Dec. 24th. – Christmas Eve

This Christmas Eve becomes the classic type, represented in Christmas songs and cards.  We’re driving north to the village of Muthill in Perthshire to visit Donald and Hannah.  The snow lying in the fields is deep and soft. Crystals of ice have formed all over its surface and glitter likes diamonds in the sun.  The hills stretch white on either side of the road, and where we go through woodland, each detail of every tree is etched against the blue of the sky in a crystalline whiteness.  Donald and Hannah’s cottage is cosy, the flames of its woodburning stove licking the glass, the Christmas tree covered in the usual jumbled colour of lights, tinsel and baubles, and through the cottage's deep set windows the snow is showing against the darkening sky.  Ryall’s eight year old excitement is a delight as he prepares the milk and mince pies for Santa and places them beside the fire.  Baby Rosie sleeps in my arms, at six weeks old oblivious to all the anticipation surrounding her.  We wrap presents and sing Christmas carols, in tune at least half of the time. As midnight approaches, Hannah and I leave Bill to look after the children and crunch through the moonlit snow towards the little church.  Inside, there’s mulled wine and mince pies, and folk greet us, asking after baby, while Donald and the other musicians play carols.  The church is dim and candlelit, decorated with trumpets and banners hanging from the balcony and lanterns at the end of the pews, and Christmas wreaths here and there.  After the service, its back home to the fire, to wrap yet more presents.  So in an age of cynicism sometimes Christmas Eve happens as it should, family and Nativity at its heart.  And for this little family, whose members have suffered so much pain over the last three years, it’s a warmth they really need.