The Christmas Chronicles 2025 - Christmas Eve
“When the World Learns How to Wait Again”
Jacob Mascarenhas
Dear Readers,
Christmas Eve arrived not with excitement, but with a kind of sacred heaviness. It was as though the world itself had slowed down, aware that something holy was about to unfold. The noise of the past weeks, preparations, expectations, deadlines, worries, began to fade into the background, leaving behind a silence that felt intentional rather than empty. Christmas Eve does not demand celebration. It asks for stillness.
I woke up this morning feeling different. Not lighter, not happier, just quieter inside. The candles of Advent had done their work. Hope had taught me to keep going. Peace had taught me how to breathe. Joy had reminded me that laughter still belonged to me. Love had opened my heart again. And now, on this final night of waiting, all four seemed to sit together inside me, gently reminding me that the story was not finished yet.
Outside, the sky remained overcast for most of the day. A pale winter sun hovered uncertainly, as if unsure whether to stay or leave. Streets were busy, but not frantic. People walked with purpose, carrying bags, food, gifts, but there was also a softness in their movements. A patience. Christmas Eve carries both anticipation and restraint. It is the art of waiting without rushing the miracle.
As evening approached, I returned home earlier than usual. I wanted to be present for this night. I wanted to sit with it rather than pass through it. The small Christmas tree glowed softly in the corner, its lights no longer new, but comforting. The nativity crib I had built with my own hands waited quietly nearby. Mary and Joseph stood in place. The manger was empty. Baby Jesus had not yet arrived.
I sat there for a long time, reflecting on the year that had passed. It had been a year of physical pain, emotional isolation, unanswered questions, and moments where faith felt thinner than I cared to admit. There were days when my body refused to cooperate, when pain dictated the rhythm of life. There were nights when silence felt heavier than noise. And yet, here I was, still standing, still believing, still choosing to show up.
Christmas Eve reminded me that God enters the story at night. Not when everything is solved. Not when people are ready. But when they are tired, uncertain, and running out of options. Bethlehem was not prepared. Mary was not comfortable. Joseph did not have answers. And yet, God came anyway.
Later that night, I walked to the chapel for Midnight Mass. The air was cold, sharp enough to wake the senses. Houses glowed warmly from within. Somewhere, a family laughed. Somewhere else, a single light burned in a lonely window. Christmas Eve holds all of this at once, the joy and the ache, the togetherness and the absence.
Inside the chapel, the atmosphere was reverent. Candles lined the altar. The nativity scene stood ready, still incomplete. People filled the pews slowly, quietly. There were familiar faces and unfamiliar ones. Some arrived dressed in celebration. Others carried grief beneath polite smiles. No one was asked to explain themselves. Christmas Eve welcomes everyone exactly as they are.
When the Mass began, the hymns felt deeper than usual. “O Holy Night” was not just a song; it was a confession. A recognition that this night truly is different from all others. The Gospel was proclaimed slowly, deliberately. A census. A long journey. No room at the inn. A manger. A child wrapped in cloth. The story we know so well still held its power, because it reminded us that love does not require perfect conditions.
As the clock approached midnight, the chapel grew still. And then, in a moment both simple and profound, the statue of Baby Jesus was placed gently into the manger. The bells rang. Not loudly, but clearly. Triumphantly, but faithfully. And something shifted inside me.
The waiting had not erased my struggles.
But it had given them meaning.
God had not arrived to fix everything.
He had arrived to stay.
When I returned home in the early hours of the morning, the world felt hushed. Streets were empty. The sky was dark and kind. I lit a single candle beside the crib and finally placed Baby Jesus into the manger. The small lights reflected off the simple figures, creating shadows that felt alive. I sat there in silence, overwhelmed not by emotion, but by gratitude.
Christmas Eve taught me this: waiting is not wasted time. Waiting shapes the heart. Waiting makes room for grace. And sometimes, the bravest thing a person can do is trust that love will arrive, even if it comes quietly.
I whispered a prayer before sleeping. Not a long one. Just an honest one.
“Lord, thank You for coming into the world as it is. Thank You for coming into my life as it is. Stay with me.”
Outside, the world slept.
Inside, hope was no longer waiting.
Merry Christmas
May your heart find peace,
may your spirit feel hope,
And may this season wrap you in love.
Jacob Mascarenhas
Author | Storyteller | Founder of AWritersTip
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