Choose Peace this Christmas

 

“Peace does not begin when wars end, but when we dare to see one another as human—even across the lines that divide us.”

On a frozen Christmas Eve in 1914, enemies laid down their weapons and stepped into the space between trenches. No speeches. No treaties. Just voices rising into the cold air, sharing carols, stories, and names. For one brief night, the war remembered what it had forgotten: that the men on both sides were human.

Christmas in the Trenches does not pretend the world is healed. The song is honest about how quickly the fighting resumed, how history kept moving toward more violence. And that honesty is what makes the moment so powerful. Peace, the song reminds us, is fragile—but real. It can exist even in the most unlikely places.

This story challenges our idea of Christmas as something soft and comfortable. Here, Christmas shows up muddy, tired, and trembling, yet brave enough to cross lines drawn by fear and politics. It suggests that peace is not a grand declaration, but a decision made face to face: to see the other not as an enemy, but as a fellow soul.

In a world still marked by division, Christmas in the Trenches asks a quiet question: What trenches exist in our own lives—between nations, communities, families, or hearts? And what would it cost us to step out, even briefly, to meet one another there?

Christmas in the Trenches

My name is Francis Tolliver. I come from Liverpool
Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school
To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here
I fought for King and country I love dear
It was Christmas in the trenches where the frost so bitter hung
The frozen field of France were still, no Christmas song was sung
Our families back in England were toasting us that day
Their brave and glorious lads so far away
I was lyin' with my mess-mates on the cold and rocky ground
When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound
Says I "Now listen up me boys", each soldier strained to hear
As one young German voice sang out so clear
"He's singin' bloody well you know", my partner says to me
Soon one by one each German voice joined in in harmony
The cannons rested silent. The gas cloud rolled no more
As Christmas brought us respite from the war
As soon as they were finished a reverent pause was spent
'God rest ye merry, gentlemen' struck up some lads from Kent
The next they sang was 'Stille Nacht". "Tis 'Silent Night'" says I
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky
"There's someone commin' towards us" the front-line sentry cried
All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side
His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shone on that plain so bright
As he bravely strode, unarmed, into the night
Then one by one on either side walked into no-mans-land
With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand
We shared some secret brandy and wished each other well
And in a flare-lit soccer game we gave 'em hell
We traded chocolates, cigarettes and photographs from home
These sons and fathers far away from families of their own
Young Sanders played his squeeze box and they had a violin
This curious and unlikely band of men
Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more
With sad farewells we each began to settle back to war
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wonderous night
"whose family have I fixed within my sights?"
It was Christmas in the trenches where the frost so bitter hung
The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung
For the walls they'd kept between us to exact the work of war
Had been crumbled and were gone for ever more
My name is Francis Tolliver. In Liverpool I dwell
Each Christmas come since World War One I've learned it's lessons well
That the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame
And on each end of the rifle we're the same
-- John McCutcheon "Christmas in the trenches"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B5on4WK1MpA

 “The miracle of Christmas is not that peace once happened—but that it can still happen wherever we choose compassion over fear.”

1915 on Christmas Day : Celtic Thunder

On the western front the guns all died away
And lying in the mud on bags of sand
We heard a German sing from no man's land

He had tenor voice so pure and true
The words were strange but every note we knew
Soaring or the living dead and dammed
The German sang of peace from no man's land

They left their trenches and we left ours
Beneath tin hats smiles bloomed like wild flowers
With photos, cigarettes, and pots of wine
We built a soldier's truce on the front line

Their singer was a lad of twenty one
We begged another song before the dawn
And sitting in the mud and blood and fear
He sang again the song all longed to hear

Silent night, no cannons roar
A King is born of peace for evermore
All's calm, all's bright
All brothers hand in hand
In 19 and 15 in no man's land

And in the morning all the guns boomed in the rain
And we killed them and they killed us again
At night they charged we fought them hand to hand
And I killed the boy that sang in no man's land

Silent night no cannons roar
A King is born of peace for evermore
All's calm, all's bright
All brothers hand in hand

And that young soldier sings
And the song of peace still rings
Though the captains and all the kings
Built no man's land
Sleep in heavenly peace

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fxyw4GG2Iq4

Perhaps Christmas does not promise the end of all wars. Perhaps it offers something smaller, and more demanding: moments where we choose compassion over hatred, listening over shouting, humanity over ideology. These moments may not change history overnight—but they keep hope alive.

And sometimes, that is enough to begin.

“ Choose Peace this Christmas ”

“Peace may arrive quietly, briefly, and imperfectly—but every time we choose it, the world is changed.”.

Christmas Forgiveness + Loss

 

The Long Road to Christmas

(Moral: Forgiveness is the longest journey—and the greatest gift.)**

Ben and his younger sister, Ruthie, hadn’t spoken in nearly five years. A bitter argument over their parents’ estate had left both wounded. Their mother had always said,
“Nothing breaks a family faster than pride.”
But neither one had been ready to let go of theirs.

Until this Christmas.

Ben was driving home through a blizzard, the highway nearly invisible beneath swirling snow. His mother’s familiar voice echoed in his memory:
“Come home for Christmas. Your heart needs it.”

At a gas station in the middle of nowhere, Ben noticed a woman struggling with a suitcase. When she turned, his heart stopped.

It was Ruthie.

She gasped. “Ben? What are you doing here?”

“Driving home,” he said awkwardly. “Mom asked.”

“She asked me too,” Ruthie whispered. “My bus broke down.”

Silence stretched between them like a frozen river.

Finally, Ben said, “Get in. I’ll drive you.”

The storm worsened. Snow lashed against the windshield, and the car crawled forward. With no radio signal and the road disappearing every few miles, they sat in heavy silence.

After an hour, Ruthie said quietly, “I miss her.”

“Yeah,” Ben said, voice rough. “Me too.”

Another long pause.
Then Ruthie added, “I miss… us.”

Ben gripped the wheel tighter. “I know.”

Lightning flashed across the sky, followed by distant thunder snow.

“I was angry,” Ruthie said. “Hurt. I thought you didn’t care what I felt.”

“I cared too much,” Ben admitted. “But I didn’t know how to say it without sounding like I was trying to win.”

Ruthie let out a soft laugh. “We treat everything like a competition.”

“Even love,” Ben murmured.

The storm forced them to stop at a tiny roadside inn. There was only one room left, so they sat on opposite beds, awkward and unsure.

Ruthie finally whispered, “Can we start over? Not pretend nothing happened—just… start from here?”

Ben looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time in years.
Her eyes were tired, but hopeful.

“Yeah,” he said. “Here is good.”

The next morning, the snow cleared. They drove the rest of the way home together, sharing memories of childhood Christmases—Ruthie’s crooked gingerbread houses, Ben’s disastrous attempts at gift wrapping, their mother’s laughter echoing in the kitchen.

When they walked into the family home, their mother stood waiting, tears streaming down her face.

“You came together,” she whispered.

Ben and Ruthie exchanged a glance.
“Yeah,” Ruthie said softly. “Together.”

And that Christmas, the greatest gift wasn’t wrapped—it was the courage to forgive.

The Bells of Evergreen Lane

Moral: The heart grows when we listen for what others cannot say.

Evergreen Lane was the most decorated street in Pinebridge every December—strings of lights zigzagging from house to house, inflatable snowmen waving cheerfully at passing cars, wreaths on every door. Every home shimmered with color and sound.

Every home… except one.

At the end of the lane stood an old, weather-beaten cottage with peeling paint and empty windows. No lights. No garland. Not even a wreath. Children walked quickly past it, whispering stories about ghosts and reclusive hermits.

The truth was much simpler—and far sadder.

Inside lived Mr. Rowan, a retired music teacher who had lost his wife, Mara, the previous winter. The two of them had once been the heart of every Christmas celebration in Pinebridge. For forty years, they baked cookies for the neighbourhood, tied ribbons around lamp posts, and played handbells on their porch on Christmas Eve.

Their duet was legendary.

But after Mara passed, the bells went silent. The ribbons untied themselves. The lights burned out. And Mr. Rowan shut the door on Christmas altogether.

One snowy afternoon, ten-year-old Emma Carter, a girl with more curiosity than fear, noticed a faint sound coming from the cottage as she walked home from school—a soft chiming, barely there, as if a memory were whispering through the air.

“Mom!” she said breathlessly when she ran inside her house. “I heard something from Mr. Rowan’s! I think… bells.”

Her mother paused. “Sweetheart, I don’t think Mr. Rowan plays anymore.”

But Emma couldn’t shake it. The sound had been real—gentle, hesitant, like someone trying to remember a song they had once known by heart.

That evening, Emma grabbed her sketchbook and went back to the cottage. She sat on the snowy curb and began sketching—the house, the snow-draped roof, the bare tree branches—hoping the quiet might invite the bells again.

After several minutes, the door creaked open.

Mr. Rowan stepped outside, wearing an old sweater and a look of mild confusion. “Young lady… why are you sitting in the cold?”

Emma stood quickly, holding up her sketchbook like a shield. “I—I wanted to draw your house,” she stammered. “It looks lonely.”

To her shock, Mr. Rowan didn’t snap. He didn’t send her away.
He simply sighed.

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

There was a long silence. Then Emma asked, softly:
“Was it you? Earlier? The bells?”

A flicker crossed his face—pain? Memory?
He nodded. “I was dusting them. They’ve been hanging on the wall for a year. I touched one by accident.”

“Will you play them?” Emma asked, hopeful.

“No.” The answer was gentle but firm. “Some music hurts more than silence.”

Emma left reluctantly, but something in Mr. Rowan’s voice lingered with her—the slightest tremor of longing.

That night, she gathered the children of Evergreen Lane.

“Mr. Rowan used to play bells with his wife,” she told them. “They haven’t been heard since she died. I think… I think he misses the music. But he’s scared to feel sad again.”

“What can we do?” asked Jacob from next door.

“I have an idea,” Emma said.

And so the children began their plan.

For the next week, they decorated the outside of Mr. Rowan’s cottage—not with loud blow-up decorations, but with small, quiet things:
– hand-drawn stars laminated with tape
– soft, warm lights wrapped gently around the porch
– pinecones dipped in white paint and hung like ornaments
– tiny handwritten notes tucked near the doorstep that read, We’re thinking of you.

Mr. Rowan never came outside, but every day something moved slightly—a note taken inside, a pinecone ornament repositioned. He was watching. And listening.

On Christmas Eve, Emma led the children to the cottage with a basket of tiny bronze bells she’d bought at the crafts store.

They stood on the snowy walkway, each holding a bell. Emma knocked.

Mr. Rowan opened the door, eyes wide.

“Why are you children out here?” he asked, voice thick with surprise.

Emma stepped forward. “We wanted to bring the bells back to Evergreen Lane.”

The children began to ring their bells softly—not loud, not like carollers or performers.
Just gentle, warm chimes, like snowflakes brushing the air.

Mr. Rowan closed his eyes. A tear slid down his cheek.

“I can’t play without Mara,” he whispered.

Emma took a step closer. “Then… play for her.”

In that moment, something in him broke open. He disappeared into the house and returned holding his handbells—beautiful, polished brass, trembling in his grasp.

With shaking hands, he lifted them.

The first note was fragile, wavering.
The second steadier.
The third carried the memory of forty Christmases filled with harmony.

Soon, the bells were singing.
Mr. Rowan’s face lifted.
The children stood around him, their tiny bells chiming softly in harmony.

Neighbours emerged from their homes, drawn by the sound. Lights flicked on all along Evergreen Lane.

For the first time since Mara’s passing, Mr. Rowan’s house wasn’t dark.

It glowed.

And above it all, the bells of Evergreen Lane rang out—not perfect, not polished, but filled with heart.

• Who in your life might be waiting for a small gesture of connection this season?

" You are Special "

 

You are Special.

In all the world there is nobody, nobody like you.     Since the beginning of time there has never been another person like you. Nobody has your smile, your voice, your eyes, your hands, your hair.  Nobody has your handwriting. Nobody can paint your brush strokes.

You are Special.

Nobody has your taste for food or music or dance or art. Nobody in the universe sees things as you do. In the whole of time there has never been anyone who laughs in exactly your way, and what makes you laugh or cry may have a totally different response in another.                                                                                                                                            You are different from any other person who has lived in the history of the universe. You are the only one in all creation who has your particular set of abilities. There is always someone who is better at one thing or another. Every person is your superior in at least one way. Nobody in the universe can reach the quality of the combination of your feelings and talents.

Like a roomful of musical instruments some might excel in one way or another but nobody can match the symphonic sound when all are played together.

Your symphony.

Through all eternity no one will ever walk, talk, think or do exactly like you. You are rare and in all rarity there is enormous value. Because of your great value the need for you to imitate anyone else is absolutely wrong.

It is no accident that You are Special.

Please realise that God made you for a special purpose. He has a job for you to do that nobody else can do as well as you can. Out of the billions of applicants only one is qualified. Only one has the unique and right combination of what it takes and that one is you.

You are Special.