The Greatest Miracle in the World
BANTAM’S
WORLDWIDE BESTSELLING
INSPIRATIONAL
BOOKS BY
OG MANDINO
A BETTER WAY TO LIVE
THE CHOICE
THE CHRIST COMMISSION
THE GIFT OF ACABAR
(WITH BUDDY KAYE)
THE GREATEST MIRACLE
IN THE WORLD
THE GREATEST SALESMAN
IN THE WORLD
THE GREATEST SALESMAN
IN THE WORLD PART II:
THE END OF THE STORY
THE GREATEST SECRET
IN THE WORLD
THE GREATEST SUCCESS
IN THE WORLD
MISSION: SUCCESS!
OG MANDINO’S
UNIVERSITY OF SUCCESS
THE RETURN
OF THE RAGPICKER
A BOOK OF JOYOUS HOPE AND PROMISE
Here is a simple but powerful story that will affect your thoughts and actions long after the final sentence has touched your heart.
YOU WILL NEVER FORGET:
• The four simple rules that can help you perform a miracle in your life.
• The glass geranium that will break your heart.
• The dingy parking lot where Mandino’s life, and yours, begins again.
• The ragpicker who rescues humans after they quit on themselves.
• The secret of regaining the self-esteem you have lost.
THE GREATEST MIRACLE
IN THE WORLD
This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
THE GREATEST MIRACLE IN THE WORLD
A Bantam Book/published by arrangement with Frederick Fell Publishers, Inc.
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Frederick Fell edition published June 1975
Bantam edition/September 1977
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1975 by Og Mandino.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from
the publisher.
For information address: Frederick Fell Publishers, Inc.,
Compact Books Inc, 2500 Hollywood Blvd.,
Suite 302, Hollywood, FL 33020.
eISBN: 978-0-307-42064-0
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Appreciations
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
“Also I heard the voice of the Lord saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me.”
Isaiah 6:8
“Now go, write it before them in a table and note it in a book, that it may be for the time to come for ever and ever.”
Isaiah 30:8
APPRECIATIONS
“I am delighted with Og Mandino’s latest book, THE GREATEST MIRACLE IN THE WORLD. Here again, one of the greatest inspirational writers of our time has produced a work that will lift the mind and heart of every reader with powerful motivational appeal.
“For many years I have eagerly read everything Og Mandino has written, always to my profit, and I personally owe him a great debt of gratitude. This sentiment, I am sure, will be echoed by his wide circle of readers.
“This new book, THE GREATEST MIRACLE IN THE WORLD, will produce miracles in the lives of thousands of people.”
Norman Vincent Peale
Today when we face what is probably the greatest challenge history has ever known, Og Mandino’s new book THE GREATEST MIRACLE IN THE WORLD should be read by every salesman and sales manager in the country.
Today when millions of people are troubled, uncertain, and confused, Frederick Fell has the answer to all the readers of THE GREATEST SALESMAN IN THE WORLD.
The rich deposits of inspiration left by preceding generations take on a new vital significance. There never was a time when millions of people were more desperately in need of faith, hope and courage and peace of mind, of standards and ideals by which to live and above all an abiding belief in the future and in the progress of mankind.
Lester J. Bradshaw, Jr.
President
Bradshaw Associates, Inc.
Og Mandino has done it again! THE GREATEST MIRACLE IN THE WORLD is a fascinating story told in Mandino’s pleasing and unique style.
P. H. Glatfelter III
Chairman and President
P. H. Glatfelter Company
Whether or not one has read the author’s previous masterpiece, “The Greatest Salesman in the World,” he or she has an indescribable treat in store in Og Mandino’s latest creation of genius. You cannot help being awed by the vicarious influence of the present day Simon Potter, mystic ragpicker who so mysteriously touched the life of the author—and, for that matter,the lives of everyone who reads “The Greatest Miracle in the World.”
Paul J. Meyer
President
Success Motivation Institute
A SUPER book that will kindle the pilot light of all those who desire to become professional ragpickers as well as those who need to be picked up from the ragpile of life.
Rick Forzano
Head Coach, Detroit Lions
It’s Spring again. Og Mandino is back. As we cattlemen say, “he wintered real good.”
He returns from hibernation with another novel means of inspiring each of us to be something more than we are.
Paul Harvey
Paul Harvey News
American Broadcasting Company
I think THE GREATEST MIRACLE IN THE WORLD has a chance for very wide sales and a chance to be a staple stock item in many book stores for a long time to come. It has the opportunity to appeal to a broad segment of the reading public.
Gerald N. Battle, Manager
Retail Stores Marketing Department
Cokesbury Book Stores
The GREATEST MIRACLE IN THE WORLD is a canvas of colorful imagination brilliantly painted by a master weaver of words. … a reading experience that remains indelible.
Buddy Kaye
Lyricist—Academy of Motion Pictures
(Music Branch)
Og Mandino has done it again! He has written another book which will rival his classic bestseller, THE GREATEST SALESMAN IN THE WORLD.
Harlan Smith
Assistant Vice President
Kroch’s and Brentano’s, Inc.
THE GREATEST MIRACLE IN THE WORLD is one of the most beautiful and most moving pieces of writing that I have ever had the privilege to read—and to publish.
Frederick V. Fell
Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
The first time I saw him?
He was feeding pigeons.
By itself, this simple act of charity is not an unusual sight. One can find old people, who themselves look as if they could use a good meal, dropping crumbs for birds on the wharves of San Francisco, the Common in Boston, the sidewalks of Time Square, and points of interest in every city.
But this old man was doing it at the peak of a brutal snow storm that, according to the “all-news” station on my car radio, had already dumped a record-breaking twenty-six inches of white misery on Chicago and suburbs.
With rear wheels spinning, I had finally inched my car up the slight sidewalk incline to the gate of the self-park lot, a block behind my office, when I first noticed him. He was standing in the ebb of a monstrous snow drift, oblivious of the elements, rhythmically removing what appeared to be bread crumbs from a brown paper bag and dropping them carefully into a cluster of birds that swirled and swooped around the folds of his nearly ankle-length army-style overcoat.
I watched him through the metronomic sweeps of my hissing windshield wipers as I rested my chin on the steering wheel, trying to generate sufficient will power to open my car door, step out into the blizzard, and walk to the gate release box. He reminded me of those Saint Francis garden statues that one sees in plant and shrubbery stores. Snow almost completely covered his shoulder-length hair and had sprinkled itself through his beard. Flakes had even attached themselves to his heavy eyebrows, further accenting his dark high-cheek-boned features. Around his neck hung a leather cord and attached to it was a wooden cross which swayed from side to side as he dispensed tiny bits of the staff of life. Tied to his left wrist was a piece of clothesline which led down to where it was wrapped around the neck of an old multicolored basset hound wh
ose ears dragged deeply into the accumulation of whiteness that had been falling since yesterday afternoon. As I watched the old man, his face broke into a smile and he began talking to the birds. I shook my head in silent sympathy and reached for the door handle.
The twenty-six-mile trip from home to office had consumed more than three hours, half a tank of gas, and nearly all of my patience. My faithful 240-Z, its transmission whining a constant and monotonous complaint in low gear, had run a broken-field course past countless stalled trucks and cars along Willow Road, down Edens Expressway, along Touhy Avenue, across Ridge, east on Devon and past the Broadway intersection to the parking lot on Winthrop Street.
It had been insanity on my part to even make the attempt to get to work that morning. But for the previous three weeks I had been touring the United States promoting my book, The Greatest Salesman In The World, and after I had told forty-nine radio and television audiences, plus more than two dozen newspaper reporters, that perseverance was one of the most important secrets of success, I didn’t dare let myself be defeated even by that angry witch Mother Nature.
Furthermore, there was a board of directors meeting scheduled for the coming Friday. As Success Unlimited Magazine’s president, I needed this Monday, and every other day this week, to review our past year’s performance and next year’s projections with each department head. I wanted to be prepared, as I always had been, for any unexpected questions that might be tossed my way once I was on my feet at the head of that long boardroom table.
The parking lot, situated as it was in the midst of a decaying neighborhood, changed its character twice each twenty-four hours. During the evening and nighttime hours it was occupied by vehicles that would have been sold for junk by any self-respecting used-car dealer. These were the cars owned by local apartment dwellers who had been unable to find a parking spot on the narrow street that bisected their soot-streaked buildings. Then, each morning, they all departed in a mass exodus to local and suburban factories and the lot replenished itself with a collection of Mercedes, Cadillacs, Corvettes, and BMW’s as attorneys, doctors, and the Loyola University students came into the city from the suburban world to do their thing.
At any other time of the year the lot was a scabby blemish, a back-of-the-hand slap to every resident of the area. In all the years I had parked there I had yet to see its downtown owners make any attempt to remove the litter, soggy newspapers, tin cans and empty wine bottles that accumulated in their own little mountains of disease against the rusty chain link fencing. The only thing the lot had going for it was that there was no other available public parking for ten blocks.
Today, however, with all the lot’s sins buried under nearly three feet of snow, it reminded me of a stretch of California’s Pacific Grove beach, even to its white mounds which only yesterday had been automobiles. Apparently there had been no exits by the locals this morning. They had probably taken one look at their buried machines, now igloos, and either bussed it or gone back to bed.
Entrance to the parking lot was through two posts, buried in concrete, set approximately nine feet apart, upon which rested a large hollow-iron-bar gate. To raise the gate, to get into the lot and park, you deposited two quarters in the slot of a chipped white metal box, waited for the gate to rise after it was tripped electronically by the coins, and then drove through. Then the car wheels depressed some sort of mechanism in the asphalt, automatically lowering the gate behind you. To leave the lot you needed two more quarters to bail yourself out … unless you had a special key which you could rent for twenty dollars a month. Keys were inserted into a special yellow box to activate the gate, both entering and leaving.
After turning my attention from the bird-feeding Samaritan, I found my gate-key in the glove compartment, pushed against the accumulated snow which was considerably higher than the bottom of my car door, and stepped gingerly outside. Immediately I became aware of the incompetency of a grown man dumb enough to wear low-cut rubbers on a day like this.
The old man ceased his feeding operation long enough to glance my way and wave. The dog barked once and then was silenced by some unintelligible words from his master. I nodded toward him and forced a weary smile. My “good morning” sounded strange and muffled in the noise-deadening snowfall.
His response, in the deepest voice I had ever heard, seemed to reverberate off the surrounding buildings. Once, when Danny Thomas met radio commentator Paul Harvey, Danny had said, “You had better be God because you sure sound like Him.” This voice made my friend Paul sound like a timid choir boy.
“I bid you greetings on this beautiful day!”
I had neither the strength nor the desire to dispute his words. I turned my key in the yellow box until I heard the mechanism activate, then half sliding, half walking, I returned to my car. Behind me, as I had heard it respond for several thousand mornings, the gate creaked as it raised itself for my entrance.
But … no sooner was I back in my car, ready to shift into “drive” and ease my way through the deep snow into the lot, then the gate crashed back down to its original horizontal position with a loud metallic clang.
I sighed in frustration, shifted back into “park,” reopened the car door, stepped back into the cold snow, slid up to the yellow box, and turned my key again. The gate rose once more, pointed its rusted tip toward the snow-filled heavens, and then fell back. Bong! Impatiently I turned the key again, almost hard enough to snap it this time. Same thing. A short in the wiring, perhaps, from all this moisture? No matter. There was no way I was going to get my car into that parking lot. And if I left it on the street it was certain to be towed away. I just stood there, knee deep in snow, cursing the idiocy of this aborted journey while I rubbed snowflakes out of my eyes.
Just as I was beginning to doubt everything I had ever written or said about the value of perseverance the bird-feeding stranger interrupted my self-pity. “Let me help you.”
That voice was truly something and there was a hint of command as well as an offer of aid in the resonant tone. He had moved close to me and I found myself looking up into an amazing face, gaunt, heavily lined, set with large brown eyes. He had to be nearly seven feet tall because I’m no pygmy. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders at this Abraham Lincoln look alike and said, “Thanks, but I don’t think there’s much we can do.”
The deep furrows around his eyes and mouth arched into the warmest and most gentle smile I had ever seen on a human as he gestured toward the recalcitrant gate. “It will not be difficult. Turn your key in the box again. When the gate rises I shall step under it, grasp it with my outstretched hands, and hold it until your car passes through. Then I’ll let it fall.”
“That’s a heavy gate.”
His laugh boomed through the lot. “I am old but I am quite strong. And most certainly it is worth our efforts to relieve you of your problem. Carlyle wrote that every noble work seems at first impossible.”
“Carlyle?”
“Yes, Carlyle. Thomas. Nineteenth-century English essayist.”
I didn’t believe this. I was standing in a snow drift with an icy wind lacerating my face, my feet were soaked and freezing, and I was turning into a snowman … while a long-haired seventy-year-old hippie was giving me a mini-course in English Lit.
What else could I do? I’m a great believer in considering one’s options, but I’ve also learned there are times and situations when you don’t have any. I mumbled my thanks and waited while the old man gently tugged his basset toward the fence, where he removed the rope from his wrist and tied it through two links. Then he returned to my side and nodded. Almost hypnotically I obeyed his silent command and turned my key in the box. Up groaned the gate bar. Then the old man stepped under it and grasped the cold metal bar firmly just as it began its descent.
I’m not too clear about the next several minutes although I’ve thought about it often. Perhaps the light-and-hurried breakfast and long drive had finally taken their toll. I felt dizzy and my vision seemed to shift out of focus … as if someone had smeared vaseline on my reading glasses. Everything seemed diffused. A strange tremor shook my body as I tried to fix on the apparition before me.