing on horns. He had stopped taking students and cancelled the lessons of the ones he already had, until one by one they went to other teachers or just stopped taking lessons altogether.
He had closed his beloved music room at home and never ventured inside it. His vast collection of records, tapes and CDs sat gathering dust along with the beautiful baby grand piano he had always meticulously kept tuned. He had even removed the cheery tinkling bell that rang every time a customer entered or left his shop. The sound of any type of music sickened him. And once spring came, he would begin to make plans to sell the store and move far away from the memories that he had created in Middleburg.