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In the summer of 1992 a shadow crept across my family's life that would change us forever. My wife, Shelly, and I had recently relocated from Chicago to my hometown of Tipp City, Ohio. We left our nice life in Illinois to go help my parents run the family farm, after the untimely death of my older brother.

Six months after Luke, our youngest, was born, Shelly was diagnosed with scleroderma—a terminal disease in which the body's tissues and organs calcify. I'd never heard of it before, and wished it could have stayed that way.

Shelly's life expectancy was only seven years. "My God," I cried in a desperate prayer. "She's only 30 years old and we've got three little kids."

It may sound trite, but God was good. Although Shelly's health gradually failed, somehow she found the strength to transform our little Cape Cod bungalow into a Laura Ashley cottage worthy of a House Beautiful spread. A year and a half after the diagnosis, we counted our blessings as we celebrated Christmas.

With three kids in the house—Jacob, 6; Anna Marie, 4; and 2-year-old Luke—the holidays were magical. Childlike expectation grew as presents began to pile beneath the tree. Every night while carols played on the stereo, we sat around the lit tree playing games and telling stories. And on Christmas Eve I read the account of Jesus' birth from the Gospels.

As I read about the shepherds and the angels and the wise men and the supernatural visitation of God to earth 2,000 years ago, something in my heart longed for a miracle in my wife's body.

A few days after Christmas, Shelly and I kissed the kids goodnight in the two upstairs bedrooms. As we prayed with Jacob and Luke in their room and started to leave, I twisted the bulb of the little electric candle on the windowsill above Jacob's bed so that the light went off. He pleaded with me to let him keep it on as a nightlight, but I said no. It was too close to the bed and wouldn't be safe.

"Besides," I told him, "the candle across the room in the front window would remain on all night. That will give you enough light."

Disappointed, Jacob said goodnight and went to sleep. Shelly, feeling exhausted from the holidays, had already turned in. I stayed up late to unstring the lights and remove the ornaments from the tree. With my mission accomplished, I hauled it outside. As I walked back to the house, I took note of how cozy and Christmas-like our little bungalow looked. With electric candles warmly glowing in each of the front windows, it resembled a Thomas Kinkade painting.

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