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