When No One Sees - But God Sees Everything... Lenten Reflections "Ash Wednesday."

 When No One Sees - But God Sees Everything...

Lenten Reflections "Ash Wednesday."

Jacob Mascarenhas

Dear Readers,

(Ash Wednesday Reflection – Matthew 6:1–6, 16–18)

Today is Ash Wednesday. Today, the Church marks our foreheads with ashes and reminds us of a truth we often avoid: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” These words, drawn into the rhythm of our hearts at the beginning of Lent, are not meant to frighten us but to free us. They strip away illusion. They quiet our pride. They return us to what is essential. The Gospel proclaimed today from the Gospel of Matthew 6:1–6, 16–18 invites us into a spirituality that is hidden, sincere, and deeply personal. Jesus speaks of giving, praying, and fasting, not as performances for others, but as intimate acts offered quietly to the Father who sees in secret.

There is something profoundly comforting in knowing that God sees in secret. He sees what others miss. He sees the silent battles, the unspoken fears, the private tears, the attempts to begin again. Lent begins not with noise but with humility. It begins with the acknowledgement that much of our spiritual life has become external, visible, even performative. We live in a world that rewards exposure, applause, and recognition. Yet Christ gently calls us back into the hidden room. “When you pray, go into your room, close the door.” That instruction alone feels revolutionary. Close the door. Step away from the crowd. Leave behind the need to be seen.

Repentance, at its heart, is not self-condemnation. It is a return. It is turning around. It is realising that somewhere along the journey we may have drifted into distraction, into pride, into self-reliance and choosing to walk back toward God. Today is not about shame; it is about honesty. The ashes on our foreheads declare that we are fragile, temporary, dependent on grace. And strangely, that truth liberates us. If I am dust, then I do not have to pretend to be invincible. If I am dust, then every breath is a gift. If I am dust, then God alone is my strength.

As I reflect on my own journey, I recognise how quietly God has been guiding me. In the seasons when I thought I was simply writing stories, forming ideas, shaping reflections, or learning how to draw and create images, something deeper was happening. He was teaching me patience. He was teaching me discipline. He was teaching me humility. There were moments of frustration when words would not come, when creativity felt dry, when doubt whispered that perhaps I was not capable. Yet even in those moments, something unseen was taking place. Growth often happens in secret, just as Christ describes. Seeds do not sprout in public; they break open underground.

Jesus warns us today about practising righteousness “to be seen.” That phrase touches something uncomfortable in the human heart. How often do we do good while secretly hoping to be acknowledged? How often do we pray, serve, give, or even suffer in ways that we wish others would notice? Lent challenges that subtle desire. It asks us to purify our intentions. When we give, can we give without needing praise? When we help, can we help without recounting it later? When we forgive, can we forgive without announcing our generosity? True charity is quiet. True love does not demand an audience.

Prayer, too, becomes different when we remove the audience. It becomes less about eloquence and more about presence. There have been times in my life when prayer was nothing more than sitting in silence, uncertain of what to say. There were days when I simply placed my confusion before God and admitted, “I do not understand.” Yet even in that simplicity, something sacred unfolded. The closed door becomes a sanctuary. The hidden conversation becomes a transformation. God shapes us not through spectacle but through stillness.

Fasting, which we begin today, is perhaps the most misunderstood ritual of the Lenten practices. It is not a display of endurance or a contest of willpower. Jesus tells us not to look sombre, not to exaggerate our sacrifice. Fasting is about making space. When we voluntarily deny ourselves something, food, comfort, or distraction, we create room within ourselves. Hunger becomes a reminder that we depend on something greater than bread. Emptiness becomes an invitation. The slight ache in the body becomes a prayer of longing.

Yet fasting is not limited to food. This Lent, perhaps we are called to fast from harsh words, from unnecessary arguments, from constant comparison. Perhaps we are invited to fast from scrolling endlessly, from seeking validation, from clinging to resentment. These hidden fasts may be even more powerful than the visible ones. They purify the heart quietly. They soften us in ways no one else may ever notice.

Healing often begins where no one is watching. Lent gives us permission to confront what we have buried. Old wounds, disappointments, regrets, failures, these can surface gently in the quiet of prayer. The Father who sees in secret also heals in secret. He does not humiliate us. He restores us. Looking back, I can see how many of my struggles became the soil from which creativity emerged. Pain refined my voice. Doubt deepened my reflections. Loneliness cultivated imagination. What once felt like emptiness became preparation.

There is a mysterious pattern in the way God works. He allows seasons of wilderness before renewal. He permits silence before clarity. He leads us through humility before exaltation. Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of that wilderness. Forty days stretch before us, not as punishment, but as a pilgrimage. This is a time to let go. To release pride. To surrender control. To detach from the versions of ourselves that are driven by approval or fear.

Letting go is never easy. We grow accustomed to certain habits, certain identities, certain ways of coping. But today’s ashes remind us that everything temporary will eventually fall away. Only what is rooted in God remains. If something within me needs to die so that something holier can live, then Lent is the season to allow that transformation. Death in the spiritual sense is not destruction; it is pruning. And pruning prepares for fruit.

The promise embedded in today’s Gospel is quiet but powerful: “Your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” The reward is not necessarily visible success. It may not be applause or immediate answers. The reward is intimacy with God. It is the deep assurance that He knows, He understands, He walks with us. There is peace in that. There is freedom in that.

As this Lenten season begins today, I do not want to approach it mechanically. I want to approach it sincerely. If I fast, let it create space for grace. If I pray, let it cultivate trust. If I give, let it purify my love. If I repent, let it draw me closer to the heart of God. This is not merely a tradition repeated each year. It is an opportunity to begin again.

Today, the ashes mark us, but the true work will unfold invisibly in the days ahead. In hidden prayers whispered before dawn. In small sacrifices, no one notices. In quiet acts of kindness that never receive acknowledgement. In the slow reshaping of the heart. The Father who sees in secret is already at work. And if we walk these forty days with honesty and humility, we may discover that what begins in ashes leads, quietly and beautifully, toward resurrection. 🌿

Closing Prayer for Ash Wednesday

Heavenly Father,

Today, as the ashes rest upon my forehead, I stand before You aware of my fragility and my need for Your mercy. I am dust, yet I am loved. I am imperfect, yet I am called. As this Lenten season begins, I ask You to lead me into the quiet places where transformation truly begins.

Teach me to repent sincerely, not out of fear, but out of love. Show me where my heart has hardened, where pride has taken root, where distraction has replaced devotion. Gently turn me back to You. Give me the courage to let go of what is not from You and the humility to admit where I need healing.

Lord, help me to pray in secret, to seek You without needing recognition. Help me to give without counting the cost, to love without seeking applause. As I fast, may it not be an outward display, but an inward surrender. Empty me of what does not serve Your will, and fill me with Your grace.

You have guided my steps more times than I can see. You have inspired my thoughts, strengthened my creativity, and carried me through seasons of doubt and silence. Continue to shape me during these forty days. Refine my intentions. Purify my heart. Deepen my trust.

Father who sees in secret, walk with me through this Lent. When I grow tired, strengthen me. When I stumble, lift me. When I am tempted to perform rather than transform, remind me that Your presence is enough.

May this season prepare me for something new, a renewed faith, a gentler spirit, a heart more aligned with Yours. And when Easter comes, may I rise with Christ, not only in celebration, but in true renewal.

Into Your hands, I place this Lenten journey.

Amen. 🌿

Until next time…

God Bless Us All…

- Jacob Mascarenhas

Author | Storyteller | Founder of AWritersTip

Happy New Year 2026!!!

Dear All,

As we step into a new year, I’m not wishing for noise or speed, but for clarity, kindness, and courage.

A new year doesn’t demand reinvention, only honesty.

May we move forward a little lighter, a little truer, and more attentive to what truly matters.

May the coming days bring healing where there was hurt, wisdom where there was confusion, and hope where patience has been tested.

May our homes know peace, our hearts know mercy, and our paths be guided with humility and love.

I pray for health, healing, and hope, for all of us, everywhere.

Wishing you peace in your days, strength in your trials, and grace for the journey ahead.

Happy New Year 2026!!!

God bless us all,

Jacob Mascarenhas

A Wish For the World - 2026!!!

 

The Discipline of Silence!!!

 

The Christmas Chronicles 2025 - Christmas Day

The Christmas Chronicles 2025 - Christmas Day

“When Love Finally Takes Flesh”

Jacob Mascarenhas

Dear Readers,

Christmas morning carries a different kind of light. It does not rush through the window. It arrives gently, as if respecting the sacredness of what has already happened. I woke early, not because of excitement, but because something inside me was already awake. The waiting was over. The promise had been kept.

The first thing I did was walk toward the crib. There He was, small, silent, fragile. A child who could not speak, could not walk, could not defend Himself. And yet, this child carried the weight of eternity. This child was the answer to every Advent candle we had lit. Hope had become visible. Peace had taken form. Joy had found a face. Love had entered the world without armour.

I sat beside the crib and allowed the moment to sink in. Christmas Day does not erase reality. Pain does not vanish overnight. Empty chairs do not suddenly fill. Bodies do not instantly heal. But something fundamental changes: God is no longer distant. God is no longer theoretical. God is with us.

I thought of Mother Mary that morning, young, tired, overwhelmed, yet holding love in her arms. I thought of Joseph, who stood quietly beside her, faithful without recognition. I thought of the shepherds, invited not because they were important, but because they were available. Christmas is not about status. It is about openness.

A few messages began to arrive on my phone as the morning unfolded. Simple wishes. Quiet prayers. Gratitude. Reflections. Each one reminded me that Christmas connects us across distance, circumstance, and difference. We may live separate lives, but today, we share one truth: we are not abandoned.

Later, I stepped outside. The air was crisp, but welcoming. Church bells rang in the distance. Children played. Some families gathered. Some individuals walked alone. Christmas Day holds space for all of it. It does not judge the shape your joy takes. It simply offers itself.

As the day progressed, I found myself reflecting on everything that had led to this moment. The physical pain I had endured. The isolation. The doubts spoken aloud and silently carried. The pressure to prove myself. The quiet perseverance it took just to keep writing, keep believing, keep breathing. And yet, here I was, not because I was strong, but because God had been faithful. For God was with me always.

Christmas Day reminded me that love does not arrive as a solution. It arrives as presence. God does not promise an easy life. He promises companionship. He promises meaning. He promises that nothing we endure is invisible.

I returned home and sat once more beside the crib. The same simple figures. The same small lights. Nothing extravagant. And yet, it felt complete. Not because it was perfect, but because it was honest. This was my Christmas. Quiet. Hard-earned. Grateful.

I realised then that Christmas is not a single day. It is a posture of the heart. It is choosing gentleness over bitterness. Faith over fear. Presence over performance. It is understood that love does not need to be loud to be real.

As the day started, I offered a prayer of gratitude. For survival. For creativity. For the courage to try again. For the people who supported me. For the readers who stayed. For the lessons learned in solitude. For the grace that met me even when I did not know how to ask for it.

Christmas Day did not shout.

It whispered.

“You are loved.”

“You are not forgotten.”

“You are not finished.”

And that was enough.

May this Christmas remind you that God meets you where you are. May love find you in the ordinary. May peace settle into the places that still ache. And may hope continue to walk beside you, long after the decorations are put away.

Christ is born.

Merry Christmas to everyone.

God Bless Us All… 🎄✨

Jacob Mascarenhas

Author | Storyteller | Founder of AWritersTip

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The Christmas Chronicles 2025 - Christmas Eve

 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

A Christmas Letter...

A Christmas Letter...

My Beautiful Stars...

Jacob Mascarenhas

A Christmas Letter to Evan and Ivanka

My Dearest Evan & Ivanka,

As Christmas comes around again, I find myself thinking of you both more than words can carry. Christmas has a way of doing that; it gathers memory, love, longing, and hope into one gentle season, and it places them softly in the heart.

Wherever you are tonight, whatever this season looks like for you, I hope it finds you safe. I hope it finds you warm. I hope there is laughter around you, and light, even if it’s only a small one.

I want you to know something, clearly and without condition:

You both have always lived in my heart.

Every year that passes does not take you further from me. It carries you deeper into who I am. You are present in the quiet moments, in the pauses between thoughts, in the way I notice kindness, and in the way I still believe in goodness even when life feels difficult.

Evan, my son,

I hope you are growing into your strength gently. I hope you are learning that courage doesn’t always roar; sometimes it simply shows up and keeps going. I hope you know that your father has always been proud of you, not for achievements or victories, but for who you are becoming.

Ivanka, my daughter,

I hope you are discovering your own voice, your own light. I hope you know that tenderness is not weakness, and that intelligence paired with kindness is a rare and beautiful strength. Your father has always carried you with immense pride and quiet wonder.

There are so many things I wish I could say in person, but until life allows that, let this letter say what matters most:

I love you.

I never stopped loving you.

I never stopped thinking of you.

Love does not disappear because of distance. It does not vanish because of silence. It does not expire with time. Love waits. Love stays. Love remembers.

This Christmas, I wish you peace, the kind that lets you sleep well at night.

I wish you health of body, mind, and heart.

I wish you joy, not loud or forced, but real and steady.

And as the New Year approaches, I wish you courage to become fully yourselves, without fear.

If someday you read this, know that it was written without bitterness, without blame, and without conditions. It was written simply by a father who wanted his children to know that they were, and always will be, deeply loved.

May this Christmas be gentle with you.

May the coming year be kind to you.

And may life, in its own time, bring understanding, clarity, and peace to all of us.

May God always be with you both.

Merry Christmas

May your heart find peace,

may your spirit feel hope,

And may this season wrap you in love.

With all my love, always and forever.

Dada

Jacob Mascarenhas

Author | Storyteller | Founder of AWritersTip

My Dearest!!!

 

A Christmas Wish!!!

 

Merry Christmas!!!