Miracle on Gully Wash Road
The house leaned a little to the left, like it had grown tired of standing straight. One shutter hung loose, knocking softly against the wall whenever the breeze came through. The roof had been patched so many times with bits of tin that it looked like a quilt sewn by different hands, none of them matching. But the house was still standing, and that counted for something.
Inside lived the Rolle family.
Marcia Rolle woke before the sun most mornings, not because she wanted to but because worry didn’t allow sleep to linger. That morning was no different. She lay still for a few minutes on the thin mattress she shared with her youngest daughter, Leila, listening to the sounds of Over-the-Hill coming to life. A potcake barked somewhere down Gully Wash Road. A truck rattled past, its engine coughing like it needed medicine. The roosters that belonged to nobody in particular crowed as if they owned the place.
Marcia swung her feet to the floor and felt the cool concrete beneath her toes. The house had no tiles, just bare cement worn smooth from years of sweeping. She stood quietly so she wouldn’t wake Leila and padded into the kitchen, which was really just one corner of the living room separated by a sagging curtain.
She opened the fridge and stared.
Half a loaf of bread, three eggs, a small margarine tub scraped nearly clean, and a bottle of water. No milk. No meat. No juice. The freezer was empty except for frost and a plastic bag that once held chicken wings.
Marcia closed the fridge slowly, as if maybe the food would multiply if she gave it time. It didn’t.
She leaned against the counter and rubbed her face with both hands. Christmas was a week away.
In the bedroom on the other side of the house, her two sons, Devon and Micah, slept on a mattress on the floor. Devon was thirteen, tall for his age, his limbs already awkward as they reached toward manhood. Micah was eight, small and light, still holding on to childhood in a way that felt fragile. They would wake soon and ask what was for breakfast.
Marcia already knew what she would say.
“Toast.”
Their father, Samuel Rolle, had been out of steady work for almost a year. He picked up odd jobs when he could. Some days he helped a man fix boats down by the docks. Other days he mixed cement or hauled lumber. Nassau was changing, growing shinier in places that didn’t include Over-the-Hill. Jobs came and went like the tide, and Samuel was often left standing on the shore.
That morning, Samuel sat on the front step tying his worn sneakers. The soles were so thin he could feel the stones through them.
“I going down by East Street today,” he said. “Hear one fella might need help painting.”
Marcia nodded and handed him two slices of toast wrapped in a napkin. “That all we got.”
Samuel took them carefully, like they were something precious. “I’ll eat later,” he said, even though they both knew he wouldn’t.
After he left, Marcia gathered the children.
“Listen,” she said gently, spreading a little margarine on toast so thin you could see through it. “Eat slow.”
Devon didn’t complain. He never did anymore. Micah ate quietly too, though his eyes lingered on the empty counter.
“Mama,” Leila said softly, “is Santa still coming?”
Marcia’s chest tightened. Leila was five, with braids that always seemed to come loose by midday and a laugh that could still fill the room when she let it.
“Santa come in different ways,” Marcia said. “Sometimes he send helpers.”
Leila nodded, satisfied for now.
Next door lived Miss Iona Johnson.
Miss Iona had lived Over-the-Hill all her life. She was a retired seamstress, her fingers still quick despite the arthritis that knotted her knuckles. She noticed things. Like how Marcia would sometimes ask her for small change or food stamps. The way the children’s clothes grew shorter faster than they should. The way the house grew quieter as Christmas lights appeared on other streets but not on Gully Wash Road.
That afternoon, Miss Iona watched from her window as Marcia scrubbed clothes in a tin tub on the washstand outside. The sun was hot, and Marcia’s arms moved slow, tired.
Miss Iona sighed, tied a scarf around her head, and stepped outside.
“Afternoon, Marcia,” she called.
“Afternoon, Miss Iona,” Marcia replied, smiling though her eyes were heavy.
“You eating?” Miss Iona asked.
“Yes ma’am,” Marcia lied.
Miss Iona didn’t call her on it. Instead, she said, “I cooking peas soup later. I make too much like always. I gon bring some for y'all.”
Marcia swallowed. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
That night, after she brought the soup over, Miss Iona sat at her small table and thought about the Rolle family. She thought about Christmas coming and children with empty hands. She thought about her own childhood, about neighbors who had shared when her mother had nothing.
By morning, she had made up her mind.
Salvation Glory Baptist Church stood a few blocks away, its white paint faded but clean, its doors always open. Pastor Lionel Ferguson had been there for twelve years. He was a man who listened more than he spoke, and when he spoke, people paid attention.
Miss Iona waited until after Bible study and then caught him near the pulpit.
“Pastor,” she said, “I need to talk to you.”
They sat in the front pew. Miss Iona told him about the Rolle family. About the empty fridge. About the lack of clothes. About the house in need of repair. About Christmas coming too fast.
Pastor Ferguson nodded slowly. “They not the only one struggling,” he said. “But that don’t mean we turn away.”
He called a meeting that same evening.
Word spread quickly through Over-the-Hill, the way it always did. People came not because they had extra, but because they understood need.
There was Mrs. Clarke, who worked at a hotel laundry and brought bags of gently used clothes. Mr. Thompson, a taxi driver, offered a turkey he had been saving. Young men from the church volunteered to clean the house and make repairs. Someone donated a small tree. Another brought boxes of canned food.
It wasn’t one big miracle. It was many small ones.
The Saturday before Christmas, Marcia woke to knocking.
When she opened the door, the street was full.
Miss Iona stood smiling, Pastor Ferguson beside her. Behind them were neighbors holding bags, boxes, laughter.
Marcia covered her mouth. “What is all this?”
“Christmas,” Miss Iona said simply.
The house filled with movement. Someone swept. Someone fixed the roof. Someone fixed the shutter. Someone painted. Children laughed as they tried on clothes that fit. The smell of food rose like a promise come true.
Samuel stood in the corner, blinking hard from the overwhelming, neighborly kindness.
That night, the Rolle family sat down to a table full of food. The children’s eyes were wide. Leila clapped her hands.
“Santa helpers came,” she said.
Marcia reached for Samuel’s hand. Her heart felt full in a way it hadn’t in a long time.
On Christmas morning, the sun came up soft and golden over the Over-the-Hill community. The Rolle children tore into wrapped gifts, simple things that meant everything. Outside, neighbors greeted one another, sharing smiles and hugs.
Miss Iona watched from her porch, her heart warm.
Pastor Ferguson preached that morning about love in action. Not loud love. Not showy love. Just steady, quiet care for others.
He said, “When we give, we don’t just change one day. We change the world we live in.”
And for a moment, in that small corner of Nassau, the world felt kinder.
Closing Message
The story of the Rolle family is not just theirs. It is the story of many families who live quietly among us, doing their best with what little they have. Christmas reminds us that kindness does not require wealth, only willingness. When neighbors look out for one another, when communities come together, even the hardest seasons can be softened.
This Christmas, let us each do our part. Let us give what we can, help where we are able, and open our hearts to those less fortunate. In doing so, we do more than bring joy to one family. We help make our world a kinder, happier place to live.
