Statistics are facts. It is good that is counted: so much of this and so much of that. For example, there are many statistics about the war that is currently raging in the Middle East. So many days, so much damage, so many casualties.

There are also statistics about shipping - especially with the Strait of Hormuz. According to official news reports, up to 20,000 seafarers are currently trapped on ships in the Persian Gulf. Until recently, 18 ships had already been shot at and many deaths were reported. The Saesa Vishnu was attacked and 38 crew members were rescued from the ship. 

Large shipping companies have stopped shipping traffic in the area. This also applies to ships transporting critical products such as oil tankers and container ships.

These are statistics. The statistics are likely to increase in the future.

But behind the statistics there are seafarers. Men who are trapped with limited supplies and internet connection. Sailors living in fear and mortal danger. Minimal communication with loved ones at home with no idea what the next hour will bring.

Behind the statistics are the emotions of sailors. This is the core of the crisis. Not the number of this and the number of that. Raw emotions that cannot be soothed by the whistling of bombs and missiles.

These are our people. CSO's people. Some of those sailors may have already crossed CSO's path. Sometime in the future when everything returns to normal, some of those traumatized sailors may cross CSO's path. Then they need us.

It is only prayer and the Word of the Lord that can make a difference. Let us join hands and fold our hands in prayer for the sailors affected by the war. Add them to your prayer groups. Let us all pray together because the prayer of a believer has a powerful effect (James 5:16). These men desperately need our hand-holding prayers.

The young cadet smiles widely. Nico, our Chaplain in Durban, stands on deck of a majestic cargo ship. Next to him is a young man, his eyes wandering in the direction of the ocean, as if he is standing on deck here and now, but also as if he is at home already. There is fatigue in his shoulders, showing months of stress, waiting and longing. At the same time there is a new light - a wide smile - showing the inner conviction of someone that now lives for more than only himself. He smiles as if he knows, secretly, that the world became bigger and smaller in a single breath. He became a father only yesterday.  

He has not had the opportunity to hold his son yet, but suddenly he is aware of the enormous weight of being a father. He proudly shows the pictures on his phone. He jokes about his unbelievable wife and says it is the most beautiful little boy that had ever been born. He talks quietly about the baptism that awaits them and about a home full of faith. They will call him Joshua. The end of March lies like a life-buoy on the horizon. It marks the end of a contract and the beginning of a family. If he could only hold him for a moment before then and introduce himself - he explains with a smile but a tear in his eye. Nico and the young man pray together, in gratitude. 

On the opposite quay Chris visits ships too. At the top of the step ladder he meets a security guard that he has known for years. His body language is different. His shoulders are down, tense, his eyes are restless, his body speaks of mistrust that stays with him like a shadow. 

Chris greets quietly and merely asks, "How are you?"

The question hangs between them for a moment, like a rope that does not know whether it is fixed or not.  

Then it breaks. "My mother," he says. Then nothing. He only breathes heavily. Eventually, as if it required all the courage in the world, "She is dead". She was not ill. She was not old. She was murdered. The weight of the single word hangs heavily and dark in the air.  Chris knows that there are no easy answers or explanations in such a case. These would be like carrying water to the ocean. It is a senseless task. He only needs to be there. He only has to place his hand on a shoulder. He has to tell him that God knows about his pain, that God knows for certain. So they stand, a step between the quay and the deck. They are somewhere between the past and now. They are between pain and hope. A Chaplain and a son without his mother. They pray together urgently.  

The same day. The same harbour. Two stories, one of life and of loss. One of hope being born and one of hope that has died. At the CSO we stand exactly there - on the quay when joy is running over and when hearts are breaking. If we did not do it, no one else will do it for the men working at sea.  

Won't you consider, pray and think again about supporting us financially? We want to be on the quay rain or shine, for each man working at sea, to help them being aware, all the time, that God is Great!

One could start the year in pessimistic mode, full of black thoughts. One could hear the evening bell on New Year's Eve, marking the start of a new year as a mere refrain, a repetitive verse of the same old worn out lyrics. One could feel that it is another year to be spent in the desert, walking in circles, soon tired, broken, frightened, unstable, bitter, hardened or simply without courage. One could secretly wish for the peace of Christmas time. 

One could listen to Grigory on board his ship anchored in Port Elizabeth and begin to believe that nothing can be repaired. One could believe that plans and experience lead to nothing. One could even begin to feel that longing becomes too difficult to handle, how loneliness stalks you like a stealthy lion, one could even believe that old dangerous rhythms will repeat themselves maliciously again and again. One could so easily drown in hopelessness, even that the sharpest mind does not hold any answers for the heart. 

One could also listen to Cebo's story and run the risk of repeating a hopeless minor chord. On the ore quay in a strange country he talks with sorrow and gall bitter words about drugs that stole his daughter from him. One could allow guilt and powerlessness to grow together, allowing silence to become a hiding place. One could believe that a father's heart may start to dissolve slowly in hopelessness.

One could listen to Gabriel, a seaman from the Philippines. He tells his story and you feel how distance between you and those you love could make you bitter. One could hear each beep of a mobile phone as a reminder of everything you cannot repair when you find yourself on the other side of the globe, very far from your family.  

One could soak in a lack of hope. It is easy. It comes without effort. It is everywhere around us. These could be reasons - all of them - to start this year with deep mistrust.  

But, a Child was born for us. It changes the way in which we see the new year categorically. It allows us to hope with Grigory, Cebo and Gabriel. It allows us to look around us with fresh eyes, to see new possibilities - because the Child changed everything. 

Thank you so much for your financial support. The CSO appreciates it immensely, because it ensures that the men visiting our harbours are reminded of the Child and of the Cross. That is why there is hope in 2026!   

Wrapping each Christmas present is like a holy ritual: A warm knitted beanie is unfolded before inserting a mug and bookmark carefully, like a special treasure to help survive many cold nights on the deck of a ship, protecting against the elements. A scarf or a pair of knitted gloves (some made of crazy coloured wool) is added to each package. The knitting is like a mountain range, displayed on tables in the Seaman's Centre where they pack the parcels. This is the result of thousands of hours of patient handwork - a process of inserting, wrapping, pulling through, throwing out ... repeating. A packet of Mentos, a razor, a notebook, playing cards or a fridge magnet are also added.  

Eventually the box flaps are closed individually, hoping that somewhere on the remote seas a heart will beat faster, warmer and lighter when the package is opened. Two thousand and forty six parcels are finally ready after a morning's work. It looks like a majestic monument in the corner of the Seaman's Centre. 

From here, our Chaplains will take the parcels to ore carriers, oil ships, gas carriers, container ships and ships transporting cars or other goods. On board the ships the Chaplains will also give the men a Bible in their own languages.  

Each package is like a missionary station. It will travel to places where our feet will never walk. The packages will go north to the icy ridges of Alaska, south to the tip of Agulhas, east to the neon lights of Busan, west to the Santos harbour where the sea always smells of salt and stories. The packages will follow the rivers of the world on trade routes to corners of the earth we can only dream about. 

Then, somewhere on a stormy night or during a quiet guard shift, a man working at sea will raise a mug, pull a beanie over his ears, or let his eyes rest on the words of John 3:16 hidden inside the mug and be reminded of the Child born - for him too. A Saviour that knows the waves, a Redeemer that knows how far away home may feel.

This Christmas your donation leaves its footprints across the Globe. You are leaving traces of the Child of the Manger. This Christmas is not different. We shall share the message of the Christ Child with men working at sea, because that message is always relevant, on time and unbelievably necessary. Thank you so, so much for helping us do exactly that. May you also experience, this Christmas time, the rich and unconditional, abundant Blessing of the Child in the Manger.

A Blessed Christmas!