Happy New Year!

New Year Wishes

To all our readers, benefactors and friends - 

a Happy New Year to you all!

May peace and blessing be yours.

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette

With thanks to the stone artist

Happy Christmas

For unto us a Child is born
Unto us a Son is given

Happy Christmas and a Blessed New Year!

We remember Christ's Birthday and the joy and hope it brings us.

Let's make this next year the best one ever!

A candle has been lit for each Lumiere Charity Coffee Break reader.

The picture of Mary of Nazareth and Jesus was drawn by

one of the children Lumiere Charity assists.

With thanks to the artist.

Please click this link for the beautiful song by Amy Grant

'Breath of Heaven' - Mary's song

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPbV_HTpyx0

With thanks to Ms Grant, Mr Jose Tony Cortes and Youtube

Why not purchase this inspirational music

and sing it in your Church choir?

Derek Redmond - Triple Gold

Running the race of the road of life

Derek Redmond was favoured to win in the Olympic 400 metre sprint. 
He had spent so much time and dedication preparing himself for this moment, the moment for winning an international event. 
Winning the race would have guaranteed him renown as a gold medal winner. 
What actually happened was the failure of his dream to win that particular event through serious injury which occurred shortly after he began the race.
He went on, instead, to win a triple gold.

Gold medal one - personal completion of a long sought after goal against, literally, all odds; and completion of that goal with grace, dignity, and the best in the human spirit.
Gold medal two - he showed us all the true lesson that alone, we can struggle. Together, with a father or mentor, we can do anything.
Gold medal three - instead of merely winning an event, he won all our hearts

There are those of us who do not have a earthly father or someone in our lives to help us along our way.
However, there is always Our Father in Heaven watching over us.
We are - truly - never alone.

Watch the link below for this inspirational story.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCAwXb9n7EY

The donkeys with bared teeth

Catherine Nicolette
Many years ago I was doing Charity work in a squatter camp. 
Having made many friends there over the years, I used to enjoy visits to the camp as it became as much a social visit as a Charity visit. 
On one particular occasion it was a bright sunny African day, the thorn trees were in abundance, and there was a lovely fresh breeze which kept the sun from being too hot. 
A perfect day, in other words.

On this particular day a fellow Charity worker and I arrived for our regular clinic and found, much to our surprise, not even one patient. 
Everyone was healthy and happy, and they laughed at our surprised faces. 
"Everybody is well today", a group of ladies of sturdy build and wearing traditional dress told us. 
They had waited at the Clinic. 
"But now we want to say thank you for all your care of us, so we have prepared a surprise for you.
We heard the little sister say she always wished she could go for a ride on a donkey cart," - (they nodded their graciously turbanned heads in my direction) -" and we have arranged a ride for her. And you", they courteously added to my colleague.

Picturesque scene
My friend did not look too enamoured of the idea, but I was immediately delighted.
I had indeed remarked on a number of occasions as we drove patients to hospital in our trusty and rickety red van, that I would love to have a ride on a donkey cart. 
This, it must be noted, was as we bypassed the patiently plodding donkeys with gentle eyes and humble demeanour as they pulled the wooden carts - a most picturesque scene.  
I persuaded her however, to go for the ride.
"The donkeys are quiet creatures," I declared, "they won't hurt you. You'll see."

Rolling eyes
I was not to know, however, that the ladies had enlisted a young teenager to drive us around the settlement. He had taken a bet with his fellow teenagers that he could scare the life out of us; he and his friends used to have donkey cart races. 
Until then I had not known such a thing existed. 
So we climbed into the cart. 
I must confess, I felt slightly uneasy as the donkeys which were to pull our cart were wild looking creatures, which rolled their eyes as we climbed on and bared their teeth, snorting in what seemed to be anger. 
Far from my idea of the humble and quiet donkey.

Once we were on, the lad gave a loud "Yi,yi,yi,yi!" slapped the reins on the donkeys' backs, and I kid you not, they leapt into action like the horses of Charlton Heston's chariot in the great race against Messala. 
The wind fairly whistled as we hurtled grimly around corners, holding on to the homemade seats for dear life. (There are no safety belts in a donkey cart). 
Eventually the lad, looking at my thrilled countenance, said, "Nothing seems to rattle you, does it?" 
I think he was thinking that he was going to lose his winnings from the bet with his friends. 
"Well," he said, "Let's see what you think of this!" 
He whistled at the donkeys, slapped the reins on their backs, and on his command, they started backing up to the large donga (a deep ditch) which was like a miniature Grand Canyon at the edge of the camp. 
They did not stop until his nerve failed, at which point the two wheels of the cart were teetering over the edge of the donga, and the two of us in the back were leaning backwards over the donga. Our headscarves hung downwards in a straight line with the force of the gravity. 

Chased back home
My friend by this time was too scared to utter even a sound; I was laughing away. All I could think of was, if this is the way I am going to go, at least it will look interesting on my obituary.
"Killed during charity service in a donga during a donkey ride." Our teenager was disgusted. "Nothing scares you, " he said. 
And he clicked the donkeys forward out of danger, and back to the matrons who had been uttering cries of distress and trying to chase after the cart every time it whirled by them. 
Once he climbed off the donkey cart, the matrons chased him back home, furious that he had endangered their two friends. 
He ran off as his friends stood laughing and calling after him that they would be along to the shack later to collect their winnings.

Never again
And my friend? After giving one whimper, she climbed, shaken, into our van and sat silent. 
Once we were in, just before we got home, she came out of her reverie, and said quietly, "Never invite me to do anything like that again." 
I agreed amicably. My dream of a gentle ride behind humble and quiet donkeys had suffered somewhat of a reverse, and I had no desire to test my luck again. 

The next time I visited the camp, the matrons were there with profuse apologies. There was not a teenager or donkey in sight. They had all been grounded for a long, long time...

*Picture taken by Catherine Nicolette in beautiful South Africa. Please fee free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose

Radiant roses and the waterfall garden

Catherine Nicolette;
Beauty of Ireland
Often I wander through the Irish countryside, or walk through the villages looking at the incredible gardens. The beauty of Ireland, with its green and wooded paths, the glowing flowers, the sparkling drops on a shy spider's web, never ceases to enchant me. 
I love nature, that beautiful creation of God.

Well; that brings me to my story. When I was about nine years old, and my brother about seven and a half in age, we used to walk home together every day from school. 
I adored my brother, and loved to listen to his stories about what was happening in his class. 
Together we came up with a plan; every day to show our mom our love for her, we would pick a bunch of flowers.
 I rather think my brother came up with the suggestion, and I immediately fell in with it. It was a great idea.

Discussed at length
We discussed this plan at great length on the walks to and from school. Where would we get the flowers? Only the best ones would be good enough for Mom.
And so, for a year, we used to arrive home every day, each with a bouquet of flowers which we had carefully picked from the gardens as we passed. 
We scrutinised each garden carefully, and only chose flowers from the most beautiful ones. 
We had a name for each garden; the very best was on the right hand side, halfway down the road. I called it the 'Morning glory waterfall', the reason being that one entire garden wall was covered in ivy green Morning glory leaves with the largest Morning glory blossoms of deep hues of lilac through to deepest purple. It was magnificent.

The grass of the garden was a thick felt green carpet (almost impossible to achieve in the broiling South African sun) and best of all, beautiful flowers of every hue glowed everywhere. 
We used to decide as we went along which were the best blooms of the day.
The only garden which daily came up to our exacting standards, and from which we picked every single day was from the Morning glory waterfall house. 

Waterford crystal vase
Mom used to cry out, "Where did you get these lovely flowers?" as she carefully placed them in water in her Waterford crystal vase she had saved from her time in Ireland with Dad; one of the few pieces of crystal we kids had managed not to smash as we made our way through boisterous childhood. 
"Oh, we picked them along the way," we would always tell her, and then escape either outdoors to play, or to do our school homework.

One day my brother and I went into the garden to pick the flowers. 
There was a magnificent bush with the most exquisite and fragranced pink roses, complete with golden stamens which shimmered in the sunlight. 
As I neared the bush, I heard "Aha! So now I've caught the vandals!" and a heavy hand came down from behind on my shoulder. 
I was thrilled. I did not know what the word vandals meant.
I turned around and faced a glowering house owner. My brother and I smiled happily at him. 
"Oh, so you're the owner of this wonderful garden, " I said. "We're so glad to meet you. "

The owner was taken aback, and removed his hand from my shoulder. "Why?" he asked me nonplussed. "Well," I said, "We pick flowers for our Mom who we love very much, every day. 
We pick flowers from some of the gardens; and there is one garden where we often pick from - the garden over there..." and we pointed to a garden about a quarter way up the street.
"Yes," my brother chimed in, "they often have nice flowers, but not quite as nice as yours. In fact," he said, "the flowers weren't up to standard at all last week. So we didn't pick any. We call yours the best garden, and that the second best garden."

Unusual look
The garden owner had an unusual look on his face.
I carried on sunnily, my hands clasped worshipfully around the flowers we had already cut. 
"Yours is the only garden which is good enough to cut flowers from everyday. It's the best garden in the street." 
The man's face was a study. "You were going to pick my pink roses," he ventured. "What do you think of them?"
I touched my finger reverently towards the satin petals of the glowing goddess roses. "They are just about the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen, "I breathed reverently.
"They were calling to me across the street to come and pick them, they are so beautiful. They are without a doubt the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen growing in this garden."

The garden owner then said to us: "Children, usually people don't go into other people's gardens and pick flowers because it is considered their property. " 
My brother and I were perplexed, and very upset. "We are very sorry, sir, we won't do it again," we promised. 
"No," he said, "It's alright. You come and pick flowers from my garden every day for your mother, and give them to her with my compliments. Tell her you children have an eye for good flowers. 
Just one thing; I grow roses for the Flower competition, and the roses you were looking at are my prize roses I am growing for it. Please don't cut those." 
We agreed, of course, and went on our way.

Prize blooms
We never cut roses from the bush, but I used to look up close at them and breathe in their scent. We brought a wonderful bunch of flowers home daily until we moved from that area.
Years later I heard that the owner was an accredited horticulturist, who used to grow blooms and enter them in for fierce competitions. The owner of the garden won an award for outstanding roses for the blooms we had loved for their radiance and beauty, and his deadly rival in the horticultural stakes - the owner of the second best garden - trailed in miserably behind...
I always remember the Garden Owner of Morning Glory Waterfall house when I wander through the gracious beauty of Ireland.

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette. Please feel free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose

I NEVER KNEW CHICKENS USED SO MUCH CROCKERY

Joseph and Catherine Nicolette feeding a rescued bird

Luky:
Of my children, I believe Joseph has the kindest heart. He reminds me of the Sermon on the Mount: "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God."
When some of us are quarrelling, Joe intervenes:
"Love ditch other", he admonishes, "God says you must."

Most of his knowledge of catechism was taught him by the Sisters of St Elmo's where he made his first Communion before he returned to us.
Shortly afterwards, coming from Mass, he approached our parish priest who was standing talking to some parishioners.
"Father!" he called out joyfully, "thank you for giving me the Body of Christ!"
The people laughed delightedly; that is the effect Joe has on most of us.

Animal-lovers
The nuns taught him to be gentle towards animals.
"Never be cruel to God's creatures", he informs us. "We should look after them nicely."
He is living at the right place. Apart from me, everyone in this family possesses an animal-loving streak that can only remind one of St Francis.

I always smile when I recall walking down the street beside my eldest son. 
Those fierce dogs which usually scare the daylights out of me became as meek as lambs. 
He knew their names and histories, and they came to say hullo to him, wagging their tails.
"Don't bark at that lady", he told one diehard who was prepared to accept him but not his hangers-on. "That's my mother. I want you to be nice to her." I felt ten feet tall that day.

Joseph also likes dogs, but he prefers chickens. Years ago his father went to the pet shop to buy a dozen chicks and ducks.
The first inkling I had of this was when he returned from the shop and I heard my husband telling the children: "You're not to say a thing to the ou girl. Leave her to me, I can handle her ... Oh hello, Ma, I didn't see you there."
"Cut the blarney", I replied, "What have you been up to?"
When he produced the livestock, I pretended to burst into tears - and my dismay was only partly feigned.

Joseph haunted me until bedtime.
"Do you love the chicks and the ducks?" he demanded. "Say you do. You've got to love God's creatures."
"I don't", I said bitterly, "Give them away."

My husband told me later that Joseph came up to him and said: "I'm going to wait until Mommy  has said her prayers. Then I'll ask her if she loves God's creatures, and she'll say yes."
However, it took him a week of pleading before I became too numb to dissent.

I got used to the ducks, and only wished my children were as united as they were. 
They kept together all the time. I dreaded thinking what I was going to do with them when they grew big. 
As it was, the garage smelled like a pet shop and my few remaining dishes served as swimming pools, food receptacles and other essentials. 
I never knew ducks and chicks used so much crockery.

Can talk
Years ago Joe was angry and gossiping about Peter, a neighbour's child. 
I had him there and told him to stop skindering about God's creatures.
"He's not God's creature - he can talk", he objected.
"We're all God's creatures", I informed him, and dashed out - fearful of becoming involved in a theological discussion.

Next day I was talking to a neighbour at the fence when Joe came up to us with Peter in tow. "Mommy and Tannie, say hullo to Peter - God's creature", he said.

My son is mentally disabled. 
To me he is like the verse in the Bible:
"Consider the lilies of the field, and how they grow... I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not as one of these."

*