A snowy night, a warm cabin, and a boy who hears the Christmas story for the first time?beginning with creation and ending with Jesus’ resurrection. Ruth Bell Graham’s timeless holiday story is a delightful read during the Advent season. In a magnificent blend of a contemporary setting with the history of God’s redeeming love, Ruth Bell Graham has created a wonderful and unique version of the Christmas story that shares the true meaning of the Christmas season. With exquisite illustrations by renowned artist Richard Jesse Watson, One Wintry Night is the perfect gift for the young and the young at heart. This classic Christmas storybook is A perfect holiday read-aloud with children ages 5 to 9; - A retelling of the traditional Christmas story including biblical elements from the life of Jesus; - A way to open conversation about why we needed a savior and the importance of Jesus’ birth; and - A great stocking stuffer or gift for Christmas, Advent, or other holidays. Gather around your loved ones to share this timeless classic and the true Christmas story. "Ruth Bell Graham has written the perfect Christmas book . . . . With imaginative, stunning pictures, it is a book children and adults will love." ? Barbara Bush One Wintry Night By Ruth Bell Graham Thomas Nelson Copyright © 2012 Ruth Bell Graham All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4003-2116-2 Chapter One Caught in the Storm The boy hunkered down and yanked his cap farther over his ears as the wind rose to a roar across the ridge. Low, dark clouds moving down from the north were bringing darkness early. A snowflake touched his cheek. The boy was mountain tough, but his grandpa had warned him against taking a long hike alone on such a cold day. Still, the boy had the urge. He loved the mountains—especially the Seven Sisters. They were home to him. He'd lost track of how many times he had hiked them. His grandpa used to climb with him; only Grandpa's heart wasn't up to it now. Another gust of wind caught the boy off balance. Grabbing a tree for support, he lit the old possum lantern against the oncoming darkness. Then, in its flickering yellow glow, he noticed the leaves of the laurel were curled up tight like pencils in the bitter cold. Again the roar of the wind rose in the bare branches above him. The boy wasn't scared, but for the first time he wondered if he would make it home. He wasn't only mountain tough; he was mountain smart. He figured he was well past Big Piney now. Then he remembered the cove, the one his great-grandpa had settled. It couldn't be far—on the south side of the ridge between Big Piney and Stompy Knob. Other folks had bought the property from the mountain family some time ago. His grandpa used to tell stories of how he had helped build the place for them, fetching rocks from the mountain streambeds—even from old still furnaces—for the chimneys and walls. If the boy could make it down there, they'd let him in. * * * Inside the log and frame house, the woman heard the dogs bark. Not a friendly bark, but mean and fierce. She turned on the outside lights, peering through the little window by the front door. They were quiet now. But something was going on out there. The wind sounded like a freight train coming over the ridge, and the snowflakes were blowing sideways instead of falling straight down. Then she saw them, the two big dogs with a boy walking between, like he'd known them before. The woman opened the door. "I'm Zeb Morris," the boy yelled breathlessly as he ran toward the lighted entrance. "My grandpa, he helped build this—" Before he could finish the sentence, the boy stumbled. The woman caught him and helped him inside. Chapter Two The Boy and the Woman Next morning the boy woke up and peered drowsily out the window upon a strange world. Where the sky was usually blue, the clouds were almost black. And where the ridge should have risen dark, it was white and soft. The dark, leafless trees—they, too, were white. And huge snowflakes were falling silently. Snow always filled the boy with excitement. He jumped from the big bed before noticing how high it was, and nearly cried out in pain. He didn't. But when he looked at the ankle he had twisted last night, he saw it was swollen and blue. "Doggone it!" he exclaimed. Now how would he get home? He pulled on all but his left sock and shoe and limped across the hall to what looked to be the kitchen. "Good morning, Zeb," the woman said. "Mornin', ma'am," he replied. The smell of frying bacon, fresh coffee, and wood smoke made him feel at home. He stood shyly beside the door, the large gray-and-white-striped cat rubbing against his good leg. "Lost a shoe?" the woman asked. "No'm. Comin' down by the old bear's den last evenin' where it's almighty steep, I twisted it. Didn't really notice it till I jumped off that bed. It shore is high." "That's because there's a trundle bed under it. Now, let me have a look." With g