“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.
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.
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.
“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
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
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!!!
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
Tucked in between two mountains sits a quiet little village where generations of people live and love, struggle and survive. Smoke rises from the chimney of the northernmost house and with it the prayers of each inhabitant within. For their very existence is threatened tonight by those without care for the cost their hostile plans elicit. And across the village, each house sends the same prayer. Come Lord Jesus. Help us.
Snow swirls in the wind, rushes across the plain, and hits the town community center, shaking it with gusts topping fifty miles an hour. But the townspeople within ignore it. They join in little circles of twos and threes and fives as they pray for help against a force far greater than the wind outside. Come Lord Jesus. Heal us.
Lights blink on and off in the city where light and dark coexist. But in little apartments, fancy penthouses, small neighborhoods and boroughs throughout the meandering streets come whispering voices. For down those streets walk those whose intentions are for usurpation. Come Lord Jesus. Rescue us.
And through the expectant air of a Christmas Eve comes their answer. If hopelessness expects nothing, it usually receives it. But if hope calls for a miracle? Oh that blessed, beautiful miracle will come as surely as the One from whom all hope of heaven and earth descended and brought forth glorious LIGHT!
This miracle story depends upon the reader. It waits to hear the prayer, to learn the heart, and to examine the faith. Pray, my dear readers, pray as though your life depends on it. And we of stout heart and unquenchable faith will wait together through the night as we watch for the miraculous dawn.
Dust moats swirled lazily in the air as dim rays of the setting sun filtered through cracks in the wooden slats. A lamb, one day old and too sick to live, bleated. The boy pulled it close to him.
“Are you sure, honey? There’s not a thing any of us can do.”
“Pleease,” his eyes met those of his parents’, speaking what he could not.
His father looked down at the boy’s leg, still and swollen.
“You cover up good. The cold seeps in faster than you know.”
“But you always say the animals keep the barn warm,” countered the boy, before his mother could object.
“That’s a fact.”
“I’ll keep the bottles right next to me. He can eat whenever he wants. See?”
His mother sighed audibly. “Keep the phone close now. If anything happens, you call the house.”
The boy nodded quickly. He’d done it!
“Hey little guy,” he whispered in the lamb’s ear as his parents walked out. “We’re going to be roommates tonight. I know you’re hurtin’. I know.”
He rubbed his bum leg and rocked back and forth, then began to sing quietly – Christmas carols mostly. It seemed right for Christmas Eve.
Finally, as the lamb snuggled close and his own eyes drooped, he uttered the prayer he’d prayed through the day.
“God, heal this little lamb. He’s a good one – I can tell. Give him a chance. Please, God, please. I know what they all think. But let this one be different. Don’t let him die.”
Hours passed. Boy and lamb slumbered together as rays of starlight swept over them. The boy didn’t know what hour of the night it was, but light as bright as high noon abruptly filled the stall.
“You love football?” the man standing there asked.
“How’d you know?” The boy rubbed his eyes as he took in the tall form. He was wearing a cowboy hat and jeans with a warm jacket. The boy glanced through the slats into the darkness, then at the man’s bare feet.
The man smiled. They talked about the boy’s dreams, how it felt to be left out sometimes, of this and that as the man knelt and patted the little lamb. And then he was gone. The boy blinked, turned, looked around. . . the stranger had disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.
Just before daybreak his dad stepped into the barn to dispose of the lamb’s dead body.
“What’re you doin’ awake so early?”
“I’ve been awake since . . .”
The little lamb stood shakily, then walked over to him.
“How in the world?” His father uttered under his breath.
And the story the boy had to tell was told over and over again; passed from family members to cousins, townsfolk to passersby, until the barn became something of a tourist destination every Christmastime. They say the boy, now a famous football player and rumored to have the fastest running speed on record, returns, too, each year. He sleeps in the barn every December 24th.
For one year a man appeared to him on Christmas Eve: a man whose feet and hands were scarred, who healed a boy given no hope of healing, as well as the lamb with him because, the man had said, he was partial to lambs.
The door creaked slightly and the scent greeted him. He called it the Holy Spirit scent. Many churches had it. Others didn’t. Tonight he was glad for it. Ever since the troubles, churches had found themselves in a different place, a place requiring a larger faith than they had ever experienced. It was good, but it was hard, too. The sifting had left them smaller than ever. It was clear that depth of faith mattered more than numbers through the door, but you’d have to be crazy to not miss the large fellowship. He prayed again one request: just an extra soul at the manger tonight. One single soul won out of the many lost. The longing ended in a sigh, then a tired smile. At least the Holy Spirit scent had stayed. If only he could witness it’s miraculous work!
It was Christmas Eve. The worship team had arrived early and someone had put on the coffee. He placed the plate of cookies his wife had sent ahead with him next to the disposable coffee cups, unlocked his office door, shrugged out of his coat, and picked up tonight’s message. It would be short. To the point. A timeless story of the event that changed the world and the world’s chances of heaven. It was what was needed now. No jokes, though they could all use some laughter; no cultural tripe, though some might love to hear it; but hope. And truth.
Someone walked past his door. He recognized the black jacket, a four inch tear on the left seam. The man had stood outside the church off and on for a month. One time the minister had called out the door for the stranger to come in from the cold for a hot cup of coffee, but the man had pulled up his collar and quickly walked away. He shot up a quick prayer for him, but he had a nagging feeling. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.
Cold air rushed in as the entrance door opened and attendees filtered in. Families, friends, and singles dotted the sanctuary as Christmas music softly echoed over the pews.
As he walked to the pulpit, the man in the black jacket shrugged uncomfortably as though he meant to take it off, then thought better of it. And again. The minister began his short homily, attendees’ eyes shone with anticipation, and the stranger fidgeted. And the scent – the Holy Spirit scent – grew stronger. Strange. That hadn’t happened before.
“. . . The event we celebrate so gloriously this time of year was as expansive as the cosmos and as intentional as a train whistle. It started in simple surroundings so that each of us could approach it in a way we could understand. Some come to the manger with the eyes of a child. Some, with jaded sight, like perhaps, some of the shepherds or the innkeeper, himself. And some with humble beauty, like the wise men did later on. So you see, at this very moment in history – what scripture calls ‘in the fullness of time’ . . .”
The man in the black coat stood and, as though driven by an unknown force, the minister stepped into the aisle, away from his notes, and continued, “It’s hard for us to grasp, isn’t it? The fullness of time. Because we are used to not having to wait. We grow impatient.” What was he saying? Nothing he’d planned.
“Our questions remain unanswered. We become angry. Maybe even defiant. It doesn’t occur to us that it could be because we’re not yet ready to hear the answer. But God, Who is patient with us beyond reason . . .”
The man stepped into the aisle. The minister continued walking slowly toward him. The Holy Spirit scent increased.
“He watches us. And waits so very patiently. We might even sense it, but choose to ignore it. Even run from it. And if we run, He waits at the place where we run to.”
The minister stopped in front of the stranger. “He’s waiting for you, you know.”
The man fled, and it was only then that the minister saw the butt of a gun peeking out of his coat pocket. The minister wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. What had just happened?
He led the congregation in a prayer for wandering souls on dark streets. They finished with SilentNight sung in quavering voices and left without eating his wife’s cookies.
One more night his prayer was unanswered, thought the minister as he pulled out of the parking lot. What had he been thinking? He had chased the stranger away!
And beyond the candlelight of the darkened church, the Holy Spirit scent reached a lost soul just outside the door, obscured by the night.
Images: pexels-nikolett-emmert-10385833.jpg; pexels-rahul-695644.jpg; Love Came Down at Christmastime and Come, Messiah! by Connie Miller Pease @ http://bit.ly/2y1z08E
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!
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.
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.
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.
