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.