It was bitterly cold all over Oklahoma on the morning of December 17, 1993. The
temperature had dipped down in the 20's during the night, and was still hovering below freezing at 
9:30 a.m. And a stiff breeze out of the north chilled anyone unfortunate enough to be caught out
in it.
	If anything, though, it was a little too warm in Ralph Bauer's office on the fourth floor of
the Jim Thorpe Building in the state capitol complex. He had just unbuttoned his shirt collar and
slipped his tie down a notch when the toll-free long distance phone rang. Bauer, a 49-year-old
complaint investigator for the Oklahoma Corporation Commission (the government agency
regulating utilities), braced himself for another demand on his time.
	The caller, a man in his early twenties, told him a hard-luck story much like the hundreds
he had heard every year since he had taken this job. And in fact, this man had called him in
November, trying to get help on the same electrical bill. So Bauer listened somewhat perfunctory
and detached as the young man again described his desperation. The young caller's voice had a
slight shiver to it, calling as he was calling from an outdoor pay telephone in Eufaula, some 119
miles away.  He said that his electricity had been turned off in his small home four days earlier
because he had not been able to make the payments on his electrical bill, which now totalled $506.
	The desperate man might as well have owed $5,006, because he couldn't pay anything. His
only income for himself and his family was his monthly workers compensation checks. And, since
his first call in November, he had undergone one medical operation. And he was about to have
another operation. But he hoped to start receiving a disability check in January.
	"Okay," Bauer said. "I'll see what I can do. Call me back 11 a.m." 
	Bauer then started work to see if he could at least get this young family's heat turned back
on through the rest of the month. He called the utility for the area around Eufaula and talked with
Ed Hennigan, the office manager. Hennigan had heard similar hard-luck stories on a regular basis,
but he said he would certainly consider restoring the power if the young man called and explained
his situation.
	The toll-free line rang in Bauer's office promptly at 11 a.m. It was the same young man,
and his voice had a distinct shiver to it now. Bauer explained the utility's willingness to discuss
helping him, if he would call their office manager.
	"Mr. Bauer," the shivering voice said, "I don't have 25 cents to make a phone call. The
only way I could call you is because of your toll-free number. We don't have no family around
here to stay with. And I've tried and struck out with the local churches and other organizations."
	Bauer took a kind of personal affront at the young man's words, because he knew how
helpful people usually are. "Son, this doesn't add up. Oklahomans are kind. They're good. They
help people. So if you tell me you've gone to all these people and can't get help, something just
doesn't add up."
	There was a long silence and then the young father said, "Please, Mr. Bauer, my baby's
cold."
	Then it dawned on Bauer how harsh and accusing his words were, especially coming from
one with his own background. He had been reared in a low-incoming housing project in Arkansas.
Later, as an adult, he had gone through two painful and expensive divorces. And a bankruptcy.
He had not always been as warm and comfortable as he was on this December day.
	The young man's words, "My baby's cold,"  melted his bureaucratic tone. And he actually
began to visualize that scene so long ago of the infant Jesus in a manager on a similarly cold day. 
	"You call me back on the toll-free line in thirty minutes," Bauer said, with an entirely dif�
ferent tone of voice. "I'm not through, yet."
	Actually, though, he had done everything that he normally did regarding such requests.
What more could he do? He thought for a while, then prayed for a minute or so. 
	Bauer dialed the Eufaula office of the Oklahoma Department of Human Services and
explained the situation to them. The manager there okayed a one-time emergency check in the
amount of $162. But a moment later, after checking the files, discovered the family had received
such a check four months before and, therefore, could not receive another. A dead-end.
	He prayed again and decided to phone the Salvation Army's McIntosh County office. The
manger there, long familiar with the plight of the poor and the abuses of the system by
undeserving people, was skeptical. "It is going to take a miracle to come up with $300 today to
get their power turned back on," she said. "But I'll see what I can do."
	The toll-free phone rang precisely at 2 p.m. and Bauer knew who was on the other end
before he picked up the receiver. "Look, we're making progress. It is just going to take a little
longer than I thought. Please call me back at 4 o'clock."
	Bauer prayed, again. And this time, seeing no clear way to meet the needs of this young
family and feeling their pain, he broke down and cried. Then he resumed making phone calls.
	At 3:30 p.m., people started calling him. About every five minutes. First, the Salvation
Army representative came up with $100 and donations of food. Then an individual put up $50.
The Oklahoma City chapter of the Fraternal Order of Police donated $75. More donations of
money and food came in, eventually totalling more than $300. There were even some Christmas
gifts for the baby, including a Teddy bear donated by employees of Oklahoma Natural Gas.
	Just before 4 p.m., Bauer contacted East Central Oklahoma Electrical Cooperative's office
manger, Ed Hennigan. "Ralph," Hennigan said, "it looks like your Christmas miracle will happen."
	Bauer replied, "Sir, this is not my miracle. This is Jesus' miracle."
	4 p.m. came and went, and no phone call from the desperate young father. 4:05 p.m. 4:10
p.m. 4:15. Still no call, and Bauer began to worry that the man had given up on the system.
	At 4:25 p.m., the young man called back and, in a barely audible voice that ached with
frustration and fear, asked what the situation was. Bauer told him the wonderful news, and they
both broke down and cried. And when they regained their composure, Bauer told him that there
would be food for his family and Christmas toys for his baby. The man wept for a long time
before he could talk. Then he said to the benefactor he had never met, "This truly is a miracle."
	That night the representative of the Salvation Army delivered the money and the food and
toys just as the electric company arrived to restore the family's power. She stepped inside the
squalid home and saw that the family had endured the bitter cold by sleeping together under
blankets piled on the floor in the living room. She came to understand that this was still a proud
young family who didn't want to ask anyone for anything, but were deserving of any help they
got. The young father grabbed the visitor and hugged her and said, "You cannot imagine how
cold my baby has been."
	Later, reflecting on this series of events, Ralph Bauer said, "I think about how fortunate I
was to be a hub, because that's all it was. I didn't do anything. And all these people [who pitched
in] were like spokes on a wheel."
	Today this kinder, gentler bureaucrat cherishes what happened on December 17th, 1993.
He is not focused on what he did for the young family, but the fact that he was blessed with the
greatest Christmas gift he's ever received. He discovered, as each of us can, that the real meaning
of Christmas is found in giving from the heart whatever we have to share.

____________________________________END________________________________
	Written at Edmond, Ok., on 8-13-95. Based on the newspaper account of Anthony
Thorton, "'Miracle of the 4th Floor'," in the Saturday Oklahoman & Times, Dec. 25, 1993 (pp. 1
and 12).