This story is dedicated to all of my friends and family, who are the inspiration for all of my stories, and also to St. Therese, St. Anthony, and St. Dominic Savio, my favorite saints.

This is a story that I first wrote four years ago, revised a year later, and then revised a third time recently. It is purely fictional – I have no idea if any miracles of this sort were ever worked through St. Francis! But many other wonders were attributed to him, so who knows?

Agatha usually loved Christmas time. She loved the longing atmosphere of Advent, which was fulfilled at the Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. She also enjoyed the walk home from Mass in the dark, and the delicious dinner they had afterwards!

But this year was different. Agatha’s baby brother Francis was very sick. No one knew what was wrong. He lay very quiet and still, burning up with a fever, and it was beginning to seem as though he might die. Advent and Christmas was not the exciting, joyful time it usually was. Everyone was so worried about poor little Francis.

As Christmas neared, Agatha began hearing about a man named Brother Francis. On Christmas Eve, he would have what he called a “crèche” in a cave outside of Greccio. It would be a re-enactment of the first Christmas.

“Mama, are we going to Brother Francis’s crèche tonight?” Agatha asked her mother on the morning of Christmas Eve.

“Francis is so sick I must be with him, and he is far too sick to bring. If you want to go, you will have to go alone. I don’t know when Father will be back.” Agatha’s father was in another town looking for someone who could cure Francis.

“Oh, may I? Thank you so much, Mama,” Agatha replied.

That evening, Agatha put on her cloak and stepped outside. It was a crisp night, and the stars were twinkling in the heavens. Agatha saw a stream of people with candles and torches going towards the cave where the crèche would be. She fell into line behind them.

Soon the procession had reached the cave. Agatha slipped inside the door, and then hung back shyly in the shadows and watched. The cave, usually dark and cold and damp, was full of light and life tonight.

A young couple from the village was seated beside a manger, their infant son lying asleep on a mound of fresh hay within it. A donkey and a cow were tied up beside them, and a several sheep milled about. Three or four lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting their rich, warm, dancing light over the little scene.

A man in a brown robe whom Agatha supposed was Brother Francis blessed the crèche, and then the village priest said Mass in the humble cave. After the Gospel, Brother Francis preached a wonderful sermon.

As she knelt on the cold floor of the cave, making her thanksgiving after Mass, Agatha wished her whole family could see how lovely it all was. When she thought of her brother, lying at home so sick, she began to cry.

Brother Francis noticed her tears, even though she knelt in the shadows, and beckoned for her to come nearer.

“What is the matter, my child?” he asked kindly.

Agatha looked into his eyes. His eyes were dark and penetrating, but so kind and good, that, between sobs, she poured out her story.

“My little brother Francis is so sick! No one can tell what is wrong with him! He seems as if he might die!”

“I see,” said Brother Francis sympathetically.

His eyes left her face and looked out of the opening of the cave, far into the night sky. There was perfect silence in the cave, as everyone watched the small man in the brown robe. Then he shut his eyes and bowed his head in prayer. After a moment, his eyes opened and met hers with a reassuring look.

“Go in peace, my child, and may God bless you,” he said, laying his hand upon her shoulder.

Agatha looked up at him, a ray of hope shining in her face. Then she quietly slipped away back home.

When Agatha reached the house, her mother rushed out to meet her.

“Agatha!” she cried, gripping her daughter’s shoulders tightly, “A miracle! Francis is well!” Tears of joy shone in her eyes.

“Brother Francis cured him!” exclaimed Agatha. She told her mother all about the strange things that had happened that night.

Agatha’s father returned that evening, sad and heavy-hearted, because no one could be found who had any great knowledge of sicknesses. But his sorrow was quickly turned to joy when he heard his little son laughing and chattering, as had always been his way, and saw his wife and daughter setting out the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, singing the songs of Christmas.

“It was Brother Francis, Papa!” said Agatha, hugging her little brother for the hundredth time. “He prayed and God has cured our Francis!”

The whole family knelt at Midnight Mass and, with all their hearts, thanked the little Infant at Bethlehem who had looked down upon their own little Francis and cured him.

And that was not the last Agatha and Francis would hear of Brother Francis. When the two grew up, Agatha became a Poor Clare nun, and Francis became a Franciscan friar.