With Us

A Christmas Story.

Ethan sat in his SUV outside the grocery store, the heater running and Christmas music filling the cabin. The windshield was clear, but he stayed where he was, hands resting on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. It had been a good year. A promotion. A new car. A ski trip booked for February. The house almost paid off. These were the milestones he had chased for years, the proof that the long hours and constant pressure had been worth it.

And yet, the quiet inside him felt heavier than the noise around him.

He caught his reflection in the darkened side window and barely recognized the man staring back. Tired eyes. A clenched jaw. A look that asked a question he had been avoiding. Why does having everything still feel like nothing?

Across the city, Maria stepped off the bus and pulled her coat tighter as the cold cut through her. Snow crunched under her boots as she walked the last few blocks home. Her breath fogged the air in front of her, each step measured, careful. Her hours at work had been cut again. Rent was due in less than two weeks. The price of groceries seemed to rise every time she walked into the store. Her son’s winter boots were two sizes too small, and she kept telling herself they could make it through the season somehow.

As she reached her building, she paused under the flickering streetlight and whispered into the cold night, almost embarrassed by the sound of her own voice. God, if You are still there, I could really use a sign.

Ethan finally opened the car door and stepped out into the cold. The sound of laughter caught his attention. A family crossed the icy parking lot, bundled in mismatched coats, moving close together, laughing as if nothing else mattered. They carried only a few bags. Nothing expensive. Nothing excessive.

Something tightened in his chest.

For reasons he could not explain, a memory surfaced. He was a boy again, standing beside his father in a small country church on Christmas Eve. Candlelight flickered across wooden pews. The room smelled faintly of pine and wax. His father had leaned down and whispered into his ear, his voice warm and steady. “Walking with God makes the simple things priceless.”

Ethan had not thought about that night in decades. He stood there now, breath visible in the air, and felt the weight of how far he had drifted without ever meaning to. Near the store entrance, an older man stood with his hands tucked into a thin coat. His gloves were worn through at the fingertips. A weathered cardboard sign rested against his leg. “Trying to get home.”

Ethan slowed. Something inside him shifted, not guilt, not obligation, but a quiet pull he had almost forgotten how to recognize. He walked over and introduced himself. The man’s name was Peter. They spoke for a few minutes. About the cold. About how life can change faster than you expect. About sleeping at the shelter and hoping for another chance.

Ethan listened, really listened, and felt the strange warmth from his childhood memory return. He bought Peter a hot meal, warm gloves, groceries, and gift cards enough to get him through the next few weeks. When they parted, Peter placed a hand on Ethan’s shoulder, his grip firm despite the cold.

“God bless you, son. You have no idea what this means.”

Ethan walked back to his SUV with tears in his eyes. He sat behind the wheel again, heart pounding, and realized he felt lighter than he had in years.

Across the city, Maria unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside. She set her bag down and leaned against the wall for a moment, gathering herself before turning on the lights. Her son appeared from the hallway, holding a wrinkled piece of paper covered in crayon. A star hovered over a manger. A tiny baby lay beneath it, smiling.

Jesus is born, he said, climbing into her lap.

Maria held him close, her breath catching as tears slipped down her cheeks. She felt warmth spread through her chest, a quiet reassurance settling where fear had been living. Later that night, after her son had fallen asleep, she noticed an envelope tucked inside her bag from work. Her name was written on the front in careful handwriting. Inside was a simple note.

“Merry Christmas. God bless.”

There was cash folded inside. Enough for groceries. Enough to breathe again. Maria sat at the table, the envelope pressed to her chest, and whispered thank you into the quiet room.

Snow continued to fall outside the city, settling softly on sidewalks and rooftops, quieting the world for the night. Somewhere beyond the glow of streetlights and Christmas displays, other stories stirred, older stories, pressing gently against the present. Long before Ethan ever sat in his SUV, long before Maria ever whispered into the cold, there was a king who had everything.

Solomon stood on a terrace overlooking Jerusalem, the city spread out beneath him like something crafted by his own hands. Gold gleamed in the torchlight. Music drifted from the halls behind him. Servants moved at a distance, careful not to interrupt the silence he had come to crave. He had wisdom others sought. Wealth that nations envied. Power that bent the world in his direction.

Yet that night, alone beneath the stars, his chest felt hollow.

He had built cities, written songs, tasted all manner of pleasure, and mastered knowledge. None of it lingered. None of it satisfied. He leaned on the stone railing and closed his eyes, the weight of it finally settling.

All of it feels like chasing the wind, he thought and even a throne feels empty. He remembered why he had asked for wisdom in the first place. Not to exalt himself, but to walk rightly before God.

And far from the excess of palaces and gold, another man once sat in the dirt.

Job’s body ached. His home was gone. His children were gone. Friends sat nearby, offering explanations that did nothing to ease the silence. The sky above him felt impossibly vast, and for a long time, unbearably quiet.

Then the wind came. Not gentle. Not comforting. Powerful enough to steal his breath.

Job shielded his face as the presence of God pressed close, closer than he had ever imagined possible. No answers were given. No reasons explained. Only God Himself, filling the space where despair had lived.

Job’s shoulders shook as understanding replaced grief. I had heard of You, he realized, but now I see You.

And it was enough.

Centuries pass. Kingdoms rise and fall. Gold tarnished. Ashes scattered.

Then, on a night much like this one, cold and still, a young woman wrapped her child in cloth and laid Him in a manger. There was no throne. No fanfare. No wealth. Only animals breathing softly and the quiet weight of something holy entering the world unnoticed but by a few.

She watched His chest rise and fall and did not yet know that God had chosen this way. That the One who held the universe had chosen hunger and poverty and human skin.

He had not stayed distant.

He had come close.

He would grow up knowing exhaustion, rejection, hunger, loss. He would walk dusty roads beside fishermen and beggars. He would touch the sick. He would eat with the poor. He would weep. He would give everything away.

And through Him, hope would move into human hearts the way light moves into darkness.

Ethan sat in his SUV long after the engine was turned off. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel, breathing slowly, feeling something steady replace his restlessness. He allowed himself a smile.

Across the city, Maria rested with an envelope tucked safely in a drawer and a child curled beside her. She looked up and whispered a prayer of thanks.

Neither of them could see the thread connecting their night to Solomon’s terrace, to Job’s ashes, to a manger beneath a star.

But it was there.

Running through generosity and surrender. Through fullness and emptiness. Through hands that give and hearts that trust.

Outside, Christmas lights flickered against the snow, and the world kept moving quietly forward.

Hope had come again.

In the stillness, it had waited patiently, ready to arrive wherever someone chose to walk with God, and wherever someone dared to let love move through them.

Merry Christmas to you all.