Mrs. Miracle and my Barbie Doll

The year Barbie debuted on the toy scene, I had just started seventh grade, and at 11, I thought I was too old for dolls. But her grown-up looks, sophistication and incredibly cute outfits were too much to resist. I asked for, and got, one of the original Barbie dolls. She was my idol; she was stunning, with a long black ponytail and perfect clothes for every possible occasion. One of her outfits even came with a tiny charm bracelet.

Although I'd long ago lost interest in my other dolls (back then, eight-inch tall dolls resembling miniature little girls had been the thing to have), I played with Barbie for a month or two and dressed her in all her outfits before losing interest. Soon, she was packed away into the small trunk that held the little-girl dolls, with her charm bracelet and cunning outfits neatly folded next to the ruffled frocks and fur capes of other dolls’ wardrobes.

A year later, as the next Christmas approached, I noticed something in our local newspaper. We had an informal swap column called "Our Readers Write," where people could write letters asking for recipes, information, or items they'd like to purchase. As I randomly read the letters one evening, a particular plea for help caught my eye. I read it several times, and I couldn't get its words out of my mind.

A woman named Mrs. Miracle wrote that her husband was out of work. She had five sons and wanted to know if anyone could spare hand-me-downs for boys, in a wide range of sizes. And, she said, they could use size-eight clothes for a little girl. That was all she asked for – some clothes for her children. It was cold outside; snow had already started falling that year, but even though Christmas was only weeks away, her family needed clothes, it seemed, more than they needed toys.

The letter haunted me and filled my mind with the image of an eight-year-old girl who probably wouldn't get much for Christmas. My Christmases had always been full of toys and new clothes, but I realized not everyone was that fortunate.

Without telling my parents, I called the phone number listed in the letter; a man answered and I asked for Mrs. Miracle. He seemed confused at first, and then asked me to hold the phone while he went next door (it was some years later before I realized the Miracle family must not have had a phone of their own). After a few minutes, a woman came on the line.

"Mrs. Miracle?" I swallowed hard; I had made a decision and I would go through with it. "I don't have any clothes that would fit your little girl, but I have some dolls; I have a Barbie doll and a few others. They're in good shape, do you think she would like them?"

Yes, the woman said, that would be nice. She left the phone for a minute, and I heard her talking to the man who originally answered the phone. A minute later, she came back on the line and said she could pick them up later that night. I gave her directions to our house, and we hung up. Then I had to tell my parents.

I had just volunteered to give away much of my cherished (and costly) doll collection to a complete stranger; I was a bit concerned that my mom and dad wouldn't be too happy. To my relief, they didn't object. Not only that, when my mother read the letter that prompted my generosity, she gathered some jeans and shirts my two younger brothers had outgrown and put them in a bag to send with the dolls. Meanwhile, I located the blue metal doll trunk where Barbie and the other dolls were stored for safekeeping.

I have to admit I had some second thoughts as I waited for Mrs. Miracle to arrive. I took the dolls out and looked at them one last time. I'd always taken good care of things, and Barbie was in perfect shape, as were the other two dolls, which I'd decided to send along as well. I’d had them a few years longer than I’d had Barbie, but still looked new and each doll had several outfits, complete with matching shoes and accessories. I'd loved them and played with them for years. Now, I realized while holding the little dresses and shoes in my hands, I would never see them again.

Did I really want to do this? The image of an eight-year-old girl floated through my mind again. I'd had plenty of enjoyment from these dolls, and after all, I was in middle school and too old for such toys. My Christmas that year would probably be nice, as it always was, but that little girl, whose face I would never see, probably wouldn’t have much under her tree. I carefully folded all the clothes and put them back into the trunk, hoping this little girl would enjoy the dolls and love them as much as I had.

Yes, I decided, I could go through with it. Besides, Mrs. Miracle was well on her way to our house by then.

An hour or so later, there was a knock at the door, and my parents let me answer it. I expected to see the mystery woman, Mrs. Miracle, but instead a tall man stood in the doorway. He mumbled something about being told to come by our house.

"Are you here for Mrs. Miracle?" I asked. He gave me a blank look, so I continued. "The lady who wrote the letter in the paper?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "They're my neighbors, they’re, um, waiting in the car. Only their name isn't Miracle, it's Johnson. "

I was confused at first, but I handed over the trunk full of dolls and the bags of clothes for the boys. I had hoped to see Mrs. Miracle herself, but I could understand why she preferred to wait in the car.

Until that moment, I'd never questioned the name in the paper. But as the door closed on my last glimpse of my beloved blue metal doll trunk, the meaning dawned on me. I learned a valuable lesson that night, as I watched this tall and kindly man walk back to the car holding his waiting neighbors, who needed at least one miracle that Christmas.

Now and then I read an article about how much an original Barbie sells for (especially in mint condition). But it doesn't bother me - I think I got a lot more than just money when I parted with mine years ago.