It is Christmas Eve and the night is drawing to a close. The clock on the wall tells me it is time for bed, but I am reluctant to leave my comfortable old chair by the fire with Sam, my faithful little terrier, asleep at my feet. The curtains are closed against the winter night and the firelight casts warm shadows around the room. I am lonely in myself and in need of company and there is a vacant chair opposite, so won't you join me, in spirit anyhow, for I would like to tell you a little story about a Christmas long ago.

But first, let me tell you how my story evolved. For the past few years the stores have been competing with each other in their display of artificial Christmas trees, each one more grand than the other, colour co-ordinated in gold or silver, pink or blue. Fully decorated with angels and stars, bells and ribbons, all ready to take away. Yet beautiful as they are, they do not appeal to me, for somehow they have replaced the traditional tree and the joy of seeing little children add their own special touch. Does it matter if the fairy sits lopsided on top, or the tinsel hangs crooked!

I am reminded now of a certain little tree and the Christmas of 1950. I was a little girl then, and I remember standing outside the village greengrocers, watching as mother surveyed the pile of Christmas trees for sale. Each one was held up for her inspection. Too tall! Too short! Ah yes, we'll take that one'. The pennies were handed over and my sister and I carried the tree home. 'Careful now,' said mother, as we squeezed it through the front door, leaving a trail of pine needles. The tree was placed in an old tin bucket, covered with red crepe paper and placed in the front window. All it needed now was the fairy lights, but as happened on many a Christmas before, the lights failed, only now there was no spare shillings to buy a new set. All through that Christmas, the little tree stood in our window, a sorry sight to passers by but how could they know that the years of prosperity had changed for this family, and that each precious penny was needed for more important things, such as food and coal. Mother had to be practical, of course, but I would gladly have gone hungry for a few days just to see the little tree lit up. Though bare of illumination, that little tree seemed to stand as a symbol of 'humility'. It showed that Christmas isn't just about coloured lights and plentiful fare, but also about people and their faith and hopes, the people of my village especially, who, during those early years of the 50's, suffered great hardship from unemployment.

Fathers took the Mail Boat to England in search of work, while mothers struggled at home and waited anxiously for the few pounds sent home. Families were divided, loved ones alone and homesick in a strange city, my own dear father included. Each night my childish prayers went out to him across the ocean. Though poor in material things, these people were never poor in spirit. They were the ones who trudged the roads to Mass, hail, rain or snow, and knelt to say the Rosary each night, though stomachs ached with hunger. They had nothing to give but kindness and a helping hand, and with these they gave generously. We were luckier than most, in that we had seen better days. We lived in a fine old house built by my grandfather, but a house is only bricks and mortar; it was my parents who made it a home.

Yet privileged as we were, we were not immune to worry and strife and unemployment made no distinction as to what home it called to. But from our mother's example, we accepted our reduced circumstances with grace and dignity, yet all the while, watching her face for a worried frown or a smile to see how things lay. We learned to sew and darn, to let out and take in. We mended broken toys and ran errands for our more prosperous neighbours to earn a few pennies to take home. What if the cupboard was often bare or we went to bed early to keep warm? We were no different in that respect than most families around. But there was also time to read books and play games, tell stories and sing songs. We had the gift of imagination to make it any Christmas we wished.

But would we really want that beautiful china doll in the toy shop window, or the blue coat with velvet collar and cuffs in the drapers shop? Would we sit down to a table laden with rich Christmas fare? Somehow, I doubt it. For such was our upbringing, that we could not feast while others went hungry, or display fine clothes and expensive toys. We were content with our lot, good times or bad. We had our home and each other, that was all that mattered. I remember all these things and keep them in my heart to recall whenever I wish, especially now this Christmas, when the world has changed so much and the present generation will never know worry or want as we did. But do not be sad for those times I recall, for when I look back now, I think they were some of the happiest times of my childhood.

Not many Christmas trees shone in the windows of the houses in our village during those lean years, yet each home seemed to be lit from within with a special glow. It was the glow of faith and hope. It shone out to the world. I'm sure it's light could be seen from Heaven's above!