The Christmas Chronicles 2025 Third Sunday of Advent - Joy

The Christmas Chronicles 2025 Third Sunday of Advent - Joy

“When Hearts Learn to Sing Again”

Jacob Mascarenhas

Dear Readers,

The Third Sunday of Advent arrived with a gentle reminder that even the smallest light can lead a weary heart into joy again. It was Gaudete Sunday, the Sunday that calls the world to rejoice. I woke up to the soft glow of a December morning, its sunlight slowly stretching across my room like warm fingers reaching out to me. The air carried a slight chill, but also something new, an invitation to smile a little deeper than yesterday.

As I prepared to go to the chapel, I felt a sense of anticipation I hadn’t felt in a long time. The journey through Advent had already begun stirring something inside me. Hope had given me courage. Peace had taught me to breathe. And now, joy was ready to visit a soul that had forgotten its own laughter for too long.

Inside the chapel, the Advent wreath waited like a compass guiding our hearts toward Christmas. Today, the rose candle stood proudly among the purple ones, the Candle of Joy. The priest smiled warmly as he began the Mass and said, “Rejoice, for the Lord is near.”

His voice was filled with a tenderness that made that one word feel like a healing balm. Rejoice. Not because every burden has disappeared, not because life suddenly became easy, but because God walks beside us through it all.

Children fidgeted in the pews, adjusting their Santa hats, whispering excitedly about Christmas gifts and holidays. Their innocence made me smile. There was a little girl tugging at her father’s beard, testing whether he might be Santa himself. The poor man struggled to contain his laughter, and the moment brought a lightness to my heart I hadn’t expected. With that, I remembered my daughter used to do the same.

It was as if their joy spilled over to anyone and everyone watching.

When the priest lit the Candle of Joy, its flame seemed brighter than the others, bold, warm, alive. Something inside me responded too. Not a loud happiness, but a quiet blooming, like sunlight warming a flower that almost forgot how to open. I closed my eyes and felt God whisper into my heart: “Joy is not lost. It was simply waiting for you to be ready again.”

After Mass, I decided to stroll through the Christmas market nearby. The square had transformed into a delight of twinkling lights, wooden stalls, and the comforting aroma of cinnamon, roasted nuts, and freshly baked bread. Carols filled the air. People gathered with smiles that seemed to rise from their souls. A little girl waved a card at me, shouting, “Joy for sale!” I laughed and asked, “How much for a big one?” With the most serious expression, she replied, “Joy doesn’t come in sizes. It comes from God.” I bought the card anyway, because sometimes children remind us of truths we forget as adults.

Further ahead, a street musician played “Joy to the World”, missing a few notes but never losing his enthusiasm. His singing wasn’t perfect, but it was sincere. As I listened, I realised that sometimes joy isn’t about flawless performance; it’s about the courage to keep singing despite imperfections. I dropped a small offering into his guitar case and whispered, “Thank you.” He looked up with a smile and said, “Music is how my heart prays.” That touched me more deeply than he knew.

The day continued with small, beautiful surprises. A couple sharing a hot chocolate because love was still young and money still tight. A group of teenagers decorating a Christmas tree in the town centre, laughing as they argued where the star should go. An elderly woman knitting scarves for children she would never meet, love woven into every thread. Everywhere I looked, I saw joy taking simple shapes. It wasn’t extravagant. It was humble, kind, and contagious.

As the afternoon gently shifted into evening, I felt a nudge to visit the old-age home nearby. I wasn’t sure why, but I followed the prompting. The caretaker welcomed me with gratitude and told me they were about to begin carol singing. Perfect timing again. I joined the residents in their dining hall. A Christmas tree glowed in the corner. Some clapped softly, others hummed, and a few simply closed their eyes, letting the music take them back in time, to memories of people, moments, and love that shaped their lives.

One elderly woman held my hand and asked if I could sit beside her. She shared stories of her childhood Christmases, the way her late husband would sneak gifts under the pillow, and how her children used to wake her up with carols by the bedside. Her voice shook at times, and tears shimmered in her eyes, but beneath those memories was a deep river of joy. Before I left, she pressed a peppermint into my palm and whispered, “Joy grows when we share it.” I felt a warmth inside, a recognition that she was right.

Walking home under the soft glow of streetlights, I thought to myself: Joy doesn’t erase pain. It teaches the heart to sing even when tears still exist. Joy doesn’t demand perfection. It simply asks for space.

When I entered my home, my tiny Christmas tree greeted me with its fairy lights twinkling like stars in a small universe. The nativity crib I created from the old MacBook Air box glowed softly in its corner, each little light exactly where God intended it to be. I sat on my couch, opened my journal, and wrote: “Today, I found joy in ordinary places, through people, through laughter, through shared stories, through peppermint hope. And maybe joy isn’t something that arrives, it’s something that awakens when God touches the heart.”

As I stared at the flickering light of the third candle, I felt something settle inside me. Not excitement. Not a celebration. But a gentle truth: “I am allowed to smile again.” Not because every wound is healed. Not because life is perfect. But because God’s love continues to find me, day after day, light after light.

Tonight, I make a new Advent promise: I will choose joy even when it feels small. I will let myself laugh without guilt. I will smile for no reason. I will thank God more and worry less. I will find joy in the tiny miracles that fill ordinary days. The world needs more joy, and God longs to pour it into open hearts.

The Candle of Joy burns bright now, and The Christmas Chronicles 2025 continues not with grand celebrations, but with hearts learning the sacred courage to sing again. And as we wait for the coming of the Saviour, may joy become a daily companion, a reminder that God is near, and life is still filled with beautiful reasons to rejoice.

May the Joy of Christ fill your home, your spirit, and every corner of your December days. May God turn every sigh into a soft smile, every tear into a quiet song, and every step into a dance of gratitude.

Rejoice. Christ is near. ✨🌹

May the Peace of Christ dwell with you, today and always. ✨🕊️

God Bless Us All…

- Jacob Mascarenhas

Author | Storyteller | Founder of AWritersTip

The Christmas Chronicles 2025 Second Sunday of Advent – Peace

The Christmas Chronicles 2025 Second Sunday of Advent – Peace

“When Stillness Learns to Breathe Again”

Jacob Mascarenhas

Dear Readers,

The second week of Advent arrived quietly, not with fanfare, but with the soft assurance that peace can grow even in the most restless soul.

I woke early this Sunday, even before the sun stretched its golden fingers across the sky. The streets outside were still sleeping. A faint fog wrapped itself around lamp posts and rooftops, like a blanket that refused to let go of the night. I stood near the window with a cup of warm tea, watching the world hold its breath before another December day began.

This morning felt different.

Last week, hope was the flame that dared to rise.

But today… Today was about peace, a peace that many of us long for but struggle to feel.

The candle of Hope had already burned brightly inside me through the week. Its light had guided conversations, encouraged prayers, and reminded me that I was alive for a purpose. But hope alone is not enough; hope must find rest. Hope must discover peace.

As I walked to the chapel for the Second Sunday of Advent, my heart carried a quiet prayer:

“Lord, teach me how to be still again.”

It had been a year of battles.

Not wars the world sees, but the private kind.

Where the enemy is the voice inside you saying:

You’re tired.

You’re overwhelmed.

You won’t make it.

I had lived through days where peace seemed like a distant shore, visible only in other people’s lives.

But today, standing under the steady gaze of the chapel’s stone walls, I felt ready to believe that peace was meant for me too.

Inside, the four purple candles and the single rose candle waited once again. This time, two would shine, Hope and Peace, side by side, like companions refusing to leave one another.

The priest began the Mass with a gentle prayer:

“Lord, quiet our worries and soften our fears.

Let us feel Your peace, not as the world gives, but as You promise.”

Families bowed their heads. Children leaned against their parents. Someone sniffled softly behind me, maybe a memory, or maybe a burden that was too heavy to hide.

I closed my eyes.

Peace didn’t come like a wave or lightning bolt.

It came like a slow exhale, a release I didn’t know I had been holding in.

✨

When the Candle of Peace was lit, it glowed differently than the first, steadier, with a calm presence that seemed to stretch across the room. I watched its flame rise just as patiently as sunrise.

A thought whispered into my heart:

Peace isn’t the absence of struggle.

It’s the presence of God in the middle of it.

After the final blessing, I didn’t leave immediately. The morning sun had finally arrived and streamed through the stained-glass windows, scattering the chapel in colours, calming blues, healing greens, soft golds that shimmered like angel wings.

As I lingered near the altar, I noticed a young man sitting alone in the corner pew. He looked anxious, constantly twisting a ring around his finger. Without a word, I sat beside him. He glanced at me with tired eyes.

“My father… he’s in the hospital,” he said quietly before I could even ask. “Doctors aren’t saying much. I haven’t slept properly in days.”

His voice cracked, the sound of a heart shaking.

I placed my hand gently on his shoulder.

“May I pray with you?” I asked.

He nodded, and together we whispered a prayer, not long, not poetic, just real.

When we finished, he breathed a little deeper. His trembling slowed. He whispered a soft “Thank you,” and for the first time, I saw a hint of peace rest upon his shoulders.

Sometimes peace begins as a borrowed miracle.

✨

Outside, the square was alive again, vendors setting up their stalls, children twirling around as though the cold only made them stronger, and somebody laughing so loudly that even the pigeons paused to listen.

I took a walk through the town, my journal tucked under my arm as always. A gentle wind brushed past, carrying with it the scent of Christmas, pine trees, warm bread, and possibility.

I found a bench beneath the big Christmas tree, adorned with ornaments that told a thousand stories. A star on top seemed to glow brighter than yesterday, not because of stronger electricity, but because my heart was ready to notice.

I began writing again:

“Peace doesn’t always shout.

Sometimes it just whispers,

‘I am here.’”

I paused.

This year had been noisy, the kind of noise that lives inside your thoughts even when the world is silent. Deadlines, worries, heartbreaks, unanswered prayers. Some nights, sleep felt like a stranger. Some mornings, even sunlight couldn’t brighten the shadows inside.

And yet…

Here I was.

Breathing.

Healing.

Finding stillness.

Not all at once.

But slowly.

Surely.

God had led me to this bench today, not to solve everything, but to let me know I wasn’t fighting alone.

A soft bark pulled me from my thoughts. A playful dog, a Dalmatian with a shiny red collar, ran up to me, tail wagging like a metronome of joy. Behind him came a woman calling out, “Rambo! Come here, boy!”

I couldn’t help but laugh. The dog ignored her completely and sat at my feet, tongue out, eyes full of mischief and kindness.

“He likes you,” the woman said, catching up and slightly out of breath. “He usually never stops for strangers.”

“Well,” I smiled, scratching his head, “I guess today I needed a little gift of peace.”

She nodded knowingly. “Dogs are good at that.”

We talked for a moment, nothing profound, just warm. By the time they walked away, I realised something important:

Peace also lives in laughter.

In connection.

In the small encounters we don’t plan,

but desperately need.

So I thought, maybe I would like to have a Dalmatian to help me find peace again.

✨

A few streets away, a small choir practised carols. Their voices weren’t perfectly harmonised, but somehow that made their singing even more beautiful. A little off-key, perhaps, but fully alive.

That’s what peace feels like.

Not perfection.

But presence.

I wrote another line in my journal:

“May peace be the gift we give, not just the blessing we seek.”

✨

Later in the day, I visited a friend, a widower, who hadn’t decorated for Christmas since his wife passed away many years ago. His living room felt dim, not because the lights were off, but because grief had forgotten how to leave.

“Would you allow me to help you put up a small nativity set tonight?” I asked gently.

He hesitated, but then nodded.

As we placed each figure, Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, the angel, I saw his eyes soften. And when the little baby Jesus statue finally took its place, a tear slipped down his cheek.

“This brings back memories,” he whispered.

I squeezed his hand.

“Love never leaves,” I replied. “Sometimes peace comes by remembering that.”

He smiled, a fragile smile, but a true one.

✨

As I walked back home that evening, something stirred within me, a memory, a longing, a quiet ache. The widower’s struggle reminded me so much of my own. Five years had passed since I last made a crib… five years had passed since setting up the Christmas tree. Five years passed before decorating the house. Five long years of feeling like an exile from my own world, far away from my children, away from shared laughter and tiny hands placing little shepherds in the manger.

But this year, a dear friend from far away insisted that I bring Christmas back into my space, into my life again, even if it was small, humble, and handmade. And after hearing her voice saying Jacob, do it. Please get that Christmas tree.

I bought a tiny two-foot Christmas tree and decorated it with a star on top and warm LED lights like fireflies dancing on evergreens. But the crib… the crib was a miracle in itself. Buying a ready-made one would have been easy, but I was reluctant to buy one ready-made, for I always used to make one at home.

Buying a readymade Nativity Crib Set wouldn’t heal anything. So instead, I created one from my own hands, from scraps, from simplicity, from my old MacBook Air box that once held technology but now held the memory of Bethlehem. I cut it, shaped it, glued it into a little cradle of grace. The LED string I ordered looked too long at first, almost impossible to manage.

But I whispered, “Jesus, You help me.”

And somehow… every light fit perfectly, as if heaven measured it for me. When the final bulb glowed inside that small holy space, I stood there, in silence, in awe, in peace. That simple crib, born from what the world calls waste, gave me a sense of achievement… a sense of belonging… as though God was telling me, “Even in isolation, you are building joy… You are building a home.”

Now, as I write the closing lines of this story late at night, the Candle of Peace burns quietly beside me.

No rush. No noise. Just light.

And something inside me has shifted.

I understand now…

Peace doesn’t arrive when life becomes easy.

Peace arrives when we choose to trust, even in the middle of uncertainty.

So tonight, I leave you with a promise for this Advent:

I will seek peace, not only for myself, but for those who cannot find their own.

I will speak gently.

I will forgive quicker.

I will breathe deeper.

I will love slower, enough to notice the people who feel forgotten.

May this week bring peace into your home, into your thoughts, your rest, your family, your heartbeat.

May you remember that God’s peace is not fragile.

It is strong enough to carry you through storms.

And just like the candle that refuses to flicker out,

Peace can live in you, too.

Right now.

Right here.

The Christmas Chronicles of 2025 continue…

with hearts learning the sacred art of stillness.

May the Peace of Christ dwell with you, today and always. ✨🕊️

God Bless Us All…

— Jacob Mascarenhas

Author | Storyteller | Founder of AWritersTip

Discover 5 Powerful Stories — Written from the Heart, Inspired by Hope.

 

1. The Vigil of Hope:- The Vigil of Hope on Amazon.com

2. The Grumpy Old Man:- The Grumpy Old Man on Amazon.com

3. Lina's Winter Friend:- Lina's Winter Friend on Amazon.com

4. My Romantic Rendezvous With Greece:- My Romantic Rendezvous With Greece on Amazon.com

5. Fate is a Thread Woven Across Lifetimes:- Fate is a Thread Woven Across Lifetimes on Amazon.com

All Books are available on all Amazon Sites and in different formats, too, like Kindle, Paperback and Hardcover.

👉 Grab your copies today and begin the journey.

- Jacob Mascarenhas

Author | Storyteller | Founder of AWritersTip

The Christmas Chronicles 2025 First Sunday of Advent – Hope

 The Christmas Chronicles 2025 First Sunday of Advent – Hope

“When the First Light Dares to Rise”

Jacob Mascarenhas

Dear Readers,

The night was cool, almost shy, as December tiptoed into the world once again. Lights began to blink along rooftops, some elegant and sleek, others mismatched but filled with love. Somewhere, near an old chapel where bells slept quietly until Christmas Eve, I stood with a small journal in my hand, the fresh pages still smelling of promise.

This was the beginning, not only of Advent, but of something far more personal. I had survived another year. A year that had tried me, broken me, rebuilt me, and brought me here. A year in which I had wrestled shadows and climbed mountains made of my own tears. Yet here I was, alive, breathing, grateful.

I opened the journal. The first page had four handwritten words:

“The Christmas Chronicles Begin - 2025.”

A deep breath left me, as if those words themselves carried weight. I whispered to myself, “This is the year I choose hope again.”

Inside the chapel, candles flickered in a line, four tall purple ones and a single pink one, waiting patiently for their turn to shine. Today, only one would burn: the Candle of Hope.

The priest spoke of beginnings, of light pushing through darkness, of the world waiting for something divine to arrive quietly under the night sky. I listened, my heart echoing every word. I didn’t feel like the same man who stumbled into January with worry and doubt weighing him down. I was changed, weathered, yes, but changed for good.

I looked around. People filled the pews, families, elders, and children fidgeting in their seats. And then there were those who sat alone, the ones who had lost someone this year, the ones carrying silent grief like invisible backpacks. I knew those types well. I had been one of them.

The priest’s voice softened as I said, “Advent is the season of waiting and trusting. We wait for hope to awaken, for love to be born again.”

My gaze drifted back to the candle, the first flame of Advent rising like a blessing. Hope. Even the smallest flame was capable of pushing away vast darkness. And perhaps that was the whole point.

After Mass ended, I didn’t rush to leave. Instead, I remained standing beneath the tall nativity scene, still under a purple cloth, hidden until Christmas Eve. I pressed my journal to my chest and whispered a quiet prayer:

“Lord, this year took so much from me, but You gave me strength to keep going. Thank you to the people who stood with me. Thank You even for the pain, because somehow it taught me to see joy again.”

A soft voice interrupted my thoughts. “Your candle didn’t go out.”

I turned, a little startled. It was an old lady with warm eyes and a walking stick. She nodded toward the candle I held, one of the small vigil lights people kept as a symbol of their Advent prayer.

“A flame that survives the night,” she said, “means you still have something to live for.”

I smiled, a real smile, one that came from gratitude instead of obligation. “This is true. And I think I finally believe it.”

She leaned closer and spoke with the gentle authority of a grandmother, “Don’t forget to share that hope. There are many who are tired this year.”

I nodded. Her words became a mission rather than a suggestion.

Outside the chapel, the world hummed. Children laughed. Someone rang a bicycle bell. Carols drifted from a shop window. Life continued, imperfect, noisy, beautiful.

I walked toward the main street, where a tall Christmas tree stood proudly in the town square, decorated by volunteers, shaped by the hands of strangers who all believed in something greater than themselves. On the highest branch, a star waited to shine, though the lights were not yet switched on.

I sat on a bench near the tree. The breeze carried a chill, but it also carried something else, possibility.

I opened my journal again and wrote:

“This year, I didn’t just survive. I created.

I wrote stories when I felt broken.

I shared words when I thought my own voice was gone.

I published five books, born from pain but written with hope.

And two more are coming during Christmas.

I didn’t give up.

God didn’t let go.

And now, I want to help others feel the same hope.”

As the ink dried, I closed my eyes. I could hear the soft whisper of my own spirit, something I had ignored for too long.

Be there for people.

Pray with them.

Listen to their stories.

Let your heart be a haven.

Those thoughts didn’t feel like ideas; they felt like direction.

A little boy approached my bench, clinging to a worn teddy bear. His mother followed behind, looking frazzled from the long day.

“Mister, is that your book?” the boy asked, pointing to my journal.

“Well,” I laughed lightly, “not a book yet. But maybe one day.”

The child’s eyes sparkled. “It will be. I can tell.”

Children had that strange gift, to speak truth without knowing how beautiful it sounded.

“What’s your teddy’s name?” I asked.

“Hope,” the boy replied without hesitation, hugging the bear tight.

I exchanged a small glance with the child’s mother, who smiled tiredly. “He named it after school,” she said. “They told him Advent is the season of hope.”

The boy waved goodbye and ran off, tiny footsteps echoing into the square.

Hope. There it was again, stitched into every corner of the evening.

A street musician began playing a soft melody nearby, Silent Night in a gentle instrumental version. People paused just to listen. The tree lights suddenly flicked on, and the entire square glowed with wonder. Gasps filled the air, kids pointing, elders smiling, teenagers pretending not to be impressed but failing miserably.

I watched the star on top shine brightest. Something warm stirred in my chest. The year had been long and unfair in places, yes. But it also gave me purpose, creativity, and resilience.

I remembered nights of depression, when breathing felt like a chore. I remembered prayers that sounded more like broken whispers. I remembered moments I almost gave up, and the strange divine strength that kept me moving anyway.

Now here I was, not defeated. Not forgotten. Not alone.

I felt grateful.

Not for everything, but for what came from it.

A notification buzzed on my phone. Messages from friends, readers, and strangers poured in, people asking for prayers, people thanking me for my books, people sharing their own burdens.

I didn’t feel overwhelmed this time. I felt called.

I typed a simple reply to one message:

“I’m here. Tell me what you need me to pray for.”

As I hit send, something clicked inside him.

This, this right here, was my mission for Advent.

Not grand gestures.

Not expensive gifts.

Not public accomplishments.

But presence.

Being there for others.

Hearing their sorrow.

Sharing a little light.

Lighting one candle at a time.

I opened my journal again and wrote the second entry of the night:

“The Christmas Chronicles of 2025 begin with a promise:

I will walk with others through their darkness.

I will pray for them.

I will listen to those who feel unheard.

Because hope isn’t something we keep,

It’s something we share.”

I paused and looked at the flame still gently burning in my vigil candle. The old lady’s words came back:

A flame that survives the night means you still have something to live for.

I held that candle closer, letting its warmth touch my fingers.

“Lord,” I whispered into the night air, “use me this Advent. Make me, even in my weakness, a light for someone else.”

The bell of the chapel rang suddenly, a single chime carried by the wind as though heaven wanted to say Amen.

I stood and looked once more at the giant Christmas tree, now glowing like hope itself. I imagined all the lights representing stories, people who hurt, people who healed, people still searching for a reason to believe again.

I smiled and tucked my journal beneath my arm.

“Let’s begin,” I said softly.

And with that, The Christmas Chronicles of 2025 officially opened, not with fireworks or festivities, but with a quiet heart choosing hope anew.

A story not just of Christmas, but of people.

Of prayers.

Of gratitude.

Of a world waiting for a Saviour to be born again.

And I, walking into the night, carried a flame that refused to go out.

Here’s to a blessed and hopeful Advent journey ahead. 🌟

May God walk beside you through every day to come.

God Bless Us All…

- Jacob Mascarenhas

Author | Storyteller | Founder of AWritersTip

Letters from Awriterstip – Week 44 The Beginning – Letters from “Awriterstip,” Volume 1

 Letters from Awriterstip – Week 44

The Beginning – Letters from “Awriterstip,” Volume 1

Dear Readers,

There comes a moment in a writer’s journey when scattered words begin to find each other again, like birds that somehow know exactly when to return home. Today, as I sit here at the edge of November, breathing in the quiet of the first Sunday of Advent, I realise that all the letters I’ve written this year, every reflection, every confession, every whispered message I shared with the world, have slowly been gathering themselves into something larger than I ever expected.

A Book!!!

A Special Book!!!

This is not just a book. It is the story of a year. It is the story of a man who wrote through storms and still learned to stand. It is the story of someone who kept sending out letters even when life pressed heavily on his heart, even when doubt curled itself around his spirit, even when silence seemed louder than God’s voice. And now, as I shape this final chapter, I find myself looking at all those words with a strange mixture of wonder and gratitude. They are not just pieces of writing; they are pieces of me.

Every letter in Volume 1 carries a part of my truth. Some were written on days when inspiration flowed easily, as if the words had been waiting at the door for me to arrive. Some were written on days when I had nothing left, days when I stared at the screen with trembling hands, wondering why anyone would want to read the thoughts of a man who was barely holding himself together.

Some letters came from pain, others from hope, some from faith, and some from nights when faith felt like a distant country.

But no matter what the day brought, I kept writing. I kept showing up. I kept sharing. Not because I was strong, but because writing was the only way to keep myself from falling apart completely.

There were days when I asked God why life moved so slowly. Why did some dreams remain stuck, no matter how much I prayed? Why has this year held more uncertainty than clarity?

I had so many unfinished manuscripts, so many stories waiting in baskets, so many books that whispered to me in the dark, reminding me that I was far behind. But now, as Advent begins and this year prepares to close its final pages, I am learning to see things differently.

Maybe it was never about moving fast; maybe it was about learning to be faithful in the slow seasons. Maybe it was about learning how to breathe again. Maybe it was about learning to trust again.

As I near finishing or closing Volume I, I feel something like a gentle surrender, an acceptance that this collection belongs to this year and no other. It is the record of a season in which I stumbled, rose again, broke down, stood up, questioned myself, prayed quietly, doubted loudly, and still found the strength to write.

Above all, these letters also helped someone out there feel less alone, but before anything else, they helped me. They carried me. They preserved me. They reminded me that no matter how heavy life becomes, God doesn’t stop giving us small miracles to hold on to.

This Advent, I am choosing to draw a line here. Volume 1 ends now. And I will continue to write more letters, which will begin with the new year, a new season, a new, renewed spirit, new reflections, and a heart ready to write again. December will be the month I give fully to my unfinished books, to my ongoing stories, to the chaos of manuscripts that have been patiently waiting for my attention.

But I want to make one thing clear: I am not disappearing. I will still be present, still visible, still sharing tiny sparks of inspiration across my platforms. Even if December becomes a private writing month, I will not vanish from your screens. I am here, still breathing, still creating, still smiling quietly behind the words.

And through all of this, I must say this: my gratitude begins with God. None of this, this book, this year, this small miracle of words, would exist without His grace. He held me in moments when I thought I would collapse. He carried me on nights when my exhaustion was the only thing I could feel. He whispered strength into my heart when I felt empty. Even when I disappointed Him, even when I strayed, He remained patient with me. This book is my offering back to Him, a small thank you for a year full of unseen mercy.

Also, I dedicate and feel gratitude for this book to a beautiful and amazing soul who helped me and supported me. Who lives in the land of the rising sun. If it weren’t for her true words of empathy and compassion, “ Jacob, I think you have to publish a book,” If it weren’t for this soft spoken voice, I wouldn’t have been able to start to publish my books. Thank You.

I dedicate this volume to my readers, my subscribers, my clients, and every single soul who has walked with me in this journey. There were days when your messages kept me going. Your support, your kindness, your encouragement, these were the light on the days when my own light dimmed. To my children, whose existence gives me purpose. To my parents, whose foundation still holds me. To friends who stayed, to strangers who turned into silent angels, this book is as much yours as it is mine.

I also carry gratitude for the platforms that gave me a home. Substack, LinkedIn, Medium, X, Bluesky, Blogspot by Google, each one offered a little corner where my words could breathe and travel. Google and Microsoft helped me shape ideas into manuscripts. Every digital space that welcomed my thoughts has my thanks. They were the bridge between my lonely desk and the world outside.

And today, on this meaningful 30th of November, the first Sunday of Advent, I will be getting ready to finish this new book, Volume I. There is something deeply symbolic about getting it ready to be published now, during this season that is all about waiting, hoping, preparing for light. Advent is the journey toward something new, something holy, something healing. And in a way, this book carries that same spirit. It is born from struggle, held together by faith, and carried forward by grace.

But before I close this chapter completely, I want to share something personal, something that surprised even me this year. A small story that began quietly and unexpectedly. A story about Christmas. A story about me.

It has been almost five years since I last celebrated Christmas properly. Five long years. I didn’t plan for it to be this way. Life simply became heavy. Some years I didn’t have the money. Other years, I didn’t have the heart. Slowly, December stopped feeling like Christmas and started feeling like any other month. I stopped decorating. I stopped choosing a tree. I stopped lighting the house. And over time, without even realising it, I became like a quiet version of Ebenezer Scrooge, or even Mr Grinch, not angry, not bitter, but someone who had forgotten how to celebrate.

This year, something changed. I don’t know what. Maybe it was the exhaustion of being emotionally quiet for so long. Maybe it was the desire to feel something again. Maybe it was Advent whispering softly to my soul, reminding me that light can still enter dark places.

Or maybe it was just a small, innocent curiosity. But whatever it was, I found myself looking online for a Christmas tree. Not a big one. Not something fancy. Just a tiny two-foot tree, the cheapest one, thin, simple, barely 300 grams. It came with a string of small LED lights powered by three button batteries. That was all I could afford.

The moment I placed the order, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years, a small stirring inside me. A kind of anticipation. I just received the tree yesterday evening, and still, the idea of it has already begun to warm my heart. I started imagining what it would look like in my dimly lit room, glowing softly in a corner. I imagined decorating it, not with ornaments I don’t have, but with creativity. With madness. With the strange ideas that live in a writer’s mind.

I took out my old touch lamp, the one with the 3-inch shade and the circuit below it. A simple lamp I had forgotten about. As I touched it, an idea sparked, an absolutely crazy one.

What if I turn this lamp into the base of the Christmas tree? What if I drill a hole on top so the tree’s trunk fits inside? What if the lamp becomes the glowing heart of the tree, lighting it from below like a lantern? I know it sounds strange, but that is how creativity returns, quietly, unexpectedly, through small moments of madness.

I even found the base of my podcast mic stand and realised it fits perfectly under the lamp. Suddenly, my mind began sketching out the whole thing: a tree standing on a lamp, glowing from underneath, held firmly by a mic stand base.

Something unique. Something handmade. Something mine.

And that’s when I realised something deeper.

It wasn’t about the tree. It wasn’t about the lamp. It wasn’t about the DIY project. It was about the feeling behind it.

For the first time in years, I felt like I wanted to celebrate Christmas. Not with grandeur, but with heart. Not with decorations, but with meaning. This year’s Christmas tree is not an ornament; it is a quiet symbol of hope returning to me. A small sign that after five years of silence, I am ready to let light in again. That I am willing to feel again. That I am preparing myself, slowly, clumsily, honestly, for a new season.

Advent is about waiting for light.

This tree is my small, personal advent.

A reminder that even a faint spark can warm a cold room.

A reminder that even when life feels uncertain, creativity finds a way back.

A reminder that God still breathes quietly into the corners of my heart.

Also, a reminder, “The Vigil of Hope,” this book I published recently, is more than a book; it is a quiet place where prayers breathe and hope rises again. It was born from the simple desire to stand beside those who feel unseen, unheard, or overwhelmed by life’s weight. Every page carries a candle of comfort, a soft prayer whispered into the darkness, a reminder that no pain is too small for God to notice.

In a world where people suffer in silence, where many carry wounds that never show on the surface, this book becomes a companion in the night, holding their hands, listening to their hearts, and gently lifting their spirit toward light. Whether you are searching for strength, healing, or just a moment of peace, The Vigil of Hope offers you warmth in the coldest seasons of your life. I invite you to support this mission of love and comfort, and allow this book to be a blessing in your home, your family, or in the hands of someone who truly needs it.

Together, let us keep the vigil for hope still lives, and morning always comes.

And now, as I close this final chapter of Volume I, I want to leave you with the blessing that has been building in me all this month.

So I invite you, gently, warmly, that when the book is published, to pick up a copy, to sit with these letters, these articles, these reflections, and allow them to walk with you the way they walked with me. This book is not just mine; it belongs to everyone who has lived, loved, struggled, prayed, and hoped this year. It is a small offering, with gratitude, humility, and a heart full of thanks.

As this year gently moves toward its close and the soft glow of Christmas begins to settle across our hearts, I want to leave a message for everyone stepping into this sacred season.

Christmas 2025 is not just another holiday; it is a reminder that even in a world full of noise, there is still a quiet place where love breathes, where forgiveness heals, where hope is reborn, and where God still whispers strength into our souls.

May this Christmas bring you peace that calms the storms inside you, joy that lifts you when life feels heavy, and light that guides your steps into the new year. May your homes be filled with warmth, your families be wrapped in grace, and your hearts overflow with gratitude for the little blessings that often go unnoticed.

As we prepare to welcome 2026, I pray that the new year becomes a doorway to new beginnings, new courage, new dreams, and new stories yet to be written. May the coming year be kinder to you, may it open roads that were once closed, and may it strengthen your faith in ways you never imagined. And wherever you are, whoever you are, know that my prayers and wishes travel with you.

Merry Christmas 2025, and a blessed, abundant, joyful New Year 2026 to you and your loved ones.

May God walk beside you through every day to come.

God Bless Us All…

- Jacob Mascarenhas

Author | Storyteller | Founder of AWritersTip

A THANKSGIVING STORY - A HEART THAT LEARNED TO RISE AGAIN...

A THANKSGIVING STORY - A HEART THAT LEARNED TO RISE AGAIN...

Jacob Mascarenhas

Dear Readers,

Today, on the 27th of November, 2025, as the world celebrates Thanksgiving, I find myself reflecting on a journey that has tested every part of me, my faith, my strength, my hope, my very will to live.

Five years ago, life was not what it is today. I was buried in a darkness that seemed endless, drowning in a misery that refused to let me breathe. My heart was tired, my mind was exhausted, and every morning felt like the same nightmare waking up again. I carried scars that no one could see, wounds that cut far deeper than flesh, and a loneliness that rattled inside my bones.

But where I saw the end, God saw a new beginning. Where I believed I had been abandoned, grace quietly waited for me to rise.

There were days when the hurt was so heavy that I questioned why I was still here. People around me assumed I was fine because I smiled, because I walked, because I still tried to show strength… but inside, I was shattered. Every breath felt like a negotiation between giving up and holding on.

The emotional pain was fierce, betrayal from people I trusted, the collapse of dreams I once held close, a life that had turned unfamiliar and cold. I thought I had lost everything. I thought I had lost myself.

Yet, in that broken state, something unexpected began, a whisper in my soul, a call to rise, a gentle nudge from God telling me: Write. Speak. Tell your story. Let your pain become your purpose. And so, trembling with fear but holding on to the faintest thread of hope, I opened a blank page, and that one page became a door.

Writing became the candle in my darkness. At first, my own hand felt foreign to me, my own words seemed fragile and uncertain. But the more I wrote, the more the pain began to transform. Tears turned into paragraphs. Silent screams turned into sentences. Nightmares turned into lessons. And slowly, God stitched me back together, not as I was before, but stronger, wiser, softer and braver.

Through writing, I discovered my calling. Through storytelling, I found my voice again. Today, I am the author of five books, each one a testament that even a shattered heart can still create beauty. I thank God for giving me courage when I had none left. I thank Him for lifting me when I couldn’t stand on my own. I thank Him for teaching me that broken people can still be chosen.

One of my books, “The Vigil of Hope”, was born from the same deep place of hurt where I once thought I had no future. It became a book not only for myself but for the world. A book written to help others pray for each other, especially those who feel forgotten, because I know what it means to feel unseen. That book carries the message that no matter how dark life gets, a single prayer can be the spark that saves a soul. If that book can comfort even one person in their darkest hour, then all the suffering I endured becomes a seed that grew into hope.

But God didn’t send me on this road alone.

Even in moments where loneliness surrounded me like walls, He placed important people in my life, some to lift me, some to challenge me, some to teach me, and yes, some to hurt me so deeply that I would be forced to grow. I am grateful to every single one of them, to the ones who supported me and to the ones who broke me, because both shaped my transformation.

People like Yuko Deneuville, whose presence and influence made me rethink many things, people who helped me see life with new clarity. People who opened my eyes in ways I never expected.

And even those who judged me, misunderstood me, or turned away, today, I hold no resentment. Instead, I thank them, because they unknowingly contributed to the man I am becoming.

I am thankful for every voice that encouraged me, every reader who believed in my words when I was still learning to believe in them myself, every Instagram, Substack & LinkedIn subscriber, every fellow writer who cheered me on during days when my confidence collapsed.

You have been my unexpected special family, a community that knows how to embrace one another’s hearts through words alone. When I thought nobody cared, you proved that souls connect in ways far deeper than geography. Your support has been a blessing I never saw coming.

I am especially grateful for my children, Evan & Ivanka, the stars in my sky, the life within my life, and the love that keeps my heart beating. They have seen me struggle, yet they continue to hold my hand, reminding me that a father’s love must always rise regardless of the storms.

I pray that God blesses them always with success, happiness, and protection. May they always know how proud I am of them, and may they never forget that they are the reason I choose to keep moving forward.

Yesterday, something powerful happened, something I did not expect, but everything within me needed. I attended a talk, a webinar organised by two remarkable individuals, Yuko Deneuville & Laetitia Martos, whose words did not just reach my mind, but went straight to the depths of my heart.

They spoke about living a life where we boldly declare, “My Freedom is My Gold Mine”, a freedom from fear, from limitations, from the chains of the past. They spoke about living a “Life with No Regrets”, stepping into our greatness without apology, without guilt, without allowing the world to silence the spark God has placed within us.

Their voices carried truth with such passion and conviction that for a moment, time itself seemed to pause. I sat there, completely taken by surprise, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions I felt: gratitude, hope, excitement, and a sense of awakening. I was genuinely lost for words, but my heart… my heart expanded, as though it had suddenly grown four or five times larger, filled with courage and possibility again.

That session reminded me that I am allowed to believe in myself, allowed to dream again, allowed to rise into the fullness of who I am destined to be. It made me feel unique again, special again, chosen again. And I am deeply thankful to those two individuals, whose names I will mention with honour, Yuko Deneuville and Laetitia Martos, because their message came at the perfect time, right when I needed that push, that reminder that life is still waiting for me to truly live it. Their heartfelt, overwhelming words will stay with me for a long, long time. For in that moment, I truly felt it, freedom is mine, and I refuse to live with regrets anymore.

And as I look back, I realise something powerful: sometimes God hides His blessings in heartbreak. If those painful years had not happened, I would have never discovered the writer inside me. I would have never awakened this voice that now refuses to stay silent. I would have never known how strong I could be until being strong was no longer a choice.

What I thought was punishment became preparation. What I thought was the end became the foundation of a new beginning. When everyone expected me to disappear into that silence forever, God was crafting a comeback, one that I myself never saw coming.

I remember nights when I sat alone in the dark, staring at the ceiling, asking God, “Why me?” Why was everything falling apart? Why did people I trusted hurt me? Why did life become a battlefield? And in those silent moments, God did not answer me with words; He answered with survival. With breath. With mornings that still arrived. With chances to keep moving. With ideas that visited my mind whispering that the world still needed my voice. And every time I wrote a chapter, every time I shaped a story, every time I filled that next blank page, it was another victory over the pain that once controlled me.

This year, especially, I have learned that healing is not a straight line. It is messy, unpredictable, and filled with days where progress feels invisible. But slowly, the heart learns to trust again, to love again, to dream again. Today, I can finally say that I am not the same man I was five years ago. I am no longer the man who feared tomorrow. I am the man who fights for tomorrow, who builds it, who writes it, who believes in it. The boy inside me who once felt abandoned by life has now become a man guided by purpose.

So on this Thanksgiving, I am not only celebrating where I am today, but who I have become along the way. I celebrate the strength I never knew I had. I celebrate the tears that taught me what courage is. I celebrate the rise after every fall.

Some people may look at success as fame or luxury, but for me, success is this:

To wake up each morning with hope.

To continue my work, no matter who supports it or who doubts it.

To leave behind a legacy of stories that might touch someone’s life.

And to my children, to say, “Dada didn’t give up.”

Because today, I am grateful not only for life, but for hope.

And even though in reality I may spend many days of my life alone, my heart has never stopped loving. My table may be quiet, but my prayers are loud, lifted for every family, every friend, every stranger who needs a touch of God’s comfort. I may sit alone in my room, but I will never stop praying for the world. Because love does not need a crowd, it only needs a willing heart.

Not only for what I have, but for who I am becoming.

Not only for the journey, but for God who walked beside me the whole way.

A CHRISTMAS WELCOME

As Thanksgiving gently folds into the quiet wonder of Advent, I feel a different kind of gratitude stirring inside my heart, a gratitude not just for what has been, but for what is coming. Advent is a season of waiting, yes, but also a season of believing. It is a time when hope becomes a light that flickers stronger each day, reminding us that God’s greatest miracles often arrive quietly, like a whisper in the night.

Just as a single star once guided the world to a humble manger, I pray that the light of this season guides each of us to peace, to joy, and to deeper love. Christmas is not only a celebration of a birth… it is the celebration of new beginnings, of promises fulfilled, of hearts healed and made whole again.

This year, more than ever, I want to walk into Christmas with a heart full of thankfulness, for every breath, every lesson, every blessing that has carried me to this moment. As we step into Advent, may we carry forward the spirit of gratitude from Thanksgiving, transforming it into kindness, compassion, generosity, and love.

May our homes glow a little brighter, may our prayers reach a little deeper, and may our hearts open a little wider, ready to welcome joy, ready to welcome grace, ready to welcome Christ.

With a grateful heart,

God Bless Us All.

Jacob Mascarenhas

Author | Storyteller | Founder of AWritersTip

Awriterstip

🌍 A Message to the World: Let Us Pray for Peace...

 

My Dear Readers,

On this solemn day of remembrance,

When the world once watched our Lord was crucified on the Cross,

We are reminded of the sacred power of silence, sacrifice, and hope.

This is not just a day of mourning,

It is a day when we remember that from the deepest sorrow,

comes the promise of resurrection.

To every heart across the earth,

Every nation torn by conflict,

Every soul weary from division,

We say this:

Let us pause.

Let us bow.

Let us remember that peace begins when we pray together,

even from different faiths, tongues, and lands.

Let our prayers rise not as whispers of fear,

But as declarations of unity.

Let our voices echo not with anger,

But with the desire to heal,

to forgive,

to love again.

This Good Friday,

let the blood shed on Calvary remind us

that violence is never the final word.

Peace is.

And peace begins with us.

Wherever you are,

Whoever you are,

Join us.

Light a candle.

Say a prayer.

Embrace your neighbour.

And together, may we become the peace this world so desperately needs.

Amen.

God Bless Us All…

JacobM

🕊️ Prayer for Peace (Good Friday)

 🕊️ Prayer for Peace (Good Friday)

Prince of Peace,

On this holy and wounded day,

We lay before You the trembling world.

From the anguish of the Cross,

Pour out Your mercy on nations torn by war,

Homes scarred by division,

Hearts aching with loneliness and fear.

Bring peace, not as the world gives,

But as you alone can,

a peace that stirs even in the shadow of death,

a peace that listens, forgives, and heals.

Let swords be turned to ploughshares,

and enemies into brothers.

Let the silence of the tomb become the silence before resurrection.

And until that dawn,

Let us be carriers of Your peace, gentle, brave, and unyielding.

Amen.

JacobM