A Heaven-Sent Gift… It was a gloomy morning, with heavy clouds dragging low across the sky. In the distance, muffled growls of thunder could be heard—the first thunderstorm of spring was on its way. Winter had finally ended, but spring seemed reluctant to take its place. It was still cold, gusty winds snatched up last year’s leaves and chased them around, only a few brave blades of grass pushing through the hardened earth. Buds on the trees remained tightly closed, reluctant to reveal their treasures. Nature longed for rain. The winter had been dry, windy, cold. The earth was poorly rested, lacked moisture, hadn’t slept enough beneath its snowy blanket and was now anxiously awaiting the storm. The storm would bring much-needed water, nourish it with generous rain, wash away the dust and dirt, and revive life. Only then would true spring arrive—bountiful, blooming, fresh as a young woman filled with love and tenderness. That’s when the earth would give birth to green grass and colourful flowers, trembling leaves and sweet fruits. Birds would joyfully sing, building nests in blooming gardens. Life would carry on. “Sasha, time for breakfast!” called Victoria. “Your coffee’s getting cold.” From the kitchen wafted the scent of coffee and eggs. It was time to get up. After yesterday’s heavy conversation, Victoria’s weeping, a sleepless night and difficult thoughts, he just wanted to stay in bed. But he had to get up—life carried on. Victoria looked exhausted too—red eyes, dark circles. She offered her pale cheek for a kiss and managed a weak smile. “Good morning, love. Looks like we’re in for a storm. Goodness, how I want some rain! When will real spring finally arrive? Listen, a verse came to mind…” She recited: I wait for spring, as for release From winter’s cold, from homelessness. Spring I await, as if it brings A clearing up of life’s distress. I always think, as soon as she Arrives, all will be bright and dear. I always think that she alone Can make things better, simpler, clear. Where are you, Spring? Come, hurry here! Sasha hugged her frail shoulders, kissed her bowed, golden head. Her hair smelled of meadows and wildflowers. His heart ached with pity. Poor love, why is God punishing us? At least there had been hope—hope had kept them going all these years. But yesterday, a renowned professor, their last tender hope, had dashed their expectations: “I’m very sorry, but you cannot have children. Sasha, your time at Chernobyl has left a mark. Medicine is powerless here. I’m truly sorry I can’t help.” Victoria wiped her eyes, shook back her hair. “Sasha, I’ve thought long and hard. We need to adopt a child from the orphanage. There are so many children who need families. Let’s bring home a boy—let’s raise a son. Agreed? We’ve been waiting for a son for so long…” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Sasha hugged her and couldn’t hold back his own tears. “Of course I agree! Don’t cry, sweetheart.” At that moment, a deafening crack of thunder echoed; the house seemed to tremble from its majestic roar. The heavens opened—rain finally poured! At last, God heard our prayers! The long-awaited shower fell in torrents. Day darkened as though night had come. Thunder barely paused, lightning flashed right overhead. Sasha and Victoria, embracing, stood at the window, cold drops and the scent of rain drifting through the open pane, invigorating the air. The darkness that had shrouded their hearts seemed to dissolve, wash away with this first spring rain. All they wanted now was for the rain to last longer. This long-awaited spring rain—a symbol of life renewed and blossoming once more. A few days later, they stood before the doors of the children’s home, a meeting arranged. They had come to choose their son—long-awaited, beloved, already loved before they’d even laid eyes on him. Hearts pounding, holding their breath, Sasha rang the bell. The door opened; they were expected. The meeting with the orphanage’s director had been several days before, now they were simply to meet children who might become their son. As they passed through the first room, a little girl caught their eye, sitting in a damp babygro on a sodden mat. Dirty shirt, dried snot under her nose, huge sorrowful blue eyes following every adult that passed. From her radiated neglect, loneliness—her presence pierced the heart. This was the children’s home—a shelter for the unwanted. In the next room, babies sat or lay in cots, clean and tidy, waiting expectantly. The nurse presented them like at a market, ticking off age, brief parent details. Sasha shuddered. Buyers at market… only the price left to ask. “Let’s go back to that poor little girl,” Victoria whispered. Sasha squeezed her shoulder. “Nurse, could we see the blue-eyed girl from the first room again?” “But you wanted a boy,” the nurse replied, puzzled. “That girl won’t suit you. She’s not ready to meet visitors.” “We want to see her again.” The nurse hesitated, considering an objection, then led them back in silence. “I’ll call Mrs. Peters, the director. Please wait here.” She gestured to some chairs. Victoria pressed close to Sasha. “Let’s choose her, Sasha. My heart gave a jolt when I saw her.” “Mine too. She looks just like you. Eyes, hair… and so lonely!” Soon the nurse returned with Mrs. Peters, clearly concerned. “You’ve chosen a difficult child. She may not be suitable.” “Why not? We like her, she’s the image of Victoria! Just look—they’re almost twins!” Sasha strode towards the room where the girl had been. She’d been tidied up, clean clothes, her little face brighter. As the adults stopped by her cot, she smiled; dimples showed on her cheeks, her arms reached out, and she made an attempt to stand— Victoria clutched Sasha’s hand in shock—the little girl’s feet turned the wrong way. Without hesitation, Sasha scooped her up; she nestled against his face and went still. Tears filled Sasha’s eyes; Victoria buried her face in his shoulder, weeping. Mrs. Peters turned away, dabbing her eyes discreetly. “Come to my office. Nurse, take Lena.” Mrs. Peters led the way firmly. The little girl, Lena, had been born to elderly, struggling parents in a remote northern village. She had deformities—legs twisted, feet misshapen. Her father refused to bring her home. When pressed that surgery could help, he claimed no money and wouldn’t have a cripple in the house with so many mouths already. So Lena was left in care. “Now you must decide for yourselves if you want such a child. She has a good chance, but it will take dedication, expense—and above all, patience and powerful love. Take your time to think, consult with specialists. Here’s the professor who examined her. You have one month—no more visits in the meantime. Our children become attached quickly. It would be cruel to change your mind after promising hope…” A month passed. Sasha and Victoria decided straightaway: Lena was their daughter. The Leningrad professor confirmed: repeated surgery could fix the damage. Even scars would disappear. Their Lena would run like any child. Sasha calculated their finances. They could make it—if they sold the new car and the barely-started house. They’d live in a small flat for now—God would help with the rest, if their daughter was healthy. Finally, the day came—they stood outside the familiar door once more. Sasha held a bouquet of pink peonies, Victoria a huge bag of gifts for the children. Mrs. Peters’s lips trembled, eyes filling with tears. Happiness—another lost child would find a family. Together, they went to the nursery. Lena had grown, fair hair curling, cheeks rosy, new teeth. She babbled, beaming at them. Sasha took her into his arms; she hugged his neck and snuggled close. Victoria’s turn—tears all round. They spent the day at the children’s home, learning from the staff how to care for their new daughter. Legal adoption still awaited—Victoria quit her job, devoted herself to Lena. They prepared for her first operation in Leningrad. A month in hospital, and she was soon showing off to “Daddy Sasha”—eating with a spoon, pretending to be a cat, butting heads like a mischievous goat. The sight of her legs still broke their hearts. Outside, she wore long trousers. She walked with an awkward waddle, but Lena was lively, sociable, talking early, saying hello to everyone. Above all, she adored “Daddy”—her papa, her sunshine. A year later, more surgeries—so much suffering for their child, so much patience for the parents. Victoria spent many sleepless nights at Lena’s hospital bed. But, at last, triumph: her legs, like any other girl’s, could run and jump! At five, Lena went to nursery—her artistic talent noticed. She was sent to art school, and her pictures—joyful landscapes, lively scenes—attracted attention and astonishment; so young and so talented. At seven, she began school, quickly becoming a star pupil—cheerful, clever, artistic, dancing. Always surrounded by friends, she filled every space with laughter. Her parents felt pride at every meeting. No one suspected the hardship Lena and her parents—those who raised and loved her—had overcome. Blessings continued for Sasha and Victoria. With Lena’s arrival, fortunes turned. Sasha’s small business blossomed; they moved to Leningrad, bought a lovely flat, sent Lena to a prestigious school. Now in Year Six, Lena excels—still top of the class, still artistic, blue-eyed, golden-haired, everyone’s favourite, a gentle-hearted girl. A Heaven-Sent Gift—a blessing in their lives.

A Gift from Above…

The morning was as dreary as could beheavy clouds hung low across the sky and somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled quietly. A storm was coming, the first thunderstorm of this English spring.

Winter had finally loosened its grip, but spring was yet to truly settle in. The air was still chilly, gusty winds rattled across the common, whirling last years leaves in restless circles. Early shoots of green dared to push through the tough, reluctant earth. Buds on the trees still hesitated, reluctant to reveal their treasures.

All of nature seemed to lean into the hush, waiting for rain. The winter had been dry, cold, and unkind. The earth had not rested well, denied the richness of winter rain, and was now parched, longing for the nourishing relief only a proper English storm could bring.

The storm would bring what the land needed most: a drenching rain to soak the tired ground, rinse away the dust and grime, and spark lifes return. Only then would spring truly arrivegenerous, blooming, and fresh, like a young woman flush with hope and tenderness.

Soon, the countryside would burst into carpets of green grass, wildflowers, new leaves trembling in the wind, sweet fruit ripening in the orchards. Birds would sing with joy, flitting about to build nests in the burgeoning foliage. Life, as ever, would go on.

James, breakfast is ready! called Emily from the kitchen. The tea will get cold if you dont hurry.

The smell of freshly brewed tea and fried eggs drifted through the flat. I knew I ought to get up, but after last nights difficult conversation, Emilys tears, another sleepless night lost in heavy thoughts, I just wanted to stay in bed forever.

But, just like spring follows winter, life has to continue.

Emily looked just as worn out as I felt. Her eyes were ringed with shadows, her cheeks pale as she offered a faint smile and the usual peck on the cheek.

Good morning, love, she sighed. Looks like were in for a storm, thank goodness. How I wish real spring would arrive. Listen, these lines popped into my head this morning:

I wait for spring, for its gentle release,
From winters chill and loneliness.
I wait for spring, as if in hope
That all my tangled worries will sort themselves out.
It seems to me, when she appears,
All will become clear.
It feels as if she alone
Can put things right
Truer,
Simpler,
Kinder,
And safe.
Where are you, spring? Dont keep me waiting!

I wrapped my arms around her narrow shoulders, pressing a kiss to her crouched, golden head, breathing in the scent of meadows and English chamomile. My heart twisted with pity. My poor, beloved Emilywhy were we being punished like this? Wed clung to hope for years, living from one appointment to the next.

But yesterday, the famous specialistour held-breath hopeput an end to it.

Im ever so sorry, but you wont be able to have children. James, your time working near Sellafield has left its mark. Medicine cant help in this case. Im truly sorry.

Emily wiped her tears away, squared her shoulders, and looked at me with determination. James, Ive made up my mind. We should adopt a child. Think of all the children without familieswe could give a boy a home, raise him as our own. Our son at last. Will you do it? After all these years of waiting for our own little boy? Tears streamed down her cheeks again, and I held her tight, unable to stop my own.

I agree. Of course I agree, darling. Dont cry.

Just then, thunder crashed so violently that the house seemed to tremble. Within moments, the heavens openedat last, the longed-for rain. It poured down, darker than dusk, with sheets of water against the windows and lightning cracking directly overhead. Emily and I stood at the window together as the fresh, cold droplets spattered through the open frame, filling the flat with the intoxicating scent of rain, as if even the shadow over our hearts melted and ran out with that storm.

Let it rain for a good while yet, I thoughtthe long-awaited spring rain, symbol of renewal and lifes persistence.

A few days later, Emily and I found ourselves standing at the doors of a childrens home in Liverpool. They were expecting us, and our journey towards our long-awaited sonour little boy, perhaps even a Thomas or a Henrywas about to begin. Our hearts overflowed with the love wed stored up through so many years of yearning, love for a child not yet known except in the softest corners of our hearts.

Nerves made my palms clammy as I pressed the buzzer. The door swung openour journey had begun.

Wed already met with the matron days before; today, wed be introduced to the children who might become ours. In the very first room, a little girl caught my eye. Damp nappy, sitting forlornly on a plastic mat, her hair in tangles, sadness in her enormous blue eyes as she watched the grown-ups coming and going without noticing her. Something about her desolation stabbed straight into my heartthe reality of an orphanage, the refuge of Englands unwanted children.

We moved on to another room. Babies lay or sat in their cots, healthy and tidy, the nurse pointing them out, giving ages, a snippet of background here and there. Each was gently shown off, held up for us to see. I couldnt help thinking how much this felt like a marketI suppressed the bitter thought.

Emily tugged my arm and whispered, James, can we look at that little girl again? I squeezed her hand.

Nurse, please may we see the blue-eyed girl from the first room once more?

The nurse looked startled. I thought you specifically wanted a boy. That little girl isnt ready to meet families yet.

Pleasewed like to see her again.

Plainly unsettled, the nurse hesitated, but then led us back to the first room.

Ill fetch Mrs. Smith. Please wait here, she said, gesturing to a couple of chairs.

Emily pressed herself against my shoulder. James, lets take that little girl. I just cant get her out of my mind.

I feel the same. She looks so much like youthose eyes, that hair. Such a lost soul.

The matron appeared with the nurse, her face tight with worry.

Youre making a mistake. That little girl isnt a good match. She has a complicated backgroundreally, shes unsuitable.

Why not? I said. Shes perfect, and shes the spitting image of Emily! Please, lets see her again.

The little one had by now been washed, dressed in a fresh outfit, and the forlorn look was already lifting from her small face. When she saw us pause at her cot, she broke into a smile, dimples popping up on her cheeks as she stretched out her arms.

She tried to get upEmily gripped my hand hard. The childs feet were turned backwards, misshapen. Without hesitation, I swept her up in my arms; she pressed her damp little face to mine, clinging tight. Tears blurred my vision as Emily silently wept against my shoulder, the matron dabbing at her eyes behind us with a handkerchief.

Come through to my office, Mrs. Smith said firmly. Nurse, bring Alice. And off she went, purposeful as ever.

In her office, she explained. Alice was born in a northern village, the youngest of many siblings to parents already well advanced in age. She was unwanted, born with serious deformitiesher father refused point-blank to take her home. They said she could be helped with surgery, but he wouldnt spend a penny to raise what he called a cripple, not with so many mouths to feed already.

And so, Alice had ended up here.

Its entirely your decision, Mrs. Smith said gently. She could recover, live a normal lifewith much effort, expense, and above all, deep patience and steadfast love. Dont rush. Speak to the professor whos examined herheres his address. You have a month to decide. Please, think carefully. Our little ones get attached quickly. If you say no later, its far harder for them.

A month passed. Emily and I made our decision the first day: Alice would be our daughter. We consulted the London specialist, who confirmed that with a series of operations, most of the damage could be repairedeven the scars would fade. Our Alice would run and play like any other child. I did the sums; with the sale of the nearly new car and halting work on the house extension, wed just afford it. Wed cope in the little flat for nowGod willing, all would come right so long as Alice grew healthy.

We counted the days until Mrs. Smiths deadline.

Then, at last, we were back at those familiar doors. My heart in my mouth, I clutched a bouquet of rosy peonies; Emily had an enormous bag of gifts for the children. When Mrs. Smith greeted us with tears in her eyes, I felt sure we all believed in miracles once again. Another forsaken child would finally have a home.

Together we went to find Alice. Shed already changeda little taller, locks curling softly, cheeks now rosy, baby teeth shining as she smiled. She chirped and babbled, showing us she could now use a spoon, making cat noises, miming the horned goat from the nursery rhyme. Her feet, thoughstill hidden by long trouserswere not yet right. Outside, Alice was wheeled about; she walked with an awkward, waddling gait like a little duckling. But she was bold, talkative, brightshe knew everyones name, greeted everyone.

And she adored me beyond all reason, calling me Daddy. Now even Emily called me that. My little Alice was the apple of my eye, my sunshine.

After a year of care and surgeriesseveral trips to London, endless patience, sleepless nights for Emily beside hospital bedsher legs were at last made straight. She could run, she could jump. At five, we enrolled her in nursery, where her gift for drawing was quickly noticed. Suggestions came to nurture that skill, so at six, she joined an art academy. Soon, her paintings brightened every childs exhibition room, vivid scenes and cheerful worlds that amazed all who learned her age. She clearly was talented.

At seven, we sent Alice to school. Instantly, she became a class leader: cheerful, brave, endlessly friendly. She danced, won grades in art, and wherever she went, laughter followed. We were proud to attend her parents meetingsnothing but praise for Alice. Few guessed that she or we had faced more than most could imagineor that, though we hadnt given her birth, wed given her all our hearts, every ounce of love and care.

As for Emily and meluck seemed finally to smile our way. My shaky business found its feet, and we were able to move into a good place in London, send Alice to a top school. Today, Alice is thrivingpopular, clever, and still painting, her blue eyes shining like the clearest sky, her golden braid trailing down her back. Everyone adores her. She truly is a gift from above.

Looking back, I see this: sometimes what seems like a loss is really the opening of a greater blessing. Perhaps, when you choose to love, you open the door for miracles. Thats what Alice taught us; thats what she is: our miracle.