The Christmas Cookie Miracle

In the fall of 1981, my husband, Frank, and I became pastors for the first time. We were young, naïve, exuberant, and sincere. That was a lot of energy to thrust upon thirty settled souls tucked away in the mountains of North Carolina.

Our first Christmas outreach would be for the local nursing home. The youth group would sing carols and hand out cookies. One small glitch—there was no outreach budget. I would have to stretch our personal finances to include the party and cookie ingredients.

The day before the outreach, I drove to the grocery store to purchase all the needed items. My tight little fist opened reluctantly at the register as I relinquished dollars so carefully squirreled away for this celebration. Back home Christmas music played while I put things away, and my joy soon returned.

Within the hour, a knock came on our door. Our church was visible from the main highway, and the parsonage was situated off the parking lot. People frequently stopped by asking for gas or food. Frank and I dubbed them our “interstate visitors.” We helped as many as possible from our own meager supplies.

Frank came back into the living room where I was working. “Honey, you’ll never believe what this guy asked for. He didn’t want money.”

“He asked for flour, sugar, milk, and eggs! The very things you just bought.” Frank’s smile was huge. He obviously was unprepared for my Scrooge-like response.

“I’ll make a bag of canned goods, but he CANNOT have the cookie ingredients.” My voice was resolute.

Frank pulled me close.“Sheri, I started to turn him away and felt the Holy Spirit whisper, ‘You may be entertaining angels unaware.’  We have to give him these things, honey.”

Obedience is essential, but seldom easy. I began filling the very grocery bag I had just emptied while tears rolled down my cheeks. Through the crack in the door, I caught a glimpse of our visitor wearing a pitifully thin jacket. As he and Frank talked, he stomped the snow from his worn shoes. Just beyond, I glimpsed his wife and small children wrapped in blankets, huddled together against the cold. Obviously, the heater no longer worked in their old sedan.

I added applesauce to the other staples and handed the bag over to Frank. After praying with the man and saying goodbye, he came to encourage me. “God won’t forget us, sweetheart!”

The next morning, we received a call from the meanest woman I had ever met. She wanted us to come to her house right away. Cynthia impatiently yanked open her door as we stepped onto the porch and wasted no time with pleasantries. “Aren’t you having the youth to your house this afternoon?” It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

“Hello, Cynthia. Yes, we are,” Frank responded with his disarming smile.

She reached around to a table and shoved a cardboard box at him, then a second one at me.“Here!  You’ll need these,” she pronounced. We tried to thank her, but she waved away our appreciation and slammed the door with us still standing there.

Frank and I rode home in total silence. Once inside, I began unpacking the boxes Cynthia had thrust upon us, as tears stung my eyes.

In those cardboard boxes I found milk, eggs, flour, sugar . . . all the ingredients I had given away the night before to our “interstate visitor,” plus, prime cuts of meat from her freezer and canned vegetables from her own garden. Our heavenly Father used that moment to teach us an object lesson about His faithfulness that would last us a lifetime. 

That evening, the youth piled into our kitchen. We baked cookies, drove to the nursing home, sang carols, hugged frail bodies, shook trembling hands, and distributed Christmas cookies.

The miracle of those cookies is as fresh and powerful for me today as it was when it happened all those years ago. Luke 6:38 will always be my reminder to obey quickly and gladly:“Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap.” God doesn’t forget, and He always rewards generously.

~ By Jean Boston