The Tablecloth

This is a story I read a long time ago and was not able to find again. Now I'm going to store it in my blog for when I want to be inspired.

Pastor Rob Reid, right out of divinity school and fresh from ordination, was assigned to reopen a church in suburban Brooklyn. He arrived in early October, excited about his opportunities. His new church building was very run down, in need of a lot of repairs. Undaunted, he set a goal to have everything done in time to give his first service on Christmas Eve.
He worked hard, shoring up pews, plastering walls, and painting. On December 18th, he was just about finished – ahead of schedule. But the next night, a driving rainstorm blew into the area and lasted for two days.
On the 21st, Rob stopped in at the church. His heart sank when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary, just above the pulpit. The young pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor, and, wondering if he should postpone his opening service, headed home.
On the way, he noticed that a local business was having a flea market as a benefit for charity; he stopped in. One of the items for sale was a beautiful, handmade tablecloth. It was ivory colored, its border exquisitely crocheted in beautiful, muted colors. There was a cross embroidered right in the middle. He held it up and an idea formed in his mind: It just might cover up the mess on the church’s front wall. He bought it and, guardedly excited, headed back to the church.
It began to snow as he pulled up to the church. As Rob got out of the car to go into the church, an old woman passed him, walking quickly in the opposite direction, trying to catch the bus. She missed it. Rob invited her to wait inside the church for the next bus, which wouldn’t be coming for another forty-five minutes.
The old woman sat down in a pew to wait, and paid no attention to Rob as he set up a ladder and climbed up to hang the tablecloth. It fit! The ruined plaster and paint were completely covered. And it looked beautiful.
The old woman looked up, stood slowly, and walked toward him, down the center aisle. Her voice sounded strained as she asked, "Pastor, where did you get that tablecloth?" Rob explained. The old woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials "EBG" were embroidered there. They were.
These were none other than the old woman’s initials, she said; it was she who had made this very tablecloth thirty-five years earlier, in Austria. She could hardly believe it as the pastor told her how he had come across the tablecloth. The old woman explained that, before the war, she and her husband were a well-to-do young couple, living in Austria. When the Nazis came, she was forced to flee. He husband planned to follow her the next week, but she was captured, sent to a camp, and never saw her husband or her home again.
Rob insisted on giving her the tablecloth; she, in turn, insisted that he keep it for the church. He asked if, at the very least, she would let him drive her home; she lived across the city and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job. She agreed.
And then it was Christmas Eve. Rob stood in the pulpit before the little congregation of his new parish, beaming with pride. It was a wonderful service. At the end of the evening, he greeted everyone at the door; many said they would return. One old man, whom Rob recognized from the neighborhood, continued to sit in his pew. When Rob went to speak with him, the old man asked him where he had gotten the tablecloth on the front wall. It was identical, he said, to the one that his wife had made years ago, when they lived in Austria before the war. How could there be two tablecloths so much alike?
He told Rob how the Nazis had come, how he had urged his wife to flee for her safety. He was supposed to follow her, he said, but had been arrested by the Gestapo and put in prison. He never saw his beloved wife or his home again. Thirty-five years had passed.
On that night of miracles, Pastor Rob Reid asked the old man if he would come with him for a little ride. He drove to the same house where he had taken the old woman, three days earlier. He helped the old man climb the three flights to the old woman’s apartment, and knocked on the door. And there, he witnessed yet another Christmas miracle.