Shining Light into Darkness – by Ruth Bonetti

Last Sunday, the third Advent candle was lit in churches to speak of joy. But have you ever wondered at candles on Christmas cards? How can Australians relate to the  light without living through a northern hemisphere winter? During interminable long winters, where the sun straggles out for a few hours before retreating, we learned the significance of solstice light. 

We first celebrated St Lucia Day in Sweden. Scandinavian countries, including Swedish speaking Finland, celebrate St Lucia day on 13 December, drawing on the Italian St Lucia.  Hear my own memories in a narration of Burn my Letters:

St. Lucia was killed by the Romans in 304AD because of her Christian beliefs. It’s told that she secretly brought food to the persecuted Christians in Rome, who hid in catacombs under the city. She wore candles on her head so that she could keep both of her hands free to carry food. It is also from the Italian Lucia that the Scandinavian Lucia gets her red satin belt from portraying Saint Lucia’s blood, and representing her sacrifice.

On my first European tour, we members of Queensland Youth Orchestra arrived in Rome. After a tantalising glimpse of the Coliseum, we visited catacombs. Did I tread similar paths on St Lucia's beat? 

I hoped to replicate St Lucia Day celebrations for my grandchildren (especially lovely Luca whose name means light and who is fascinated by light. As am I. My first name, Helen, means light.) I was rather relieved when the family pleaded December=BUSY! Wake up at 4am to usher in the sun and guests with coffee, fresh baked saffron buns and mulled wine? Get real. 

Solution:

Attend a celebration on the Saturday night before, hosted by Swedes Downunder.

Back in 1995

We drove three young sons through the arctic winter in a campervan. (Crazy brave, non?) Its heating expired at the first snowfall but we were warmed by interludes in snug beds, enjoying hospitality from friends and family across Europe. Rarely did a Jingle Bell jar.  (My allergy to Jingle Bells abated when playing it with Noosa Orchestra and the sassy Kitty Kats vocal trio.)

 

Along the way we enjoyed many Advent music concerts, especially a sung Christmas Eve mass in Oberammergau. There, my spirit craved a Bavarian wood carving, despite our straightened budget. 

While living near the Arctic Circle, I collected wood-carved nativity scenes, birch bark stars and angels.

Another tantalising thought:

Was my grandfather, WA Back, drawn to develop a sizeable part of the Brisbane suburb, St Lucia, because of his childhood memories? Read all about that in The Art Deco Mansion in St Lucia. 

Hanukkah, the Jewish Festival of Light, begins an eight-day celebration on 18 December. Whatever your faith, consider:

What light can you shed on this Christmas season?

How will you bring the Light of the World into your writing this Christ-mass season? 

Ruth BONETTI lived seven years in Europe, two in Sweden. There she imbibed her Finland-Swede heritage and was blessed with a treasure trove of letters, parish records and stories. One planned book grew into the Midnight Sun to Southern Cross trilogy. In this, she weaves discoveries of her forbears with her own journey in life and music. 

Email Ruth for information about her January Writing Life Stories webinar and for mentoring. 

Website for autographed copies (books sure beat sox for Christmas gifts!)

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Audio book: Speak Out–Don't Freak Out

Spreading Christmas Cheer by Ruth Bonetti

‘Tis the season to be jolly. 

Define jolly:
"Someone who is happy and cheerful in their behaviour. Synonyms: bright, funny, lively."

Let's celebrate the season...

Rather than focus on the day. After all, December 25 owes some poetic license to monks and Roman calendars. Let’s value and enrich time with loved ones, whatever the date. 

Lifeline help calls peak over the festive season. Credit cards max. Many over-indulge and over-imbibe. 

Hair fractures can split relationships. Split families haggle over time—quantity amid hopes for quality. Trying to prove and outbid love by choosing ideal gifts, aided by Chinese sweat shop imports.  As families scatter across the globe, offspring spread their wings into their own nests, Christmas can become fraught with in-law negotiations. 

This time last year I told how such scattering of dates meant we shared our home on Christmas day and dinner with four unattached, grateful people. Thank God for prompting me to ask my son “Can you think of anyone at a loose end who’d like to come?” Indeed, he did. Glad you suggested it. 

He brought his mate –let’s call him Jack—who was alienated from his family, whose colleagues didn’t understand his offbeat wit. Shunned by peers jealous of his formidable musical genius. 

We invited another lonely soul who struggled to form and keep friendships. Again an exceptional talent, but given little credit or encouragement for that. Bad experiences had recycled, spiralled to trigger action fight or flight responses that further alienated others. We’d done our best to support him through workplace bullying, not too overt for the boss wielded the cutting word axes.

Jack could talk for hours on any topic; philosophy, physiology, ornithology, religion (and misuse of it), the state of the world. After-life or nothing-after. His sharp mind played with ideas, his nimble fingers played anything that made sounds. In rehearsals Jack’s deadpan black humour sometimes got people off-side. Why should he care? He didn’t fit into institutions, didn’t want to. No boxes could contain him.  Jack spoke his mind–too well. Just as that sharp tongue slashed through staccato riffs. 

And six months later he died.
How tragic that Jack’s alienated family didn't organise a funeral to farewell friends, to celebrate his life and gifts. They didn’t give him the time of day, even one hour. But we gave him his day. 

Reflect before we point fingers

What phone calls could we make, to reconcile with others? Before it's too late? Rather than see them next over--or in--a coffin, before it's to late?

Don't we all bring some pocket sized-ones demons to our festive gatherings? Submissive ones? Do we dodge that argument (green/left vs. deplorables, anyone?) by activating our mouths with more pavlova or alcohol?

Do we skirt around loved ones who refuse eye-contact, unable to a risk a debacle by ramming through decades’ long impasse? Another drink, anyone? Do we wound with criticism (veiled of course), judgments, directives? 

Grant us Thy peace.  

One discordant note is enough to jar interpersonal harmony. 
Be the one to resolve discord with a healing cadence. 

May your Christ-mas time be blessed with God’s love, joy and understanding. 

And may you pass His peace to all you meet.

RUTH BONETTI wrote about her wintry Christmas experiences in Sweden and Finland in Burn My Letters, winner of the 2017 CALEB Nonfiction award. She sends love and prayers to all who battle fire in this tough summer season.

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Christmas Stories & Fairytales

by Charis Joy Jackson

Once upon a time, I wrote a short story about a girl who wanted a Father because Father's are good at providing for their families and because the girl needed to be provided for. It was allegorical and fantastical in nature. The girl travels to Faerie and finds a Wish Box and wishes her father into existence.

I wrote it because I'd forgotten what my Heavenly Father was like as a Dad. I'd conformed to the world's idea and my relationship with Papa God was suffering for it. Especially in the area of provision.

It was winter in Alaska, and we were a couple weeks away from Christmas. I'd been lying in bed, complaining to God, when a sudden stirring filled me to write. It was already near midnight, but I crawled out of bed, and the comfort of warm blankets, pulled out a notebook and pen and began to write:

Ava watched the hail pound on the thin sheet of glass and wondered if the window would hold against the relentless assault. Far on the street below fairy lights danced in the storm, silent reminders of the Christmas season. Ava tucked herself back under the covers but couldn't lie still, the events of the day filled her young mind with worry.

Today, more than anything, she wished she had a Papa. The landlord had come and Ava heard him tell Mama that they needed to come up with this month's rent by next Friday or he’d be forced to have them evicted. She’d seen the look on Mama’s face and knew unless there was a miracle, they would be spending Christmas on the streets.

Within a short time, The Fairytale Child was finished, and I settled back under the covers, escaping the chill of the room, and fell into a deep slumber. Dreaming of my story and the revelations God had taught me in those wee hours about Him being a Father, especially one who provided for His children.

All this happened about fifteen years ago now. Strange to think I'm on a similar journey, and needing, yet again, another reminder that Papa God is a good provider. Funny how we sometimes have to learn things over and over again. I think that's why Jesus told stories because we can read them again and again and glean new lessons each time.

Other than reading The Fairytale Child aloud to a small group of women about fifteen years ago, who wept and thanked me for the powerful words, this story has been buried under a mountain of snow, aka - lost in a digital field of white and blue folders in my writing files.

That is, until one Australian winter day ...

At the beginning of the year, God spoke to me about 2019 being a year of renewing hope. Renewing my understanding, giving me hope for the Big Story He wanted, and still wants, to tell with my life and pushing me to join the adventure of hope by joining the world of indie publishing.

So, I toyed with the idea of releasing my novel, The Rose Of Admirias, as an indie author. But as I researched how to do this, I was soon lost in a world of new vocabulary and technology. And overwhelmed by how much editing my novel still needed. The whole process became daunting. Terrifying. And I found excuse after excuse to not follow through.

But Papa God was whispering to me, telling me to be brave. To hope for the future He had for me. Reminding me of little Ava and the terrifying adventure she faced one lonely Christmas.

Then a friend of mine released a short book as a means to gain more readers before they release their book next year. Something about this stirred me to action, and the next thing I knew, I was piecing together a collection of original short stories to indie publish. And Too Bright: And Other Stories Inspired By The Dreamcatcher's Journal was born.

And ...  

The Fairytale Child found a new home. A new place to shine.

As I began to edit the collection together, I was reminded of the lessons learned along the way. Co-creating worlds and characters with Papa God, weaving space operas together alongside high fantasy. Each story a creation, each story inspired by life lessons. Especially little Ava's.

The Christmas season is one filled with joy and celebration. But life's obstacles don't wait for holidays to come and go before bringing trouble, and for many, this season will be filled with hardship, tears, and heartache for the closeness of family, among other heavy burdens.

While it would be easy to allow the weight of uncertainty pull us down, we can find hope in the stories around us. Whether that be in creating a new short story, novel, or watching a film. We can look for God in every word and ask Him to teach us the important lesson Ava learned:

That night after Mama tucked her in, Ava thought of Papa and his promise to take care of them. She smiled, knowing he'd shown up today. He really was faithful.

Perhaps it's because it's the holidays, but I'm reminded of the hardships another family endured long ago. A small family who shared the warmth of a stable, while a chorus of angels sang of Papa God's provision to the world. Despite their difficulties of having no room after a long journey, I like to think Mary and Joseph,  still smiled and rejoiced while shepherds came and angels sang.

Only God knew this story would end at a cross, and yet He still sent his angels to sing, still planted a star (a thousand years in advance to that day) to shine for wise men to come and celebrate the birth of the King of hope.

Whatever you face this holiday season, whether it's the joy of being surrounded by family or pushing through a season of heaviness, I hope these glimpses of stories, some true and some inspired by true things, help you find new hope and new reasons to rejoice. And new stories of your own. Imagined and dreamed and created with the Creator. Because through the thick and thin Papa God is right there and always will be, a faithful provider who gives good gifts to His children.



Charis Joy Jackson works as a full-time missionary with Youth With A Mission (YWAM) in Queensland. During the day she mentors young adults, teaches on several topics including worship, intercession, and how to makes movies. In her spare time, she spins stories of speculative fiction and captures her crazy dreams in print. 

 

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Too Bright: And Other Stories Inspired By The Dreamcatcher's Journal ebook is now available on Amazon, the paperback will be available in February 2020

Jingle bells, Santa sells – by Ruth Bonetti

Australians all let us rejoice this Yuletide—though, by the sea, turkey maybe garnished with sand and sweat. How to capture the spirit of Christ-mass without snow, mistletoe and holly? 

Shopping malls are awash with tinsel, Jingle-Bell-muzak and Santa—who was invented for Coco-Cola advertisements. With his reindeer and unfashionable bulk, he muscled out the Christ Child. I'm allergic to reindeer hype and tempted to shoot Rudolf through his red nose, even if the animal liberationists counter attack. Swedish Christmas trees are decorated with cornstalk goats, not reindeer–they're ho-hum common.  While living near the Arctic Circle, I collected wood-carved nativity scenes, birch bark stars and angels to add to my Aussie pot plants.

The season of giving-–or gimme?

European gifts are given on December 6, St Nicholas’ Day. Music, services and candles lead Advent into Holy Night Mass on Christmas Eve. Northern hemisphere celebrations of the Light of the World make vivid images. Candles feature on Christmas cards and trees. The sun struggles out like a tired invalid for a few blinks mid-morning and fades by 3 pm.

Multimillion dollar marketing strategies set up parents for checkout tantrums. Glitzy TV ads build Christmas hype. Actors’ happy smiles rub vinegar into loneliness.

Counsellors know this is a peak time for lifeline calls. Relationships fracture. Split families juggle quality vs. quantity time. Frazzled striving to create a perfect day, choose the ideal Chinese sweat shop gifts. Great expectations shatter. Credit cards suffer. Many over-indulge and over-imbibe. 

Scarcity Angst

Family Christmas dinner at the redbrick riverside house. As six-year-old small fry, I am demoted to a coffee table overflow. My nostrils flare and tummy rumbles as plates laden with turkey, ham and vegetables pass along the tables—then halt. Granddad pronounces the blessing. Over the rattle of cutlery, I chirp several times before they hear, ‘Where’s mine?’ Mum scrabbles another plateful together. 

            [Excerpt from Midnight Sun to Southern Cross]

The Happy Families Myth

Loose cannon comments blitz harmony.  In my teens, catty barbs made me feel unwelcome in my own home. I fled south to camp on a friend’s couch.

The next lonely years looked out my window at the happy-family lights of Brisbane and prayed for love. That maiden’s prayer was answered. Antoni and I married 45 years ago, our relationship cemented by seven years in Europe. 

Our first European winter 

As struggling students armed with Eurail pass and backpacks, we blitzed an unrealistic £10 a day budget; youth hostels were chuiso, fermé or geschloßen for the festive season. Also banks, in the dark ages before internet fund transfers. The Vienna-Venice train offered six-hours’ sleep. Next night Venice-Rome, then Rome-Venice. 

We shared plates of goulash soup or spaghetti; a half-cup of tea still warmed throats. On Salzburg Bahnhof platform a stranger gave chocolates called “Manna.” This tiny gift warmed our hearts like a sunburst from heaven. Our marriage was firmed by sharing life’s basics; food, shelter and love.
Two years later:

Aussie friends landed on our Swedish doorstep just after our travels had depleted our cash. The refrigerator was bare except for a dubious slab of lutfisk cod. How to make it edible after the usual evil processes of salting and soaking in lye? I wrinkled my nose. Knowing tourist budgets, how could I ask the friends to take us out to dinner? Margaret resorted to hints of reading my recipe books. There was no other choice: the smelly cod. 

                                         [Excerpt from Burn My Letters]

Gifts of time, friendship and hospitality

We drove three young sons through the arctic winter in a campervan. Its heating expired at the first snowfall but we were warmed by snug beds, hospitality from friends and family. Advent music concerts, sung Christmas Eve mass in Oberammergau uplifted our spirits.

Last Christmas we shared with four unattached, grateful people. Six months later one died, too young. Alienated from his remaining family, no one organised a funeral to celebrate his life and gifts. 

Reflect; what phone calls could you make to reconcile with others before it’s too late?
Rather than see them next over—or in—a coffin, why not share Christmas cheer?

May your Christmas be truly blessed with God's peace, love and joy.
Rejoice!


RUTH BONETTI is grateful for opportunities to explore her Scandinavian heritage family traditions, written up in her two-part saga, Burn My Letters and Midnight Sun to Southern Cross. She will share ways to surmount the challenges of Writing Family Stories at Omega Writers Book Fair on 16 March, 2019.
Follow her blog and FaceBook pages:
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