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He staggered in fifteen minutes after the traditional holiday hymn sing had begun, plopping with a thud in the wooden pew directly behind me. It was Christmas Eve night at historic St. Paul's Episcopal Church in the small and quaint town of Georgetown, Delaware, and midnight mass was scheduled to commence in about twenty minutes. Dozens of candles cast a warm glow throughout the church. The pipe organist was playing a seasonal tune, the congregation joining the choir in a unified voice of celebration and joy.

I recall smelling the strong odor of alcohol, right behind me. Trying to appear inconspicuous, I nonchalantly turned at an angle while still pretending to sing so I could glance at the whiskey-breathed intruder. A young man, perhaps age 25, maybe younger, sat alone in the pew, a drunken smile plastered across his unshaven face. His hair was bushy and uncombed, his clothing unbefitting of a holy and reverent church service. I did not recognize the fellow, and later would learn that nobody else knew who the man was either. And Georgetown's the type of friendly place where everyone seems to know just about everyone else, and their family tree. Just call us "Mayberry."

It became immediately obvious to me that the man was confused, disoriented. Not just with the Christmas Eve service, which for a first-time visitor can be somewhat perplexing despite the bulletins the ushers hand out, but in general. He stumbled aimlessly through the hymnal and a prayer book like a child leafing through coloring books at the doctor's office. He was intoxicated and his behavior made me uncomfortable. Judging by the numerous nervous stares I observed, targeted in the young man's direction, some subtle and some not so subtle, others shared my opinion.

Then, a good-natured parishioner named Bob left his family and his regularly-appointed pew, and joined the fellow, shaking his hand and introducing himself with a warm smile. Bob helped the man throughout the remainder of the hymn sing, assisting the delighted guy with locating the proper songs and directing him with basic liturgical functions such as when to stand, sit, and kneel. With each song, the intoxicated stranger sang zealously louder and genuinely off key, although I suspect he felt he was performing as well as Pavarotti or Sinatra. I found his butchering of the traditional holiday carols both disturbing and amusing at the same time. He was having enthusiastic fun. But he surely couldn't sing a lick! Indeed, our uninvited visitor was certainly a ball of tightly-bound entertainment. The hymn sing-a-long ended and the service began with "O Come, All Ye Faithful," a procession of priests in robes and acolytes bearing torches entering from the back of the church. Someone in the procession waved a canister of incense around, preparing the sanctuary for worship and God's presence, but it made my eyes water and I sneezed. The service continued without incident with prayer and Bible readings about the birth of the Savior, the infant Jesus. Good Samaritan Bob continued to befriend the man, much to his delight. I traded smiles with the man, my heart softening.

"Why was I angry that he came here tonight?" I thought to myself. "This is God's house, not mine, and all are welcomed in the Lord's house." I wondered if the young man was lonely, depressed on this wonderful holiday eve, first seeking the comfort of a bottle, drowning unknown sorrows, and later journeying by our church. Perhaps he heard the festive Christmas music outside the ancient brick walls, and then saw the church aglow, holly wreaths hanging from the huge oaken doors, like one of those wonderful Thomas Kinkade paintings, so inviting. Something deep within his heart led him to come inside, an inner voice urging him to enter the warmth of the real-life artwork. Maybe he was simply in need of acceptance and love. I pondered about who he was and where he was from. Did he have a family? Was he married? Children? He was somebody.

Then, the priest moved to the pulpit to begin his Christmas homily. The Father had preached for only a few minutes when abruptly he stopped his sermon message. I thought he had lost his place, or was pausing for oratorical effect. But I was wrong. I noticed him looking down on the congregation, a concerned frown rippling across his forehead. A low, curious murmur spread throughout the people. About four pews back from the front, on the left side, often referred to as the Epistle side, Bill, an elderly man who faithfully attended each and every Sunday, had slumped over. Several members of the congregation moved to his aid, thinking he had merely passed out. The situation, however, was far graver.

The service came to a complete halt as one parishioner sprinted to call 9-1-1. Several people laid Bill down on his back in the pew and attempted to revive him. Although there were several full-time nurses on hand this evening and a medical doctor by trade, the matter did not appear good. Bill was unconscious and had stopped breathing, and his pulse was weak. Even from across the center aisle in dim lighting I could see his flesh turning gray. The oddest feeling ran through me.

Stunned, most of us just sat or stood in our pews, paralyzed with fear and disbelief. A beloved man of our church community was dying before our very eyes, and suddenly it no longer felt like Christmas Eve. I felt helpless, lost. Then a voice spoke out.

"Why don't we all get down on our knees and pray for the old guy?" the voice bellowed from behind me. It was our visitor, his voice slurred, but strong. "Maybe God can help him."

Like a slap in the face, many of us snapped out of our panicked stupor and knelt in agreement with the man's suggestion. There was no debate, only silent obedience to the idea. As several people continued to tend to Bill, who was near death, the rest of the congregation prayed in honest, pleading whispers. I prayed harder and more sincerely than I ever had, my wet eyes tightly shut.

Moments later, I heard a commotion to my left. I opened my eyes just as I whispered "Amen," and was shocked to see Bill sitting up, his eyes open, the paleness in his face rapidly disappearing. Happy sobs could be heard throughout the church, our prayers gloriously answered! Despite numerous inquiries, Bill determinedly assured us that he was fine. When the paramedics arrived, racing down the center aisle with their equipment and stretcher, he refused to go to the hospital with them, insisting on staying for the conclusion of the Christmas Eve mass. And after everything settled down, the service was in fact finished without further incident.

After the closing benediction and song, a raucous "Joy To The World," I turned to shake the young man's hand, but he was gone. He apparently had left during the Eucharist as the congregation filed pew-by-pew for the bread and wine, the body and blood of our Savior.

Later, I discovered that no one had ever seen the man leave. It was as if he simply vanished into thin air. No one knew his identity or anything about him. He was no one's relative, or neighbor, or co-worker. Who was the man that visited us on that precious, special night, a night we each witnessed a true miracle? A dying man was revived, saved from death, neither by science nor medicine, but by faithful prayer to God in heaven. Prayer initiated by a common stranger, a person like you or me perhaps, or the guy we pass every day in the street and pay no attention to, an unlikely angel.