Scripture Focus (NKJV)
“And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.”
— John 1:5
“For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given…”
— Isaiah 9:6
Welcome
Most of you know this about me — I heal, dream, live, and breathe through writing. It’s how God and I talk. It’s how I work through the deep places of life. So am I surprised that, after a few days of wrestling and reflecting, He would gently lead me to open a book, read a single verse, and begin something new? Not really. But I had no idea this would be my morning.
Wrapped in a blanket, coffee in hand, I settled into my usual quiet space… and God met me there.
Maybe you’ve had mornings like that too —
when the whole house is still,
and something in your spirit knows God is about to speak.
When a simple moment becomes holy without warning,
and suddenly you find yourself remembering things your heart hasn’t touched in years.
Reflection
The glow of the Christmas tree lit the room with that soft, holy warmth only December carries. As I looked at the angel perched on the top branch, a familiar memory found me — one that returns every year.
Because long before this angel, there was another…
A simple white angel with wings that moved gently and a single light glowing from her hands. She wasn’t just a decoration — she became the quiet keeper of my deepest prayers.
And maybe you’ve had your own version of that angel —
a corner of your home where you whispered the things too heavy for your voice,
a place where your heart spoke what your lips could not.
Those prayers matter. God has never missed one of them.
Each year, as the lights shimmered across the room, I prayed.
I prayed for a Christmas miracle —
for God to change a heart in our family,
for Him to take a heart of stone and replace it with a heart of flesh
(Ezekiel 36:26, NKJV).
If you’ve ever prayed for someone you love — prayed with tears, prayed with hope, prayed through the years — then you know that ache. And you also know the quiet courage it takes to keep believing God is working even when you cannot see it.
And though the answers didn’t come the way I imagined,
God still sent miracles.
Not in the sweeping way I longed for,
but in the gentle, sacred ones…
In the sweet days with my children —
tiny hands hanging ornaments,
the giggles over Christmas cookies,
the sticky fingers dipping into dough,
the sparkle in their eyes as they decorated the tree.
Maybe you’ve lived those moments too —
the messy counters, the warm kitchens, the laughter that lingered long after the day ended.
Or maybe you’re longing for moments like that again.
Wherever you are, God meets you in both the memories you treasure
and the ones you’re still hoping to make.
Years later, those little hands became the hands of my grandchildren —
baking cookies with the same joy,
the same wonder,
the same love.
And I realized… those were Christmas miracles, too.
And now… here I sit in Tennessee.
Winter weather is moving in, soft as a whispered prayer —
cold rain turning to sleet, sleet turning to the year’s first snow.
The world outside is settling into quiet.
And something in me settles with it.
There’s something about winter — how the cold arrives slowly, how snow falls gently over everything — that mirrors the way God works:
Soft.
Unseen.
Layer by layer.
And before we even realize it, everything looks different.
I look at a different tree now, beneath a different angel…
and yet my prayers haven’t really changed.
I’m still praying for Christmas miracles —
for every branch of our blended family,
for hearts that need healing,
for stories still unfolding,
for grandchildren not yet born,
and for the little ones we may never get to meet this side of heaven.
And woven through it all is a deep, soulful thanksgiving.
Because God gave me my own Christmas miracle in my husband.
Christmas Day will forever be my reminder of what God does —
how He knew what I didn’t know,
how He brought love into my life in a way only He could,
how He blessed me in my family,
in my marriage,
in a man who loves me faithfully and tenderly.
Maybe you’ve experienced a miracle like that —
or maybe you’re still praying for one.
Either way, God’s heart toward you has not changed.
He is still the Giver of miracles.
Still the Restorer of stories.
Still the One who knows what you need long before you do.
He has shown me again and again that with God all things are possible
(Matthew 19:26, NKJV).
He remains faithful even when we falter.
He keeps coming after us with a love that does not fail.
So this morning, as I sit before a different tree with a different angel,
my heart is full —
full of wonder,
full of gratitude,
full of awe.
Just like my children were when they were tiny babies staring up at Christmas lights…
I feel that same childlike awe now.
Because Christmas miracles never stopped.
We just learned to see them differently.
And as you sit before your own tree this year — whether life feels bright, heavy, or somewhere in between — may you feel the nearness of the God who has never once stopped listening to your heart.
A Christmas Prayer
Father,
Thank You for sending Light into our darkness — the Light that still shines, still comforts, still heals. Thank You for angels, for reminders that You hear every whispered prayer, even the ones too tender to speak aloud.
Today, Lord, I lift my family and every family represented by the one reading this. Bring Christmas miracles into places that feel weary or waiting. Soften hearts, restore relationships, breathe life into stories that feel stuck.
Thank You for the miracles You’ve given me — in my husband, in my children, in my grandchildren, in the unfolding beauty of blended family. Thank You that You never stop pursuing us, never stop loving us, never stop coming near.
Teach us to see Your miracles — large and small —
and to carry a spirit of wonder into this season.
Fill our homes with peace, and fill our hearts with hope.
In Jesus’ holy name, amen.
With devotion from my quiet corner,
Marie
(When you pray this for yourself, feel free to make it your own — and sign your own name at the end as a reminder that God’s promises are personal to you.)
