Have you ever held on to hope so tightly it was the only thing keeping you upright?
Have you ever needed one sentence, one moment, one person to remind you that you still matter?
Have you ever watched love show up in the most unexpected place and absolutely wreck you in the best way?
That was my Christmas morning.
Not wrapped in bows.
Not sitting under a tree.
Not smelling like cinnamon rolls and pine.
But still holy.
Christmas morning, our entire family went to visitation to see my husband. Both his parents. Both my parents. All of us walking into a prison with plastic bags, quiet hearts, and that familiar mix of gratitude and grief that never quite leaves.
Stephen told me later what happened before visitation even started.
He was waiting in line to use the phone. In prison, the phone is sacred ground. Everyone wants those few minutes to hear a voice they love. Everyone is waiting. Everyone is watching the clock. And there was this elderly man at the phone, dialing over and over again.
The line behind him kept growing. Inmates shifting their weight. Looking at the floor. Looking at the clock. Looking anywhere except at their disappointment.
The man just kept dialing.
Again.
And again.
And again.
An inmate leaned over to Stephen and quietly said, “You need to tell him his wife called earlier and said she loves him.”
Stephen asked why.
The inmate explained that every year, this man does the same thing. Every Christmas, he calls his wife. He has Alzheimer’s. He forgets. He dials for hours. His wife passed away five years ago. He does not remember.
Every year, the only way to get him off the phone is to tell him that his wife already called and that she loves him.
Stephen said, “But then I would be lying.”
The inmate looked at him and said, “If you do not, it will ruin everyone’s Christmas. No one else will get to call their families.”
And then he added, “He trusts you because you are a pastor.”
Let me pause right there.
Because this is where life gets messy.
This is where theology does not come with footnotes.
This is where morality stops being clean and starts being human.
Stephen walked up to that old man, and before he even spoke, he started crying. Because sometimes your body knows before your brain does.
He said softly, “Your wife called earlier. She said she loves you.”
The old man smiled. Relief washed over his face.
“Thank God,” he said. “I thought she forgot about me. I am so glad she still loves me.”
Then he hung up the phone. Walked straight to his bed. Peaceful. Content. Loved.
Stephen stood there in tears. Heartbroken. Grateful. Shaken.
And this is where the story could have ended. It would have already been enough. But life has a way of adding punctuation.
A few moments later, lunch bags were handed out. This same elderly man took his paper lunch bag, blew air into it, twisted the top, and popped it loudly.
He yelled, “Merry Christmas everyone.”
Then he announced, “Pastor Stephen will pray for us today.”
Stephen tried to step back. He told the CO he had visitation and needed to go.
The CO looked at him and said, “You still have time. Go pray.”
So Stephen stood there, with his speech still jumbled from the stroke he had last year, words not always coming out the way he wants them to, hands probably shaking, heart still wrecked, and he prayed.
He prayed over a room full of inmates.
On Christmas morning.
In a prison.
No stage.
No microphone.
No polished sermon.
Just a broken man praying for broken men.
And here is where I lost it.
Because that moment right there is why hope matters. That moment is why kindness is not optional. That moment is why love does not always look logical.
Was it a lie? Technically, yes.
Was it cruel? No.
It was mercy.
It was love translated into a language that man could understand. It was kindness that did not need to be right to be righteous.
And before anyone sharpens their theological pitchforks, let me say this.
Jesus healed people on the Sabbath.
Jesus let a woman caught in adultery walk free.
Jesus told stories that bent people toward grace, not rules.
If love keeps someone alive for one more moment, if hope gives someone peace instead of panic, if kindness preserves dignity, then I think heaven is not mad about it.
That man did not need truth. He needed comfort.
He did not need correction. He needed love.
And Stephen, standing there crying, gave him that.
Watching my husband live out his calling inside prison walls humbles me in a way I cannot explain. This man has every reason to be bitter. Every excuse to shut down. And yet he continues to show up with compassion, even when it costs him emotionally.
Christmas did not look like I imagined this year. There was no slow morning in pajamas. No lounging on the couch all day. No pretending everything is normal.
But it was sacred.
It reminded me that hope is not always loud. Sometimes it is a quiet sentence whispered into a hurting heart.
“She loves you.”
Hope keeps people going.
Kindness keeps people breathing.
Grace keeps people human.
And maybe the lesson for all of us this Christmas is this.
Sometimes the greatest gift you can give is not honesty. It is mercy.
Sometimes the most Christlike thing you can do is protect someone’s peace.
Sometimes love looks like stepping into someone else’s pain and carrying it for them.
And if you ever wonder whether your kindness matters, remember this story.
It might be the only thing standing between someone and despair.
Remember you are my lovers, whether you love me or love to hate me you are still my lover!
Don’t forget Jesus loves you and so do I!