Category Archives: Christmas Miracle Stories

Every December you will find stories of a Christmas miracle here. If you look hard enough, maybe you’ll find one where you are, too.

Family, After All

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Her breath made small vaporous puffs as she hurried back to her apartment. Boy, it was cold! Why had she even agreed to go in the first place? But her co-worker’s persistence had done its work and she went. After all, it was only an hour, maybe two, out of her evening and there wasn’t anything else to fill the time. Christmas being what it was, was a family affair and she didn’t have one. Strike that. She had one, but didn’t know their names. She’d tried looking, but had concluded it would take a miracle to find them. And if she did, then what? She doubted she would fit in even if they agreed to meet her.

She’d known most of her life that she had been adopted. Her parents loved her to pieces was how they put it; and sometimes she quietly thought it was an apt expression. Being an only child had its pressures and perhaps being adopted added to them – or subtracted; she couldn’t know for certain. But they had been old when she was a baby – having tried and tried to have their own. Their own. They would’ve been upset such a thought crossed her mind. Anyway, they had died within two weeks of each other. Heartbreak maybe. That was three years ago.

When they died, she’d sold the townhouse they’d bought the minute she graduated from high school. She didn’t blame them for the purchase. But once her childhood home was gone, it hadn’t felt the same. And due to their move, most of the pieces that had filled their house had been sold or given away. Going “home” hadn’t held the same sense of belonging afterward.

She unlocked the door of her apartment. The 1920’s architecture of her building more than suited her. Shrugging out of her coat, she hung it on the coat tree by the door. This was her home now. She was content.

She wrapped an afghan around her shoulders and picked up Rockwell Kent’s World Famous Paintings. She didn’t begrudge not having family, but it did mean if she was to get a Christmas gift, she would buy it herself. This one was from the used bookstore two blocks over. But as she sipped some cocoa – it was a Belgian chocolate concoction she favored – and paged through the book, something she had heard tonight pestered her. The minister had mentioned something about adoption. Why would he say such a thing and at a Christmas Eve service of all times?

She knew about baby Jesus. She knew the whole Christmas tableau. She’d gone to Sunday School with her childhood friend while her parents slept in, but she’d never heard adoption mentioned. Laying Kent’s book aside, she pulled out that Bible her friend had given to her in high school. It was still like new. She fingered the gilded edges of the pages. A quick search of the concordance brought success. There. And there! More? Yes, more!

The evening waned and she read like her Bible was a seven course meal. She hadn’t know she was hungry. Adopted? She knew about adoption. She lived adoption. But this was different. A father who would go anywhere with her, even if it meant not sleeping in; who would give anything – anything – a baby in a manger, for instance, for her! A father who wouldn’t sell her home, but rather prepare one that felt more like home than any place in the world! And family! People just like her.

Christmas morning peeked over the horizon as she drifted to sleep. She would have loved how the sun’s rays touched her face just so had she been awake to notice it. She’d read through the night. Shepherds. Scientists. Fishermen. Kings and governors. Prostitutes. Teachers. Lawyers. Beggars. Thieves. Businesswomen. Children. People from all walks of life. And one Father. And one Savior Brother. And finally. Finally, finally, she felt more than adopted. She felt like family. Was this the miracle she’d wanted? The discovery of family? Yes. And more: A Christmas gift she didn’t have to buy herself.

Scripture: Moses was adopted.; Esther was adopted.; For you did not receive a spirit of slavery that returns you to fear, but you received the Spirit of adoption to sonship, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!” (Romans 8:15); And more than that, we ourselves, though we possess the Spirit as a foretaste and pledge of the glorious future, yet we ourselves inwardly sigh, as we wait and long for open recognition as children through the deliverance of our bodies (Romans 8:23); They are the people of Israel, chosen to be God’s adopted children. God revealed his glory to them. He made covenants with them and gave them His law. He gave them the privilege of worshiping Him and receiving His wonderful promises.(Romans 9:4); so that He might redeem those who were under the Law, that we might receive the adoption as sons and daughters.(Galatians 4:5); and having predestinated us unto the adoption of children by Jesus Christ to himself, according to the good pleasure of His will. (Ephesians 1:5); Image: pexels-photo-306864.jpeg; alice-pasqual-bDL5INidTEQ-unsplash-scaled.jpg; al-elmes-ZiCz-oW1LXA-unsplash-scaled.jpg

Out of the Darkness

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At first it had the feel of adventure to it; a whimsical sort of challenge which he gladly accepted. The downing of not just electrical wires, but of the entire power grid across his region – at least he thought it was his region (it certainly couldn’t be the entire country!) had been cautioned, warned, and discussed until everyone was sick of it and drank more eggnog than they should. He, himself, had made a ‘Tis the season excuse for his overindulgence, giving little thought to what “the season” meant. Sure, he knew – baby in a manger, light of the world and all that. However, most reasonable people also knew it had little influence in the world just now. But no, it couldn’t have spread across the whole country: not that he nor anyone in his vicinity would know; since there was no communication unless one neighbor without knowledge of the current situation consulted the next who had identical knowledge. And at this point, he wasn’t certain whether said neighbor would meet him with a plate of Christmas cookies or the point of a rifle (and he wasn’t sure that he cared). He’d heard that happened to people who were isolated from each other. Of course, could he blame someone for their defensive posture when his suspicious one was no better?

He’d read somewhere that things like this could last for months and much longer. A year? More? Ugh. It had been a week. Seven long nights and days. There was no traffic. Without electricity, the gas pumps didn’t work. Even if they could have made the trip, people didn’t go to work. Why? It was a computerized world – a world that thrived on electricity. At first, a few of the folks who preferred winter to summer walked here and there. After awhile, they didn’t. Perhaps they’d grown too cold without a place to warm up in afterward. Maybe they’d grown tired. Even those with gym memberships needed calories and cold food in cold houses lost some of its appeal. Who knew how much longer they would or could endure? Had the weather been temperate, things would have felt more hopeful. But this? His window thermometer registered 0.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t prepared. He had. Of course, he didn’t plan on helping anyone else. How could he? They should’ve thought ahead. He’d kept his curtains closed to keep in as much warmth as possible and told himself it helped a little, but now he pulled his curtains aside and peered down the street. Dusk approached and soon it would be as black as sin, as his grandma used to say. He looked around the room, taking stock of his supplies. He had canned food, but had lost his appetite. He forced himself to eat each day, though. Today’s feast was a can of corn. Refrigeration was without power, of course, but the indoor temperature without a working furnace made it unnecessary. However, frozen hamburger wasn’t of much use. Water – check; and when he ran out, the snow outside . . . Then he began to wonder if eating snow would help or harm him. His fingers had begun to feel like thick sticks sometime around midnight the night before. At least he could feel them, unlike his toes which had no feeling at all.

The sun would set in another thirty or so minutes, and somewhere on day two, he had decided to use his flashlight to read through the evening. A few days in, he began to worry about how long the flashlight battery would last, and switched to depending on a candle to read before the dark encroached when he blew it out. Tonight he sat by the curtained window and parted the fabric ever so slightly to let in the waning light. He’d save candle light for later. He read:

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

He’d grown to like Tennyson lately, though he didn’t always understand what he was getting at. It was that way with those old authors, those ancient poets. He made more time than usual for them because in the last week time was all he had. What was that his uncle had liked to say? You have all the time in the world, but that’s all the time you have. Closing his eyes, he reflected; and his mind wandered to what their days and culture had been like. Surely such things had affected their perspective. His mind wandered further as he  recalled something he had heard about the holiday he didn’t celebrate – Hanukkah. Having enough oil to light the menorah wasn’t the problem. The Maccabees had enough oil. It was simply that there was only one jar of pure oil – one with the priestly seal. That jar would last just one night. Just one. Compromise seemed necessary. Certainly easier. But they were unwilling to use adulterated oil for something sacred. And God saw their pure hearts and met their desire for doing what was right. Oil for one night became oil for eight nights. He thought about those guys. He wondered if they’d fit in at the company holiday party. Then he wondered if they’d fit in anywhere.

He sat with those thoughts until they met him in his dreams. When he woke, the dark completely enveloped him, and he knew somehow that the One for whom “the season” was celebrated was watching him, his street, his city, the world to see whether any pure hearts remained. And he knew, too, how compromised his heart had become. Taking the middle ground was popular, even seemingly necessary and had been easy, so easy. Rising from his chair, he knelt on the ice-cold floor. Just knelt. A few tears escaped from his closed eyes. He was so tired. But he didn’t ask for warmth or electrical power, for he was overwhelmingly conscious of how undeserving he was. No, he asked for one thing: forgiveness. Purity.

And God saw his crippled, frozen heart and met his desire for doing what was right. He suddenly felt a sort of freedom he’d forgotten existed.

Then – a quiet hum. He heard it before he opened his eyes: the blessed sound of his furnace! And he rose to bask in the shining lights turned on in every room! The Christmas tree lights! The outdoor lights! The lights decking the houses along the street! He hurried to make some cocoa on the stove (hot soup! hot toast! hot anything!), then threw open his curtains despite the night.

Image: pexels-pixabay-278823-scaled.jpg; Quote: Alfred Lord Tennyson; Source: https://open.substack.com/pub/naomiwolf/p/hanukkah-on-the-battlefield?utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

In Silence

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Surrounded by pines, a few birch trees, and neglected barberry bushes and undergrowth, the building stood like a soldier in the gloaming. The silence of a snowy night surrounded it in cold solidarity, and the stone structure, carved hundreds of years before, did not yield to occasional wind gusts that otherwise skittered grainy snow across the icy ground.

It had been celebrated at its inaugural opening to the town with speeches and flowers and a large shared meal. Depended upon during important and common occasions both, it was the town’s centerpiece!

But a national crisis came with its hardships and fear, and the building had been conscripted as a field hospital. Seating and large instruments had been stored away, small instruments had been given away, and books boxed and stacked away. The war over, the townspeople found other, newer buildings, and the stone building was deserted.

Eventually though, weary travelers’ hearts gladdened at the sight of it, and a few benches outside its doors became a welcome wayside rest.

Eventually whispers and uninformed opinions about it spread. Someone thought it of little use. The gradual and quiet growth of disinterest grew until the building was sold for much less than it was worth. They – the buyers – made it into a house. However, they, too, lost interest after a time. The property was too remote. The town – too small.

Sometimes words are mighty, but sometimes they are just syllables that dissipate into thin air. And the air – the quiet, purifying air of a Christmas night that was the pnuema of its Creator – began to stir; softly at first, then to swirl with sparkles of gold-tipped frostiness until an otherworldly brightness glowed from the building’s windows and swept over the grounds around it. Pine and birch branches rustled. Barberry bushes’ berries glowed red. And the church that had been used for – well, for its intended purposes – returned to its original stateliness. After all, not all needs are understood, and not all miracles are seen.

Images: annie-spratt-tEHoH5kP7w-unsplash-scaled.jpg; mateusz-majewski-rL40zBCi-Dk-unsplash-scaled.jpg; sharon-waldron-k_PscfWwz5w-unsplash-scaled.jpg; Luke 19:40 “I tell you,” He answered, “if they remain silent, the very stones will cry out.”

Resigned to Fate

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“No miracles”, the doctor’s words
resounded in his mind;
And so he sat, resigned to fate,
a furrow on his brow;
He thought of all the hardship, first;
and then of blessed time;
And if, he wondered, good was then,
why could it not be now?

So through the night he tussled with
an inconvenient thought;
If blessing came despite it all,
then from where did it stem?
Or Who, perchance, worked happiness
where darkness should have been?
And if the good was giv’n, not chance,
did it matter when?

Should good days be at certain times?
And hard ones destined, too?
Or did they intertwine to make
a puzzle or a song?
He’d not believed it, not one day,
God was for the weak;
Yet in this hour, he wondered if,
yes, if he’d been quite wrong.

And as the sun peeked from the dark and
brightened up the sky;
A prayer – yes! – from his hardened heart
rang through quiet space;
And His Creator, smiled to watch him
stand and utter “why?”
Giv’n was he the answer sure:
My mercy, love, and grace.

Dear Reader, there are times when hope seems lost or when we might be tempted to relegate miracles to another time and other people. It is not so! The God who created the universe and who reached down even to earth as a baby in a manger, is more than able to work in His beautiful creation however He desires and, truly, at the request of His child – you.

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Bird Seed

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The old woman had done it for years. Some people shook their heads if they happened on her small house on the edge of town. Why spend money on bird food when it was obvious it could be spent more wisely? She clearly didn’t have the resources to paint her house’s weathered boards, yet she spent what little she had on flowers in the springtime and birdseed (birdseed!) in the winter. Foolish woman!

She rightly guessed what they thought. They wrongly guessed her character.

The porch curtain fluttered closed as she stepped back from watching the latest townsperson walk by and sat down in her wicker rocker to think.

She’d lived over sixty years in this very house. It was a lovely shade of green then – green with a hint of gray, like the soft leaf of lamb’s ear that grew near the back step. It had shutters, too; shutters of a deeper green like the algae that grew in the pond every spring a mile down the road. In those days the little house burst with sweet scents of cookies and the savory aroma of slow-cooked barbeque or her favorite, peppery catfish. Laughter was common and prayer was as natural as breathing.

But life brings both good and hard, and financial hardship followed the loss of health, and death followed that. And she was suddenly alone and older than she had realized. Somewhere along the way she had to set priorities. Hers were not everyone’s, but she didn’t want others’ priorities. She wanted hers.

Even in the old days flowers had delighted her and birds seemed to be little messengers of joy. And in the days in which new silence seemed echoing and eating seemed a bother, they had kept her from wanting to die, herself. They had been loyal to her, so now she was loyal to them. That was the why. It was the why of her choices the townspeople didn’t know.

She admitted to herself, though, that she wished for the color of the old days. She wished for the lovely shades of green. Yet even if she could afford the paint, she wouldn’t have been able to manage the task. But she still had prayer. She would have prayer as long as she breathed, so that was a good thing. God made things beautiful in their time and sometimes out of their time, too, she mused. But asking for a painted house? It was a small thing in comparison to the big things needed in this world, and it seemed an unnecessary, trivial prayer. God knew her needs and He always met them. No – she would make beauty where beauty could be found.

She walked outside and gathered some branches to put in a floor vase in her living room, then hung on them ornaments and paper star garland. Picking up her Bible from the end table, she read the Christmas story as she did every Christmas Eve. Tomorrow she would treat herself to cranberry juice with her potato soup! She cracked a smile.

A glance out the window into the darkening night told her a storm was howling through.

Christmas morning dawned bright and crisp. Sunlight sparkled through crystalline coatings on the tree branches. Wondering how the birds had fared through the storm, she pulled on a warm coat, hat, and gloves and took her small bucket of birdseed outside. She threw a handful to her right and to her left, then turned to make her way back inside.

And that’s when she saw it: Her house wore a lovely shade of green with a hint of gray. And shutters! Yes, shutters the color of spring algae! (How long had it been? At least since the storm of ’09 had blown them off.) Little chirps roused her from her gaze. And something else, too. The savory aroma of peppery catfish. 

Matthew 6:26 Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? ; Image: pexels-patrick-19363951-scaled.jpg; pexels-photo-531499.jpeg; pexels-kevin-quarshie-14715265.jpg petrin-express-Sn653QVfNoQ-unsplash.jpg ;rolf-schmidbauer-qvV24TOon4Q-unsplash.jpg

Church Clothes

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He peered down at the pile of clothes. Several pairs of jeans, two – very worn. Ten short-sleeved t-shirts and four long-sleeved. Three pairs of tennis shoes, one pair of work boots, and one pair of cowboy boots. Twelve pairs of socks, the white no longer white and the black, a faded shade. Two baseball caps, one trapper hat, one warm knit beanie, and a hard hat. No dress shoes nor dress pants nor dress shirt. No tie.

He scratched under his jaw, then rummaged through the pile for his best jeans and least worn shirt. Dressed, he surveyed himself in the mirror and briefly closed his eyes before heading out.

How long had it been? Ten years? No – longer. Fifteen? Short of twenty anyway. But he’d made a promise to himself and determined to keep it.

God, he thought – was it a thought or a prayer? Why would the Almighty hear him, of all people? Whatever people thought of him, they didn’t know the half of it. He pressed on. God, I’m embarrassed. Is there some way you can make my clothes look better? More dignified? Or maybe make me invisible? (what was he saying!) Or make people blind to my presence? He didn’t think he’d ever seen a miracle or even believed they existed, but it would take one to answer his prayer. Please?

Church bells rang and he found himself in the sanctuary. Miracles? He looked around and thought maybe he could believe in them. A feeling of fire shot through him head to toe. No, this wasn’t a miracle, but an answer to prayer. For tonight, Christmas Eve, was a candlelight service. No one saw what he wore. Everyone saw only the dancing lights of the candle each held.

Only then did he see the best miracle: a Savior who allowed His own dignity to be replaced with swaddling cloths in a crude manger surrounded by animals and visiting shepherds. And something else invisible to all but some working men: angels.

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Just Like That

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“No! I said it should go there!” The overseer slammed him against some rock and pointed.

The workman picked up the heavy stone and moved it two feet to the right. He rubbed the place on his back and shoulder where he’d hit the rock. The overseer was not only inconsistent, but easily angered. This needs to go here. No, there – are you deaf! We don’t have time for a lunch break. Get back to work. A funeral? Really! And who’s supposed to pick up your slack when you’re not here?!

Maybe he should find another place to work. But where? His shepherding days were past. He didn’t mind manual labor. He was proud to have worked on the Masada, but the space had a weird feel to it for some reason; and although it was a feather in his cap, he was glad to move on. He’d worked on a few small synagogues and now on the temple complex in Jerusalem. It was steady work, and didn’t appear to be slowing down soon. But the overseer! He dreaded coming to work each day. A tightness in his chest took hold, and he didn’t try to release it. He didn’t believe he would ever be able to forgive the man for his harshness. Or want to. No, it would take some kind of miracle to forgive the guy, and he wasn’t asking for one. He was the worst he’d ever encountered.

He mulled it over. He could use a miracle about now – but not to forgive. No, he could use a miracle to lead him to another job or help him endure the one he had. He’d heard of miracles taking place. Some didn’t believe such things. But he did.

He was picking up another block when a cacophony broke out on the other side of the wall. Searching for the overseer and not seeing him, he moved toward the crowd to see what the noise was about. He saw a man carrying a cross. It was nothing new these days. But something stopped him from returning to work. And the man carrying the cross looked at him, caught his eye, and held his gaze for a moment. A chill he couldn’t identify ran through him.

He wished he could look at those eyes forever, for it was then he remembered. He recalled a quiet night that had been disrupted by the loudest shout and song he had ever heard. He remembered falling to the ground in fear, and running to a manger in the little town nearby. And he saw once again in his memory a baby in a manger just as he had been told, the steaming breath of nearby animals, and how, when the mother picked up the baby, the tiny one looked at him over her shoulder.

And just like that, nothing else mattered.

Images: start-public-domain-pictures.net_.jpg; creche.jpg; Music: Connie Miller Pease, https://www.jwpepper.com/Softly-Now-He-Comes/10686074.item

Prayer for the Night

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Jesus, keep me through the night

safe until the morning light

shines into our window pane

and brings a bright, new day again.

Amen.

The mother tucked in her little boy, running her fingers lightly through his wispy hair. Whispering an extra prayer, she tiptoed from the room. He was already sound asleep.

The clock had just struck three in the morning when the little boy woke. He climbed out of his crib landing with a quiet thump, plodded into his parents’ room on little footie pajama feet, and, unable to wake them, wandered into the living room. The Christmas tree’s glowing lights twinkled softly bringing a delighted smile to his face.

He stood on tiptoe, looking out the picture window to the neighbor’s house across the street. The front door creaked as the little boy pushed it open and slid through the space between doorjamb and door and onto the front step. Oops! He slipped and landed in the snow. But he was up in no time. Snowflakes drifted gently down, crowning his little towhead with white and just touching his eyelashes.

There it was: the blow-up reindeer and an elf beside it! Finally! He’d be able to look at it up close! Snow soaked through his pajamas to his tiny feet, and he hurried to touch the forbidden decoration. It was bigger than he remembered! Reaching out his hand, red with cold, he touched it and – what was that? Did it actually blink?!

The wind picked up and snow skittered across the snowy yards and street. The little boy’s ears burned! Why would they burn when it was cold? He covered his ears with his hands. It didn’t help. It just made his fingers tingle.

A quiet voice whispered, “Back you go, dear one.” The elf? He thought he should go home, but his little feet felt frozen – glued to the ground. He stood there uncertainly as his body shivered. The quiet of the dark night held little to comfort him, and tears began to slide down his cheeks. What could he do? Jesus, keep me through the night, he whispered. He couldn’t recall the next line of the prayer. Jesus, keep me through the night, he repeated. The reindeer and elf stood immovable. He looked over at the pretty tree lights shining through his own home’s window. How he wished he was there now! But his feet! They were so cold!

Suddenly he was back in his living room and the front door firmly locked. He took a few steps and lay down on the floor by the beautiful tree.

He grew inexplicably warm, and it was there his mother found him the next morning; soaked to the skin, but covered and tucked in with two cozy blankets.

And his angel sighed with a tired smile. Safe until the morning light . . .

Original prayer by Mabel J. Cachiaras; Images: lighted-christmas-tree-1708601-1.jpg; selective-color-photography-of-pine-leaf-1263891.jpg; pexels-photo-717988.jpeg

Special Delivery

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His clear baritone cut through the icy air. Jingle bells! Jingle bells! He pulled up to the curb, pulled two packages from his truck, made the delivery, and was back in his seat and on key within three minutes. Jingle all the way! Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh! Hey!

He turned the corner, checked his delivery list, and glanced at the clock. Just maybe he’d be home at a decent hour tonight. He couldn’t bet on anything, but it looked like maybe. He mentally crossed his fingers. T’was the season.

He’d be blasted if it silenced his music! Jingle bells! Jingle bells! Jingle all the way! He pulled up. There it was. His second to last delivery. He was out and back in two. He looked down to ascertain the final address. Rats. It was that one: the one that was always the dickens to find! He’d think he’d located it, then the house was two blocks down. Or down an alley and behind a tall hedge. It was almost as if it moved, and the trick was on him.

To be honest, one time the delay caused by the troublesome address had kept him from an accident on the way home. He’d ‘ve been on 94 at the very spot for sure had he not spent the extra twenty minutes driving around like a lunatic looking for the house. That night he had sat in backed-up traffic for more than an hour; but when he’d witnessed the scene he thanked his lucky stars time spent looking for the stupid house and waiting in the line of traffic was the worst he’d experienced. Oh! And there was another time he’d happened on a stray dog due to hunting for the house. The dog looked pretty rough – like he’d been in the elements for awhile. He’d gained weight with good food and eventually had a jaunty trot. The delivery man named him Bowser. He was no doubt snoozing on the chair he wasn’t supposed to sit on this very minute.

He hummed as he turned on his GPS. He usually didn’t have much time for it. It took him indirectly to where he needed to go and the woman’s voice was as irritating as heck. But maybe he could find the mysterious address with less trouble this one night. Oh what fun it is to ride in a . . . 

SCREECH! The old woman appeared out of nowhere. He slammed on the breaks, just barely avoiding hitting her. It mattered little. She’d been startled and fell to the ground anyway. Probably slipped on the ice. He pulled his delivery truck to the side of the road and hurried to help her up. Her moaning wasn’t a good sign.

“My back. Ohhh my back.” She looked up at him as he squatted beside her.

“Is anything else hurt, Ma’am?” How he wished he’d been a minute later or a minute sooner!

She struggled to raise herself.

“I’m so sorry. Let me call for help.”

“It’s not your fault. Just give me a minute. I hate to think of an ambulance bill.”

He stayed with her then. And they talked of Christmases past and present, how her back had bothered her for years, and how she knew better than to venture out so late. He placed his rough hand gently on her back and nodded sympathetically. Her face grew curious and his hand grew exceedingly warm.

“Leave it there. It feels like, like, I don’t know.”

His hand tingled and he felt heat radiating from it. What a strange encounter! Then, suddenly, his hand returned to its normal temperature. Her face aglow, she jumped up with no trouble at all.

“My back! My back feels like I’m 20 again! Are you an angel?”

He shook his head quickly. “No, Ma’am. I’m a . . . I’m a . . .” He searched his brain for something. “I’m a Christian.”

He didn’t know what to make of it.

“A healer then?”

“No, Ma’am. I don’t do anything special. I just deliver packages.”

“Well you delivered a stunner tonight! Let me pay you!”

He backed away. “No, Ma’am. I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“Alright? I’ve lived with back pain for fifteen years! Fifteen! Let me do something for you. Anything.”

He looked at his watch, then his truck. All hope of getting home at a decent hour had fled. His route would take another thirty minutes for sure. “Could you tell me how to get to this address?” With little hope he held it out to her.

She glanced at it and laughed – a sweet, tinkling laugh. She turned, then reveling in the motion, twirled around, and pointed. “It’s straight ahead.”

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

She started down the street with a hop and, of all things, a skip. And the delivery man turned the key as his truck roared to life. One. Horse. O-pen. Sleigh!!!

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Tea With Honey

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She’d switched out her morning cup of coffee for tea – tea with raw honey – otherwise it was too bitter, and bitterness was something she was trying to avoid. That and, of course, fear. Who hadn’t felt at least a tinge of fear these days?

She tucked her long legs under her as she settled into her favorite chair, a soft yellow armchair with a crisscross pattern in forest green. It didn’t feel like a chair, but like a pillow with just the right amount of firmness.

She stared into space and thought of current events. For one thing, the vaccine that had everyone disagreeing with everyone else worried her. She’d done all the right things. But now she wondered if she and half the population had been led out of the frying pan and into the fire, and also wondered if there was a way to jump out of the fire and back into the frying pan.

She sipped her tea. Another? Was her DNA really being damaged by toxins from food and water, medicine, and even clouds (of all things) in the sky? Had her body been biologically altered without her knowledge somehow? And what was that article she’d read while waiting at her auto mechanic for an oil change? Could that cutesy test she’d taken three years ago to find out her exact lineage actually allow some bad actor to create a genome-specific pathogen leading to ethnic cleansing? Hers?

The flicker of candlelight in the window caught her eye. The flame was battery-powered, but it was easier and almost the same.

What about those poor people she’d read about: the ones who were being trafficked? Enslaved, more like. Or worse. It turned her stomach, and she’d rather not think about it. Was it really possible there were so many? Was she supposed to do something about it and, if so, what?

Border trouble went without saying, and the people who struggled with drug use were more vulnerable than ever. She glanced across the street at her neighbor’s house.

Politics and fraudulent elections tracked through her thoughts. Scrunching her eyes shut, she opened them again.

Weather events seemed to be happening so often now. Had it always been this way and she’d just not known of it until fast-access media?

And China. And Russia. And the Middle East.

A soft sigh escaped her lips. In the past few years, fear had become more of a millstone than a warning. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Fear was a tool, not a tyrant.

And it was Christmastime. Three days before Christmas, to be exact. It was the time of carols and cards, cookies and twinkly lights and poinsettias. She wanted it all and had none. She’d need a miracle to find her Christmas spirit this year!

Determinedly, she opened her Bible and read. She might as well start at the beginning. Hmm. Things weren’t exactly red bows and wrapping paper that first Christmas. Why were the three kings included in the story everybody knew and not the bad one: the one who arranged for little boys 2 years old and under to be killed? She wished genocide didn’t sound so familiar. And as she read, everything else she witnessed each day was somehow in the pages of scripture. Border trouble? Nehemiah. Weather events? God used signs in the sky all the time! Revelation didn’t talk of a Christmas star, but promised oh so many other signs. So did Matthew. So did Joel. Even her concerns about DNA were there on the thin pages. The very first thing written was that she was made in God’s image. The God above all gods was imprinted in her. In her! How kind of Him.

She drained her cup. The most honey was at the bottom, she thought with a wry smile. As she continued to read, two words jumped from the page. She should have known. If not today, tomorrow; and if not tomorrow, eventually. Eventually everything would be okay. Better than okay! It would be more merry and bright than she’d ever imagined! Satan didn’t have the last word. Jesus did! She got up and poured another cup of tea. With Honey.

Articles and videos: https://youtu.be/1B-L_wfbhXc Project Veritas: HHS Whistleblower Says Government Complicit in Trafficking; Child Admits Being ‘Pimped’ by Sponsor; https://rumble.com/v1xqj6a-lara-logan-on-balenciaga-scandal-and-child-trafficking-more-broadly.html; https://youtu.be/OGlpLZEekeQ Glenn Beck: Balanciaga’s DARKNESS goes WAY FURTHER than teddy bears; https://rumble.com/v1y6yxw-p-a-r-a-s-i-t-e-s-..html; https://www.foxnews.com/us/fentanyl-crisis-continues-to-ravage-us-communities-border-drug-trafficking-hits-new-records-memo; https://youtu.be/c0cGOuSuIt0 Dr. John Campbell: Excess deaths, mixed news, lack of data; https://substack.com/profile/40661664-steve-kirsch; https://www.stewpeters.com/video/2022/11/live-world-premiere-died-suddenly/;  https://youtu.be/E7-6rG1Rz9U Man in America: Will China’s Mass Protests COLLAPSE the CCP?; https://www.neurocienciasdrnasser.com/post/could-mrna-vaccines-permanently-alter-dna-recent-science-suggests-they-might; https://stream.org/can-mrna-vaccines-alter-human-dna-new-study-blows-debate-wide-open/; https://www.medicaldaily.com/can-mra-vaccine-change-dna-459011; https://allianceforscience.cornell.edu/blog/2020/12/yes-some-covid-vaccines-use-genetic-engineering-get-over-it/; https://t.me/PepeMatter/13250; https://t.me/team1anons/18089; https://www.youtube.com/@RyanHallYall; https://www.youtube.com/@dutchsinse; Matthew 2:16; Nehemiah; Colossians 1:13; Genesis 1:27;  https://youtu.be/_J6yeIxKmJ4; Revelation 6; Isaiah 41:10; II Timothy 1:7; John 14:27; Luke 1:30; Luke 2:10-11; Image: pexels-varvara-galvas-8850651.jpg; candle-in-window-lecoffreauimages.centerblog.net_.jpg