Friday Tidings

My husband, Tom, always walks me to my bus stop. That morning, a homeless man was sitting on the covered bench. A couple of bags held his personal belongings, and a thick blanket shielded him from the cold. The three of us were the only ones waiting in the darkness. Across the street, Christmas lights twinkled in the store windows —bright reminders of comfort and celebration. Tom wandered over and gently asked the man how he was doing. “I’m homeless,” he replied,—as if stating the obvious. He didn’t ask for money. He didn’t ask for pity. He didn’t even ask for conversation. He didn’t know my husband. But Tom introduced himself anyway. The man’s name was Steven, a Navy veteran who had served our country during the Vietnam War on a nuclear submarine. He might not have a place to live now, but he had once lived a life of sacrifice and service.  Steven explained that alcohol had played a large role in his struggles. He had lost hope. I watched as Tom sat down beside him. Steven...

  Uncle Art, our family historian, always had stories to tell—and the blizzard before Christmas and the Davis Road Church was one he especially loved. When Art was a young boy, horses and wagons took parishioners to church. It was nearly an all-day affair, with the women bringing a hearty meal to share at noon-time.  Mid-December brought frigid temperatures, and extra wool blankets in the wagon did little to ward off the cold. Then a blizzard came. Snowdrifts higher than wagon wheels halted travel. The Davis Road Church was isolated in the storm. The pastor and his family lived in the two rooms in the back of the church, but relied on the church families for weekly provisions. Now they were snowed in. The storm only worsened, and the wind whipped the snow drifts into impossible ice-mounds. But the church families knew they needed to reach the pastor and his family.  Uncle Art said our cousins down the road were a wild bunch. But they always cleaned up and went to church. ...

I managed to sneak in a beach walk just ahead of sunset, in between one of this week’s tremendous king tides. Massive driftwood logs were scattered across the shore as if they were nothing more than toothpicks. But now, everything was still. Not a single wave reached the shore. The final full moon of the year—the Cold Moon—brightened as the sun lowered in the sky. I knew I’d need to turn back soon, but I kept walking. I had names to speak aloud on that beach. There’s Wyatt—enduring brutal but lifesaving cancer treatment, but he should be celebrating new freedom from his recent high school graduation. And Cherie—who just lost her husband, Jim. Unexpectedly. Devastatingly. A loss that echos through her whole family. A heart torn open. There were so many other names. Every few steps, another came to mind. I prayed aloud for healing, for help, and for wholeness to return. This season brings long months of darkness, yet also twinkling lights—made all the more beautiful becaus...