A Blue Christmas Story by Sharon Heagy

 

(I have been asked to supply a 'Blue Christmas Story' for an upcoming interdenominational service. What follows is the result. Constructive feedback welcome. Details at the end.)

The world faded away that day and became a foggy jumble of indiscernible voices and blurred vision. People walked around me in the days and hours after the accident but I couldn't tell you who was there or what they said. The odd little snippet would float by my brain like a clip from a movie but I was unable to discern if it was real and or fantasy. 

The exhaustion consumed me as a dark cloak of heaviness descended upon me, making it hard to even put one foot in front of the other. Slowly the house emptied of the shadowy figures of fellow human beings until there was only deafening silence and my own roaring thoughts of confusion. The nights I did sleep I'd awaken thinking it was all a dream. But it was a nightmare that greeted me instead.

Dragging myself through the motions of some semblance of daily routine, I'd brush my teeth and run a comb through the tangled mat of hair on my head and try to have something to eat. Tea and toast, tea and toast. Often I'd just go back to bed and try to remember to breathe.

Friends and family offered well-meaning advice with none of it making sense to my coddled brain. My face forgot how to smile, my spirit could not recall how to laugh, or to live and I didn't care because, really, what was the point without you.

I prayed and cried out to God. I railed and screamed and sobbed. Why, why, why? The word fell like a continuous waterfall from my lips but there was no answer. 

And now it is Christmas, a season I used to embrace but this year I have no energy to celebrate, or decorate....or....anything.

My mind drifts to Christmases past. Feasts with family, beautiful music filling our house, carols sung, candlelight services at church. Wait. What was that? Something stirs inside me briefly. The flicker of a warm glow in the centre of my being and then it's gone again. Snuffed out.

A further journey into the past leads me to ponder that first Christmas. The difficulty for a woman nine months pregnant to travel the 90 miles from Nazareth to the small town of Bethlehem. Did she walk? The Bible doesn't mention her riding on a donkey but it was possible. What an arduous journey either way. And once they arrive there is no place for them to stay. No room in the Inn and Mary is in labour. There's shelter where the animals are kept. A place filled with the mixed odours of hay and straw and dung and the animals too. But it's time for the delivery and the birth of the One sent to deliver us. A holy babe, laid in a manger. I can feel the beat of my own heart as I consider the magnitude of this moment and close my eyes.

As they flutter open again my eyes are drawn to a newsletter published by the town. It came with yesterday's mail. I flip through, absently scanning the pages until I freeze focus on an advert for an evening church service at the local church. A candlelight Christmas service, 7 p.m. Do I have the courage to go? Maybe. Nobody knows me in that congregation and the lights will be dim. I can slip into the back if I arrive just before the service starts, and that is what I do. 

There's a spot right on the end of the pew near the aisle, in case I need to escape, and I slip in. It isn't until the service starts that I realize the back row is reserved for parents with young children. A practical solution for those who may need to leave for a time to quiet an upset or hungry child. Or to take their kids on what seems to be rotating bathroom breaks. 

Beside me sits a young, sandy haired boy about 4 years of age. His dark eyes are alive with adventure and he's got the cheeks of a cherub. His warm smile is infectious and I smile back at him, almost automatically. He is very well behaved and understands what's expected of him. As the service begins I can feel his eyes on me from time to time and it makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat. Those big brown eyes, so honest, uninhibited and full of life are such a contrast to my own downcast gaze. My peripheral vision catches a glimpse of him as the service continues.

After the Christmas story is read from the scriptures, candles are handed out to each person there, young and old alike. A tall, well dressed man lights his own candle from the large candle on the altar, the Christ candle. He goes to the first row and lights the candle of another who turns and now lights the candle of her neighbour. The room begins to glow softly and then more brightly as each shares their flame with another. It will take a minute to get to our row at the back. 

The boy is staring at me now and I meet his gaze. It's like he is peering into the very depths of my soul. He kneels on the pew and then pulls himself up to his feet and stands beside me. Close. Laying his head on my shoulder he wraps his chubby arms around my neck and whispers into my ear, "Everyone needs love." He is in no hurry to let go and snuggles in. With tears brimming in my eyes, I find myself hugging him back with thanksgiving and love. My tears are different than my tears of grief. They are a gift. A gift given by a 4 year old boy, the spark to live, to step out into the faded world and find the colours once more. 

As the candle comes round, he oh so carefully lights my candle with his and for a moment we bask in the hope that came to the world on that very first Christmas night. Hope for life beyond loss, salve for the pain and the courage to live again. All delivered this night by the Christ child and one small boy who let his light shine.

Sharon Heagy writes from the wonderful town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan where she lives with her husband, a big dog and furry cats. Their kids have flown the coop and made lives for themselves and their families, as it should be. She writes to bring hope and humour to a world that needs both. She can be reached @ sharonheagy@gmail.com 

Thanks for taking the time to visit today.

God’s Provision Through the Storm: A Christmas We Won’t Forget by Dana-Lyn Phillips

 

Please welcome Dana-Lyn Phillips as she joins us once again as our Guest Blogger.

We didn’t have much money when I was growing up. Although we never did without, there wasn’t a lot of extra for vacations. One year we decided to forgo Christmas presents and drive to Disney World for Christmas day.

We began the trek from Canada to Orlando on December 22, 1989. That same day, the eastern states got hit with a blizzard that impacted our entire route to Florida. Southern states that never see snow were not equipped to handle it. Driving became treacherous and hotels filled quickly with stranded travelers.

We made it to Georgia but at the hotel we, like Mary and Joseph, were told that there was no room at the Inn. In fact, we were advised to turn around and head back in the direction we came from because there were no available rooms any further south.

We reluctantly pulled back onto the highway, praying we would reach the destination safely, and there would still be available lodging. We thankfully got the last room in the area. It was a motel end unit, on the second floor, that had its carpet cleaned that day leaving it soaking wet and frozen under our feet.

Exhausted and anxious we crawled into bed fully clothed in an effort to stay warm. We contemplated whether we should go on in the morning or turn for home.

As daybreak came, the storm raged on. We couldn’t stay in our frigid room, and travelers further south were not leaving their hotel rooms, so we made a decision to head home.

We reached West Virginia and found a hotel tucked up on a mountain. It wasn’t large but had a lobby with a stone fireplace and a restaurant that served the most amazing hot apple fritters.

Christmas Eve day the storm continued so we decided to stay through Christmas. The only hotel guests consisted of my family and a stranded family from California. We quickly became friends and spent our days around the fireplace. Hotel staff got to know us and brought us leftovers from their family Christmas dinners.

For the first time, there were no presents to open on Christmas morning. There was also no Disney World. What we did have though was God’s provision. God had provided safety as we traveled the roads, a warm place to stay, new friendships, a home cooked meal, the kindness of strangers, the beauty of His creation in the mountains, and memories to last a lifetime.

Scripture reminds us of the countless times God has provided for His people through land, food, shelter, children and protection but God’s most precious provision was Jesus. That’s what makes the Christmas season so special. We can remember and celebrate the birth of a baby born to a faithful teenager and arriving in the most humble of conditions. This baby is the Savior of the world. God provided Jesus to pay for your sins and mine. There’s no greater gift.

“He that spared not his own Son, but delivered Him up for us all,

how shall he not with him also freely give us all things.”

(Romans 8:32 KJV)

What I learned in 1989 is that Christmas is not about presents but about presence. The presence of God, the presence of family and the presence of strangers.

God is good to always give us the gifts we need - not necessarily the gifts we want. I’d like to encourage you this season that when it seems as though your whole plan may be falling apart, embrace it. It may just be the gift you didn’t know you needed.

Dana-Lyn is a wife, and mother to teenage boys as well as a 14 year old cava-poo named Hockley. She is passionate about encouraging Christian women in their faith and is stepping into her mid-life "calling" as a writer. Her happy place consists of a comfy chair, a great book, a hot cup of coffee and a chocolate…or three! You can read more of her work at https://plansfargreater.substack.com

Celebration in Betria by Steph Beth Nickel

Photo Credit: Steph Beth Nickel

The following is a short holiday story based on the characters in my yet-to-be published YA (young adult) novel, Rule and Reign. Think medieval, earth-like setting; political intrigue; and strained family relationships.

"Again." Definitely Under Officer Othar's favourite word.

The newly appointed Betrian Council Lead, Princess Unita Jumalik, sighed as she pulled her horse to a stop in front of the under officer. "Really? I've hit the target three times."

"Out of seven attempts. While trotting—slowly. While riding Tenacious. You'll need to do this at a full gallop on the back of a warhorse when the time comes."

"Let's hope that time never comes."

"Still . . . we must prepare for the eventuality nonetheless."

"I will never be ready to host the Arrival Day celebrations," Unita muttered as she led Tenacity away from the under officer.

Just as she got her mount up to speed and nocked her arrow, she caught a glimpse of Vice Chancellor Selton Wright's carriage approaching the castle. Miraculously, she let the arrow fly in time, but it hit the edge of the straw bale.

"Four out of eight?" she asked sheepishly when she came to a stop.

Othar shook his head and pointed to the stables. "We will work on your skills four sun-risings from now. First thing."

Unita made quick work of handing Tenacity off to the royal stable hand and taking the less-travelled route to her chambers. While she had instituted many changes since becoming council lead, wandering the castle in her late father's shirt and riding trousers wouldn't impress the guests who had begun to arrive. 

“Quickly, Princess,” Marra said, as the princess entered her chambers. “I’ve drawn a bath and laid out your gown. The welcome reception officially begins in less than two full measures.”

In three-quarters of a full measure, Unita was ready to greet her guests. “You will come with me, won’t you?”

Marra looked down and shook her head slightly. “But, Princess . . . Unita . . . It’s unheard of.”

Unita reached out and touched the young woman’s forearm. “Marra . . .”

She looked up.

“What is your title?”

Marra took a deep breath. “I am chief advisor to her highness.”

“And so, it’s settled. I have never hosted a gathering for the Betrian people, residents of the Borderlands, and Children of the Promise. No one has. I will most definitely need an advisor.”

A smile spread across Marra’s face. “I have no doubt that you will do an amazing job on your own, but I would be pleased to join you. And . . .”

“Yes?”

“I want to apologize again.” The advisor’s voice was just above a whisper. “For my role in your capture. For my cousin. For making assumptions about you.”

“Marra. My advisor. My friend. That is all behind us. And the Promise had a plan all along. And you were—and are—part of that plan.”

When the two entered the reception hall, the princess saw that the guests were clustered in segregated groups. It would take time to overcome their differences and to accept—and forgive—one another. She hoped the assigned seating at the sun-setting meal would spark pleasant conversation and perhaps, be the first step in breaking down some of the barriers.

Vice Chancellor Wright approached Unita and bowed. “Princess. Your Highness. Council Lead.” His eyes sparkled, and he grinned widely. “What exactly should I call you?” he added quietly.

Unita felt the faintest flush in her cheeks. “You may call me any of the three.” She glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying attention to their exchange. “And I will do my best not to refer to you as VC Selton.”

Just then, the double doors behind them opened. “His Majesty, King Hart Jumalik of Betria,” a steward announced.

 “Grandfather?” Unita exclaimed.

The king beamed at his granddaughter. “You didn’t think I would miss the princess’s greatest achievement to date? And the first Betrian celebration of the Arrival of the Promise?”

Steph Beth Nickel is the former Editor of FellowScript and the current InScribe Contest Coordinator. Steph is an editor and author and plans to relocate to Saskatchewan from Ontario to be close to family in 2026. (Headshot Photo Credit: Jaime Mellor Photography)

When the Angels Came on the Night the Christ-Child was Born by Sandra Rafuse

Christmas Eve Day is such a unique day of the year. It is the culmination of hundreds of years of prophesy and waiting for the promised Messiah. Few people knew was was going to happen in Bethlehem on the night we now celebrate as Christmas Eve.

In our present time, over two thousand years later, Christmas Eve Day is the last day before December 25, the day when you rush out to finish your Christmas gift shopping (remember the stores close at 3:00), you pick up the last of the groceries you need, and you wrap the presents that still need wrapping (or all of them if that's the case) late in the evening. Or maybe you have done all that already and you are so enjoying the relaxed atmosphere of this special day. Oh, and make sure your car is gassed up for any unexpected trip you might need to take later in the day. Things happen you know. 

Christmas Eve Day at my home with my family was always very busy. The enticing aromas of food cooking were floating around the kitchen and drifting into the other rooms of the house long before the evening meal started. One of my brothers was sent to the grocery store for more butter. "Hurry," my Mother would say, "They will be closing soon!" The table was set with the Christmas china and the best cutlery. Even though it could be hectic, it was also a happy time. Finally we were all seated around the table. The candles were lit and grace was said, "Our Father, who art in heaven . . . ".

I step out the back door dressed warmly in my winter gear. It's cold out. Brrrrrrrr. The  temperature is -25C. I am heading out on my annual Christmas Eve walk. Supper is over. The warmth of the house and the delicious aromas of the festive meal we just finished are left behind. I walk down the street, the crunching sound of my boots in the snow rises up in the silence around me and fills my ears. I walk until I can see the sky above me in all its crystalline beauty. I stop. There's a feeling of something different in the air tonight. A feeling of expectancy. The sense of a holy hush. It's so quiet out. I listen to the silence. I'm thinking, "What a night it must have been when Christ was born. Mankind had no idea what was about to happen in a crude and dirty little stable in Bethlehem so long ago." 

But the angels did.

This is the night God chose for the arrival of his Son, Jesus Christ. It is time for Jesus to be born. I am still. Frozen in time. Not because of the cold. I am still because I know what is about to happen. The angels are waiting. They are watching. They are ready. I wonder what they are feeling in their hearts as the moment of Christ's birth approaches.

And then it happens. Suddenly. Gloriously. JUST LIKE THAT! The long expected Saviour is born and the angel appears to the shepherds.

"And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified." Luke 2:8-9 (KJV)

An angel? An angel appeared? How big are angels anyway? How much room did this first angel take up in the sky?  And how do angels go from being invisible to being visible? From being out of sight from everyone to all of a sudden being present in the air seemingly just above your head. The shepherds were terrified. TERRIFIED! They were "feeling extreme fear". They were "very afraid". Not only were they seeing an angel . . . a celestial being . . . but the glory of the Lord was shining around them! What was happening?

I wonder if the shepherds had to cover their eyes because of the dazzling display of brightness that was streaming down upon them. I wonder if they had to but didn't really want to. 

Then they heard words of comfort and reassurance; "And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger." Luke 2:11-12  (KJV)

A baby? The long-expected Saviour was born a baby? In a cattle stall? And the shepherds believed the angel.

"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." Luke 2: 13-14 (KJV)

A multitude. Suddenly there was a multitude of angels. JUST LIKE THAT! A multitude is an awful lot of angels.  And the shepherds got to see them in all their splendour and to hear them giving praise to God. 

"And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us." Luke 2:15 (KJV)

The multitude of angels . . . did they leave quickly? Or did the shepherds have several seconds to watch as they faded from the sky? What had just moments before been a celestial display of the most incredible angelic sightings ever was now the former familiar expanse of sky they were used to seeing to the men watching over their sheep. Or was it familiar anymore? Did they look at it differently in the months and years to come? Did they hope the angels might come again? 

Then the shepherds, believing the words the angel had told them, went into Bethlehem to find the baby lying in a manger in a stable. The one who was born to set us free. 

Merry Christmas, Everyone! 

 

Sandra Rafuse lives in the small town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan, with her husband Bob, a Gordon Setter named Sadie, and a Peregrine falcon named Peet. She is a retired teacher, an amateur writer, and is thoroughly enjoying having the opportunity to share what God is teaching her through her life experiences.

 

 

 

 

Coincidences, Providence, And Godwinks At Christmas by Bob Jones

Call them coincidences, providence or Godwinks.

When your faith needs re-assurance, they're what you can expect.

God has a timely way of letting you know He's got His eye on you, and you are never alone.

An Angel Named Lynsey

Cory and Lynsey Jones were delayed leaving Saskatoon. Our son and daughter-in-law eventually headed off for a family Christmas celebration in Delmas, Saskatchewan about 80 minutes away. They were just east of North Battleford when a black pick-up truck accelerated past them.

A hundred yards ahead now, the driver, trying to settle the Ford 150 back into its lane, hit black ice and started to fish tail. The pick-up ended up in a sideways slide down the highway before slipping into the ditch and flipping onto its roof.

Cory was already dialing 911 as Lynsey pulled their Rogue over to the side of the highway.

They dug away at the snow to get to the driver’s side door. A young student and her grandmother were trapped inside. Smoke started to rise from the under carriage. After getting the driver out, Lynsey calmly crawled through the door and said, “I’m a nurse. Are you hurt?”

The woman replied, “I’m Norwegian and its gonna take a lot more than this to kill me.”
 

A day later, after being treated for only a minor neck injury, the feisty Gramma called Lynsey her “angel.”

When You Need Assurance

Chemo and radiation treatments had left my friend Kathy suffering from severe nausea, exhaustion and unease.

She knew she was in good hands with the medical personnel at the Cross Cancer Institute in Edmonton, Alberta. What she wanted was the assurance that she was safe in God’s hands and that He would see her through.

On her way to radiation treatment on December 23rd she and her husband Jim ended up driving behind a Chevy Avalanche. The owner had a vanity license plate that displayed five simple letters – K L B U O. 

The creative arrangement of the letters on the license plate left them momentarily speechless. If you knew Kathy, you’d have to call that a second miracle. The first miracle was the message on the plate. “UL B OK.”

What are the odds of a cancer patient praying for re-assurance, ending up behind a vehicle with a license plate declaring, “You’ll be OK.”

The First Christmas Godwinks

It was like that for Mary.

When you’ve traveled eighty kilometres on a donkey in your third trimester of an unwed but wanted pregnancy, you need a place to rest body and mind.

Your name is “mud” with your family because they don’t believe your story of a miraculous conception as a virgin. The arduous trip has left you too wearied to resist the raging doubts in your mind from all that had happened over the past nine months.

A stable was no place to deliver your first born with only farm animals and an anxious first-time father as attendants. But a stable and a manager is all you have. So, you nestle your son into a feed trough.

Then, you ask for some re-assurance from the God who started this whole thing.

But you never expected assurance to come in the shape of breathless shepherds. 

An angelic host?
Good news?
Great joy?
A Savior?
Peace?
God’s favour?
A baby lying in a manger? 

What are the odds that the very words you needed to hear would come from the least likely sources.

This Christmas expect the unexpected from a God who sees and knows you.

Merry Christmas to all my friends at Inscribe and everyone who reads this post!

All God's best to you in 2026.

 

 

 

Whispers of Tissue and Chiffon by Brenda Leyland

 

Me and Little Sis in our velvet and chiffon dresses

The whir of Mom's Singer sewing machine was a familiar sound growing up in the little farmhouse we called home. A young wife and mom, Mom often had some sewing project under construction—garments for her growing family, draperies, craft projects, bridesmaids dresses, quilts, etc. Of all the things she sewed, my favourites were the Christmas dresses she made for me and my sisters.

With the approach of December a sense of anticipation would begin to fill the air. Mom would study the Eaton's and Sears catalogues looking for ideas of what to make. Then came the time for Mom to visit the fabric store. Sometimes we tagged along with her; I always loved that starchy smell that greeted us when we walked into the store. Amazed at the bolts upon bolts of fabric in every colour and weight in tidy rows from floor to ceiling. Not to mention the dazzling array of buttons, ribbons, and laces. The cabinets were bursting with patterns... the possibilities seemed endless. There was so much to look at—but please don't touch—that we were rarely bored while Mom sat studying patterns, musing over  fabrics and colours, feeling this cloth and then that one. Should it be floral or plain? Satin, jacquard, or velvet? This shade of evergreen or that holly red?

Back at home, the big day arrived. The kitchen table was cleared. Amid scissors, tape measure, and stick pins, sheets of ecru tissue rustled as each pattern piece was carefully laid out on the fabric. Putting it this way and that way to find the best fit before pinning it down. There'd be that moment of slight tension—just before Mom made that first scissor snip through tissue and fabric. Before long, threads and fabric bits littered the floor, and there'd be the hot whoosh as the iron pressed damp cloth against newly sewn seams.

Trying on the dresses while some seams were still held together with stickpins created a balancing act. Arms held over our heads, Mom gently slipped the emerging garment over our shoulders. My little sisters and I would try not to wiggle, turning s-l-o-w-l-y like a stiff mannequin atop a chair, while Mom adjusted seams and checked hems for length. Finally all the pins were gone and we stood in our finished dresses. One last twirl. The wonder as we stared in the mirror. It was such a proud moment to stand in our newest finery on Christmas Eve with our Sunday school class, reciting mostly memorized verses and warbling partly familiar carols.

Many holiday outfits passed beneath the pressure foot of that old sewing machine. The holly red velvet dress trimmed with lace, the swirly skirted green taffeta with three-quarter sleeves, a jacquard textured royal blue shift offset by a white pleated organdy collar (a bit reminiscent of those Queen Elizabeth I fancy collars in her 16th century portraits—not that I knew anything about her in those days). And of all the dresses made through the years, it was the pretty peacock blue velvet with a skirt of whispering chiffon that ended up being my forever favourite outfit of my early childhood.

No matter how many Christmases come and go, recollections of pretty handmade dresses and annual concerts in the old country church are as carefully bundled in filmy memories as any treasured holiday ornament. The wonder of it all is that these gifts of love were wrapped in the celebration of the One who came to express the love of a generous God to our world. Who would have thought that the whisper of tissue paper on velvet would echo that great love to three little girls?

Photo above from the family archives

Growing up Brenda could never decide whether it was her birthday or Christmas Eve that was her most favourite day of the year. Some things never change, she still can't decide. She enjoys writing on her blog It's A Beautiful Life and here on InScribe. She can also be found on Facebook and Instagram.

 

The COVID Grinch Who Tried to Steal Christmas by Sandi Somers

In 2020, COVID-19 turned our lives upside down. As Christmas approached, there were no live concerts or special events to attend. Shopping was curtailed. Without the usual pre-Christmas activities, I walked around the neighbourhood in the early evenings to enjoy bright Christmas lights. All white at one house, multicoloured at another, red and green at still another.

By mid-December, with COVID cases rising in Alberta, our premier limited Christmas dinners to only one or two persons outside the household. This meant that our extended family dinner of up to 22 people would be cancelled. I stayed home alone.

I had been thinking about doing something special for my neighbours in our cul-de-sac. The COVID lockdown in the spring had brought us together out on the street, chatting and getting to know each other better. So as Christmas neared, I thought of extending good-will by baking cookies for each family. My first reaction was – would people be afraid of home cooked food carrying COVID germs? But the more I turned it over in my mind, the more I received prompts which I know came from the Lord—a message at church, online lists of unique Christmas gifts, and even a suggestion in a magazine.

The Sunday before Christmas, our cul-de-sac was torn by grief. We received news that my next-door neighbour Darrell had died in a freak accident. He had been kite surfing at the family cottage when a gust of wind blew him up, and then when the wind died, he fell. Hard. On his stomach. He was airlifted to an Edmonton hospital but passed away. It was a dark time for his wife, Stacey, and her three children, and by extension, all of us in our cul-de-sac. We showered the family with love and food, letting them know we cared.

Could this be the way the Grinch of COVID Christmas would steal meaning to our darkest time of the year?

A day later, snow began falling just before dusk. And falling. And falling. Early next morning while it was still dark, I went out to clear off my driveway. Oh! My! Goodness! The snow was heavy and deep. Several neighbours across the street banded together to shovel and push a car that was parked along the street—someone would be late for work! People brought out their shovels and snow blowers and began clearing their driveways. The owners surrounding the widest circle of the cul-de-sac piled the snow into one huge snowbank in the middle—a perfect playground for the children.

I kept watching the activity as I shovelled, throwing the snow up to the ever-increasing ridges beside my driveway. I tired out when I was only half finished, so I came inside for breakfast. When I returned, my next-door neighbour Don volunteered to finish with his snowblower.

It was a delightful morning. Neighbours helping neighbours.

Meanwhile, I had been baking Christmas cookies. Then the day before Christmas, I gift-wrapped them and wrote Christmas notes, especially thanking each household that had decorated their houses and yards with lights. I was surprised as so many thanked me. Before I was finished, Liana across the street texted that her children were already eating and loving the cookies. No fear of COVID germs there! The Italian family wished me a "Buon Natale." Janice said that I made her day.

On Christmas Eve, Karen next door brought over a Ukrainian dinner—her husband Don has Ukrainian heritage--cabbage soup, buns, pierogies, cabbage rolls, haddock, Kucha, wheat dessert, turtle brownies and two peanut butter cups. What a sweetheart! While eating, I watched online the replay of my usual Christmas Eve service—but this time attended by only a few people.

On Christmas day, our cul-de-sac was unusually quiet, with almost no traffic and smaller than usual dinners. Kids and neighbours dropped off thank you gifts, saying how much they appreciated my hospitality.

The next evening, Karen brought over a traditional Christmas dinner—lovely turkey and ham with all the accoutrements—enough for two meals. I did have a moment of emotion to know I wouldn't be with family this year, even though I had arranged a Zoom meeting with everyone the next day, our usual 26th family dinner.

For the rest of the evening, I listened to The Messiah and other Christmas CDs and knew that Christmas was not cancelled, just delightfully different.

What the Grinch of COVID didn’t understand was that our isolated world needed love, kindness, and neighbourliness. He did not understand that God was still with us. Nor did he understand that the darker the time, the brighter the light shines.

He could not steal our Christmas.

Sandi Somers writes personal essays and inspirational articles on how God reveals Himself to us in both small and strategic events. When winter approaches, she enjoys writing Christmas-related stories to send to her loved ones. Sandi writes from her home in Calgary, Alberta.

Christmas Gone Awry by Brenda J Wood

His slippers hung upon the floor. The bed was surly made.
Everything she should have done that day was stuck inside her head.
Today, she left the floor unswept while all the veggies burned.
Made soggy soup, left crumbs around, while the carton of milk just turned.

Santa would be missing her. She knew she failed the test
Of naughty versus nice and good. No getting gifts for mess.
She would never get another present. Her life was over. Done!
If cleanliness be next to Godliness, she failed both God and Son!

No hope now for the fixes. Her time to change—undone.
For truly the next morning brought Christmas A.M. sun!
She collapsed in corner, sad, awaiting her own fate
When Santa came back home and plunked down for dinner plate.

But he, as men are wont to do, boomed brightly through the door.
Exclaiming Merry Christmas, while tromping messes on the floor.
I'm here! It's me! The job is done and here's your present, dear!
Your darling hubby, Santa, is home with you for another year!

She sighed. Rejoiced in safety, but secretly repined
And wished for Christmas stocking with diamonds as her find.
But no, it was just like last year's. No special gift for her.
Santa was too tuckered out. Oh yes, indeed, for sure.


(Top) Image by Dorota Korgul-Gawlikowska from Pixabay

Brenda J Wood has authored more than fifty books. She is a seasoned motivational speaker, who declares the Word of God with wisdom, humour, and common sense.

The Night the Sky Sang by Lorrie Orr

 

December is a month filled with story, the story of God reaching down in love. This month’s prompt asks you to share a story about Christmas. It can be funny, poignant, sad, or inspirational.

The Night the Sky Sang

I know what people think about shepherds. Crude, smelly, and not very intellectual. Our lives are ordinary, even tedious. It's hot in the daytime and cold at night. Sheep are stupid animals - they get themselves into a lot of trouble if there's no one watching them. You can't be a shepherd and be lazy. It might not take much education, but it does take skill and perseverance. We shepherds usually work as a team and keep an eye out for each other's sheep. It's more efficient. 

I like the nights best of all. We find a bit of shelter from the wind, perhaps against a big rock, and build a fire. There's conversation. Mixed in with the chitchat some serious debate goes on. Philosophy, you might call it. Life, love, and politics. On such a night my life changed. 

The fire was dying down. I lay on my back, wrapped in my cloak, watching the stars. How far away they looked, and how beautiful. Conversation dwindled to silence. My eyelids sagged, weighted by sleep. Then, blinding light. I awoke with a start. From out of nowhere appeared this glowing being. I know it was an angel, but to this day I can't completely describe it. I jumped to my feet along with the other shepherds. Then I cowered in fear. I was certain I would be struck dead. Instead, I heard a voice say, 

"Don't be afraid. Listen to me. I have good news for you."

The angel went on to tell us about the birth of a baby, a Saviour, the Saviour we had been waiting for. He said it was news of great joy for the whole world. Before I had time to really think about his words, the sky filled with more angels, and music. It was as if the stars and angels whirled and danced together in a vast chorus of light and sound.

The sight tore at my heart and caused such an ache of longing deep inside that I clutched my hands to my chest. The song was perfect, the most perfect thing I'd ever heard. It made me long to join them, to raise my cracked warble in the same harmony of praise to Almighty God. Tears ran down my skin, and I knew the message of the angels was for me. God was sending his son into my stinky, dirty world.

Then just as suddenly as they came, the angels left. The stars had hardly changed position. The small fire still burned low. Everything was the same, and everything was different. We stood there, our hearts thumping wildly. 

"Did you see...?"

"Could it be?"

"Let's go!"

The angel had told us where to find the baby, and we stumbled over rocks and tufts of grass in our eagerness to get there. We stood outside the stable, hesitant for a moment. A man appeared, tired, with a puzzled look on his face. None of us knew what to say to him. Then Jethro stepped forward.

"Please," he said, "we want to see the Saviour, the baby."

And then we all spoke at once, blurting out words about angels and music. The man smiled slightly, then beckoned us to enter.

My eyes were drawn to the baby, so helpless, lying in a manger. His mother watched us carefully but said nothing as we crowded nearer. I even dared to reach out and touch his soft, tiny head with my rough fingers. 

We left soon after, seeing the fatigue on the young mother's face. I knew that I couldn't keep this news to myself. It was too wonderful, too amazing. I told everyone I met about the baby. And then, I went back to the sheep, to the hillside and the night fires, but I wasn't the same person inside.

God, who lived beyond the stars, was suddenly close. That night I caught a glimpse of him. Now when I go to the Temple and hear the priests' monotone reading of the glory of God, I think back and even now, my breath catches in my throat. 

            

           Lorrie Orr loves Christmas and is so glad for the gift of Immanuel, God with us. She writes from Victoria, BC, where she always hopes for a bit snow in winter, but celebrates whatever the weather. More of her writing can be found at her blog, Fabric Paper Thread, and on Substack, where she is posting excerpts from her memoir, Life is Short but Wide.  

            

When You Hear That Negative Voice: Guest Post by Peggianne Wright

 

Please welcome Peggianne Wright as she joins us today as our Guest Blogger.

 

My heart flutters at an almost immeasurable speed, my stomach does summersaults and is tied in knots all at the same time, my fingers tremble as they hover over the keyboard. There's a voice inside my head taunting me with a maniacal laugh saying, "Who do you think you are?".

Imposter syndrome.

We've all, at one point or another in our writing careers, suffered the anguish and self-doubt inspired by listening to the wrong voice in our minds. Allowing space for the negativity to creep in and grow. It's always been a mystery to me why, in our human nature, we're more apt to believe the negative than the positive? 

As a writer hovering somewhere between advanced beginner and competent, I find I am in need of learning and relearning the habits required to push self-doubt and overthinking out of my head. And, in the process of doing this, avoid the temptation of sinful pride. Whew, that sure can be a fine line. 

Scripture tells us that God created each of us for our unique purpose (Jeremiah 29:11) and He alone is in control (Job 42:2). If we endeavour to fill our minds with the right thoughts, the words flowing from our pens and keyboards will not be ours to claim, but the Father's, who has given us the manuscript. It is then, that we can beat down and smother that negative voice, knowing that our work is God-inspired and His to give credit.

Preparation to Propel the Enemy

Just as an athlete must prepare for a competition by stretching or a musician by tuning their instrument, so too should we as scribes do some pre-writing conditioning. Create a routine that includes the following steps and practice it before (or after, or during) each and every writing session. 

Prayer is more powerful than most of us realize. So, even before we open our laptop or pick up that ballpoint, let us stop and give thanks for our God-given talent. Ask God for His direction and pray that whatever writing we're about to do be of His will. Pray that what we're about to write honours Him and points our readers to Him. On my glass desktop I have written, directly beside my laptop, in bold block letters with erasable white marker "PRAY FIRST".

We must allow our faith and the Holy Spirit to guide us. "In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans" (Romans 8:26 NIV). Always remember that the Father wants us to be successful in whatever we do and faithfully guides us if we're listening closely. The Apostle Paul counselled his congregation, "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope." (Romans 15:13 NIV), reminding them (and us) that in all we do, we will be guided on our path by the Holy Spirit.

Bless others always. Fellow scribes are all experiencing the same feelings. We must take time to keep each other in our prayers as well. Just as the military needs to "have each others' backs", so too must we, as members of God's army, support each other. "Let each of us please his neighbour for his good, to build him up." (Romans 15:2 NIV)

We are all authentically original. So, in those times when that nasty voice murmurs those taunts, I have learned to immediately stop and call on the Lord for His intervention. After all, He alone has led me on my writing journey and I call it an honour, privilege, and duty to point others to Him through my craft. 

"But you must remain faithful to the things you have been taught. You know they are true, for you know you can trust those who taught you." (2 Timothy 3:14 NLT) 

                                       

About the writer: Peggianne Wright is a published author and is the founder of the pet parent ministry Paws To Pray, blending her passion for the Lord and all-things-K9 to form this unique, faith-based community. Peggianne is an ardent Bible study student, devoted dog mom, wife of 44 years, and lover of music. Her blogs Spiritual Scribbles and Fur-Kid Fanatics can be found on her website www.PawsToPray.ca and you can follow her on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/PawsToPray/ and on IG @Sister_In_Prayer.

Writers as Keepers by Michelle Joy Teigrob

 

What if we as Christian writers see our role as keepers? Of course, a keeper must have something that he or she is keeping. What might that be?

In the Bible, there are keepers of all sorts of things. They read like roles in medieval tales. Here are just some I found:

- keeper of the prison
- keeper of the East Gate
- keeper of the wardrobe
- keeper of the door
- keeper of the records
- keeper of the money box
- and many references to keeper of the sheep.

The word keeper in the biblical context has some similarity to the word manager in our times. A keeper would be responsible for a certain item, like the wardrobe or the door.

However, the role goes beyond just being responsible for an item, at least in certain contexts. The keeper would also be taking on the role of protector. That is a connotation that doesn’t necessarily come up in relation to the word manager. The keeper of the sheep, for example, would be ensuring the safety of the animals.

The keeper in certain contexts might also be preserving the item. The keeper of the records, for example, would be ensuring the documents were kept intact.

So, back to my question, if we as Christian writers see ourselves as keepers, what might we be responsible for, protect, and preserve?

What if we are the keepers of hope for this generation?

There is so much trouble and so much hopelessness, more so than ever, it seems. How might our words, the words we write, keep hope alive for those who read our work?

Not long ago, my children and I rewatched Prince Caspian, the movie based on one of the beloved Narnia Chronicles by C.S. Lewis. Afterwards, my daughter exclaimed. “I love that story because it gives me hope.”

Her response reminds me that a number of different genres of writing may be infused with hope.

What was it about the Narnia story that gave my daughter hope? How can we write in order to infuse this generation with Christ’s hope?

Speaking of being a keeper, I am reminded also of lighthouse keepers and the hymn by Philip P. Bliss, Let The Lower Lights Be Burning (1871).

Brightly beams our Father's mercy
From his lighthouse evermore,
But to us he gives the keeping
Of the lights along the shore.

Let the lower lights be burning,
Send a gleam across the wave!
Some poor fainting struggling seaman,
You may rescue, you may save.

Lord, guide our pens today as we work as keepers of your light in this dark world.

Michelle Joy Teigrob lives with her family in Peterborough, Ontario. Her book on grief, Joyfully Star-mapping through Life's Dung-piles, was shortlisted for the 2025 Word Awards. Formerly writing under her married name, Strutzenberger, Michelle is in the process of shifting her writing portfolio to her pen name, Michelle Joy Teigrob.

Encouragement Comes Full Circle by Dana-Lyn Phillips

 

Please welcome Dana-Lyn Phillips as our Guest Blogger.

After unexpectedly losing my job of nine-plus years, I decided to take some time to be intentional about seeking God’s direction for my life. Finding my purpose had been something I had struggled with for many years. Although I enjoyed my job, I always had this feeling of wanting something more…something ‘Kingdom Focused’ if you know what I mean.

After recruiting some wonderful prayer warriors to pray on my behalf, I intentionally spent a few weeks with God. God never disappoints. When I sought Him wholeheartedly, He showed up in big ways. Slowly and gently He began to reveal His plan for me. He knew I needed time to warm up to the idea. As time passed, God used multiple opportunities to speak to me and to direct me in the next steps. The problem was that I was sure I must be misunderstanding Him. He couldn’t really be asking me to do what I thought He was. As it turns out, God was encouraging me to write.

For those who don’t know me, I have to tell you how foreign this writing idea was. I have never written anything in my life other than a required school paper and an annual family Christmas letter. I have never dabbled with stories or journaling. I didn’t have a blog (nor had I ever read one), and I was not on any social media platforms. I’m also middle-aged and definitely do not have the technology equivalent of a gardener’s green thumb when it comes to computers.

Although I questioned where God was leading me, I tried for once in my life to give up control and decided to just trust, and follow. Eventually the plan became clear, and I was convinced that God was asking me to write for the purpose of encouraging Christian women in their faith.

I didn’t know where to start, or what I was doing, but I decided to jump into the deep end. I ended up creating a space on Substack where I would write to fulfill His plan for me. I named my newsletter “Plans Far Greater” because God’s plans for me are always far greater than the plans I have for myself. Substack has become a wonderful home for my writing, and the support has been amazing. I am surrounded by Christian writers who have encouraged and helped me all along the way. At the time I am writing this I have completed the writing of 13 posts on Substack and have been enjoying every minute of it. I have also written guest post submissions for a few other devotional publications. No word yet on whether or not they will be accepted.

I have always had a heart to encourage others, and this now allows me the opportunity to encourage people with God’s words, not mine. I always pray for help when crafting posts knowing that He knows who will read each post, when, and what they may need to hear.

I have been grateful for the encouragement of so many others. There are wonderfully talented writers who have been doing this for much longer, and I appreciate it when they offer me feedback and encouragement.

God encouraged me to write, and now I write to encourage others. The past few months have definitely been an adventure but one that I have been thrilled to be on. I invite you to check out my writing at https://plansfargreater.substack.com I welcome constructive criticism as well as words of encouragement.

If you are searching for your purpose in life like I was, I encourage you not to give up. It’s never too late. You aren’t here by accident; you have been created for a purpose. Don’t get discouraged but continue to pray for God’s direction in your life. Then, when He reveals it to you, don't be too scared to say “Yes”!

Dana-Lyn is a wife, and mother to teenage boys as well as a 14 year old cava-poo named Hockley. She is passionate about encouraging Christian women in their faith and is stepping into her mid-life "calling" as a writer. Her happy place consists of a comfy chair, a great book, a hot cup of coffee and a chocolate…or three! You can read more of her work at https://plansfargreater.substack.com

These Are My People ~ Valerie Ronald

 

I remember little about the topics discussed the first time I attended a Christian writers group. What I do remember thinking is, these are my people! The atmosphere created by like-minded writers in lively discussion sparked my desire to learn and grow in their company. For years I wrote in isolation, having little contact with other writers. Now at each monthly meeting I found encouragement and guidance from group members, opening new vistas of opportunity on my writing horizon.

Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: if either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.

Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 (NIV) reminds us of the power of community, emphasizing the importance of having someone to help us when we fall. Life was meant to be lived communally, not in isolation. This also applies to our calling as writers who are followers of Jesus Christ. Though the process of writing happens in isolation, we still need each other for support, feedback, and especially, encouragement.

The word encourage stems from the French word encoragier, from en, “to make or put in,” and coeur, which means “heart.” The basic premise of the word encourage is to instill confidence and hope; to build up the heart, which is the intellect, emotions and will, the wellspring of the soul. As Christians, we have a perfect example in Jesus who spent His ministry on earth encouraging His disciples with the gospel.

An aspect of the writer’s group I appreciated was the variety of writing styles, genres, interests, and voices represented, all unique yet focused on a similar goal. Working together to make Christ known through our written words created unity and connection in a diverse group of people. More experienced writers patiently mentored those just getting started. Some had strengths in editing, some knew about self-publishing, others shared advice in their chosen genres. Everyone had something to contribute that each of us could learn from.

Over time I witnessed the atmosphere of encouragement at our meetings encompass more than the process of writing. Meaningful bonds developed as we prayed for one another, helped one another outside the group, and ministered to each other during times of loss and difficulty. I made friends in the group who are especially dear to me, though I no longer attend due to driving distance. They are not just writing acquaintances; they are lifetime friends.

The Apostle Paul’s first letter to the Thessalonians is one of encouragement and hope. In chapter 4, verses 13 to 18, he assured them of being reunited with their loved ones who died in faith, when Jesus returns for His church. Paul concludes with this instruction, therefore encourage one another with these words.(vs.18)

Our InScribe Christian Writers Fellowship members shine at encouraging one another with their words. I am a recipient of those words, as are most of you. Our members live all across Canada, yet our common bonds of faith in Christ and passion for writing brings us close together.  

We cannot thrive in a vacuum. We need each other to stay focused, to know we are not alone. Like the church in Thessalonica, we need to encourage one another with these words, words of truth from our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

These things I have spoken to you so that in Me you may have peace. In the world you have tribulation but take courage; I have overcome the world.” John 16:33 (NASB) 

 Valerie Ronald writes from an old roll top desk in Portage la Prairie, Manitoba, with her tortoiseshell cat for a muse. A graduate of Langara College School of Journalism, she writes devotionals, fiction and inspirational prose. Her purpose in writing is to encourage others to grow in their spiritual walk.