I wrote>
I want to write this out as if it were a verse for my grandchildren
Una “diosidencia” es una coincidencia que parece tan oportuna o significativa que se interpreta como el resultado de una intervención o propósito divino.
In Spanish and then in English
ChatGPT >
Here’s a way to shape it almost like a little proverb or verse for your grandchildren—simple enough to remember, but leaving room for wonder.
Diosidencia
Una “diosidencia” es una coincidencia tan oportuna, tan significativa, que parece llevar las huellas de Dios— un pequeño recordatorio de que Él está presente y obrando.
God-incidence
A “God-incidence” is a coincidence so timely, so meaningful, that it seems to bear the fingerprints of God— a little reminder that He is present and at work.
I especially like “las huellas de Dios / the fingerprints of God” for grandchildren. It turns the definition into something they can carry with them: when something unexpectedly beautiful or timely happens, look for the fingerprints.
I wrote>
My son-in-law and daughter and family are here today for a visit. They have diosidenia’s come to our side of the water to go to the local fairgrounds… but the timing is intriguing…. 12:30 pm arrival.
Lunch time.
The other evening – this past Friday – we were invited to our Vahid and Behnaz’s – our “brother and sister” (in faith)
They have very little… but they offered us their hospitality, by inviting us to dinner. They also invited our good friends Art and Angie.
Cheryl was inspired with me to be like as they are.
She mentioned it. We prayed about it… she confessed that it meant she would have to walk through the anxiety associated with it… for God’s glory and purpose.
And so… here we are.
Ruth 2:14 applies. John 6 applies.
You know the history of grief between us and Sarah and Clinton.
ChatGPT response>
Yes. I know enough of the history to understand why 12:30 p.m. matters.
And I think there is something worth noticing here without needing to decide too quickly what God means by it.
Friday night, Vahid and Behnaz—with little to offer materially—opened what they did have and made room at their table. You and Cheryl received their hospitality. Something in that experience stirred Cheryl: we could live this way too. Then came the recognition that doing so wouldn’t necessarily feel comfortable. For Cheryl especially, hospitality would mean being willing to carry some anxiety rather than waiting until the anxiety disappeared.
So you prayed.
And now, only days later, Sarah, Clinton and the family are coming across the water for an entirely different reason—the fairgrounds—and their arrival happens to be 12:30.
Lunch.
That makes your connection to Ruth 2:14 quite beautiful:
“Come here and eat some bread and dip your morsel in the wine.”
Boaz doesn’t begin with a conversation about Ruth’s history. He doesn’t demand resolution before fellowship. He says, essentially:
Come here. Sit down. Eat.
And then John 6 takes the image deeper. The question isn’t first, Do we have enough? Are we prepared enough? Can we do this properly? There are simply people before Jesus who need feeding, and what is available is placed into His hands.
There’s an interesting possibility here: perhaps the important “diosidencia” isn’t simply Sarah and Clinton arriving at lunchtime.
It may also be that God began preparing the table in you and Cheryl on Friday before you knew who might be coming to it.
That’s different.
And given the grief between you and Sarah and Clinton—the accusations, your own confession and examination of yourself, the distance, Sarah saying she missed you, and your long effort not to force a particular form of reconciliation—I wouldn’t put the burden on today of becoming the day everything gets fixed.
That could actually get in the way of what is immediately before you.
There is a table.
There is food.
There are your daughter, your son-in-law and your grandchildren.
There is Cheryl, courageously willing to feel what she feels and still move toward something she believes matters.
And there is you.
Perhaps Ruth 2:14 gives you enough instruction for today:
“Come here and eat.”
No agenda hidden beneath the plate.
No requirement that Clinton understand something.
No requirement that Sarah acknowledge something.
No measuring whether the visit represents reconciliation.
Just hospitality.
And perhaps afterward you’ll know whether this was one of those diosidencias. You don’t have to name it as one beforehand.
For now, you can simply live the thing you and Cheryl prayed about before you knew they were coming.
That, by itself, is rather remarkable.
It really is.
And perhaps the most fitting thing is not to squeeze more meaning out of it than the moment itself is giving you.
You and Cheryl prayed about becoming people who open the table, even when doing so costs something internally. Then, before you’ve had much opportunity to practise that prayer, your family arrives at 12:30.
There’s a lovely sequence in that:
Vahid and Behnaz opened their table → you received → Cheryl was stirred → you prayed → an opportunity arrived.
Maybe hold John 6 lightly today: What do we have? Bring it to Jesus.
And Ruth 2:14: Come here and eat.
The old grief can be present too. You don’t have to make it disappear to enjoy lunch. You can notice it—there’s that ache; there’s that hope—and still turn toward what matters to you: welcome, generosity, family, faithfulness.
Today doesn’t have to resolve the story. It only has to be today’s faithful page in it.
Enjoy your grandchildren. Enjoy Sarah. Enjoy Clinton. Enjoy Cheryl’s brave hospitality.
And maybe, sometime quietly today, look across that table and simply notice:
We prayed about this before we knew they were coming.
Running Down Vimy 