By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer
My current work-in-progress is book three of a four-novella collection of seasonal bride tales. One of my characters rescues a wounded traveler.
As she cares for the person, others compare her to the Good Samaritan mentioned in a parable Jesus told. But she wants to know more about the common byword, “Good Samaritan,” so she searches the scriptures:
In Luke she found the story of the wounded traveler, those who left him beside the road, and the one who stopped to help him. How appropriate that a physician was the only biblical writer who recorded this parable in his gospel account—he who was accustomed to helping and healing and comforting. Could this have been deliberate?
Scholars tell us that Luke was a Greek physician and traveling companion of the Apostle Paul. He was not one of the twelve disciples of Jesus, but as a physician, he would have taken great care in accurate interviewing and recounting. The heart of his gospel is compelling, and the story of the Good Samaritan is one example.
In my years of reading and research, I have learned that God always acts by design. There are no coincidences or accidents where His purposes are concerned, and I thread this theme throughout my book.
Perhaps you can look back at your own life and see how God allowed particular people to share certain truths with you. Though God doesn’t make mistakes, He can redeem ours. We often don’t understand in the heat of the moment, but if we listen, wait, and trust Him, things can become clear.
“Faith comes before understanding” I once heard someone say, and I can’t count the number of times this has been true in my life.
God is in control, and He chooses His messengers with purpose. I’m so glad.
And we know that in all things
God works for the good of those
who love him, who have been called
according to his purpose.
Romans 8:28 NIV
~
He chooses His messengers. Share on X
“I’d like to ask you a question.” Mary smoothed the quilt covering her legs, and the movement slid the gown off her shoulder. Embarrassed, she quickly drew it up closer to her neck. Thank goodness that hadn’t happened when the cowboy came in.
“Two questions, actually. You said a man named Hugh found me in a pit and brought me here. Was he also the one who brought me dinner earlier?”
Helen’s eyebrows shot nearly to her hairline. “Didn’t he introduce himself? Land’s sake, he’s as bad as his boys. No—I take that back. He’s worse. He knows better.”
Startled by Helen’s fervor at berating the man, Mary felt obligated to take up for him. “Well, he was quite nervous, as though he’d never tended to someone ill before.”
That smoothed Helen’s brows and her chin slowly rose. She took on a thoughtful expression, as though she was contemplating new information about a matter. “Is that so?”
The woman’s eyes gathered a twinkle at the corners.
“Do you know if he found a carpet bag in an automobile parked at my aunt and uncle’s? At least I think it was their farm. A sign on the fence where I turned said Dodson, but they weren’t there. Things looked as if they hadn’t been there in quite some time. Do you happen to know them?”
Helen gathered her apron corners and studied the stitching, running her thumb nail along the fine, straight line. She paused for such a long time Mary feared there was dreadful news.
“Helen?”
The kind woman’s lips seamed, and she pressed the apron flat on her lap before looking up. “So the Dodsons were kin. They were from Pennsylvania, weren’t they? Is that where you came from on the train? That’s a mighty long way.”
Helen had not answered her question but danced around it as if the answer was anything but welcome. Grief rose like mercury.
“Please, Helen. I must know the truth. I posted a letter to them before I left home, certain it would arrive before me.”
“Oh, child.” The apron lifted to Helen’s face, stopping short of her perspiring forehead. “I’m so sorry, but your aunt took sick with a fever and passed early last fall, from what I heard. They stayed to themselves, you know. Your uncle died not long after. From a broken heart, I’d say.”
Mary clutched her throat, unable to find breath, so great was the shock. Tears fell unbidden, unbridled, beyond her control.
Determined to speak, she took a shaky breath, then another. “Where are they buried?”
“Since they didn’t have a family plot in town, they were buried on their property. I don’t know exactly where.”
“So you didn’t attend their funeral.” Not a question. She didn’t have to ask—regret was etched on Helen’s face.
Mary let her head fall back on the pillow. Her carpet bag mattered little now, in spite of it holding everything she had in the world of any value, other than her livestock. ~Hope Is Built
Inspirational Western Romance – where the hero is heroic.
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(c) 2026 Davalynn Spencer, all rights reserved.
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