It is a truism to say that Christmas is for children and, like so many truisms, it's not true. However, I was a believer and long after Santa Claus had left my orbit continued to hold unquestioningly to the maxim. Of course this was reinforced very early every Christmas morning when nieces and nephews would rouse me and their other `significant adults' from the consequences of the night before to show us the largesse left them by a big old fat man in an unlikely red suit and great flowing white beard who had eluded us adults yet again not too long before as we fumbled with presents beneath the Christmas tree. And as we ``oo’d’’ and ``aa’d’’ in mock astonishment over objects we had packaged and placed in a kind of hush, what seemed just minutes before, the question uppermost in our minds usually was `how many hours sleep left before we have to get up for Mass?’ But there was rarely much sleep after that. Then one Christmas I was Santa for a day. I sat in a grotto at the Tallaght shopping centre, for a newspaper article and, dressed in an unlikely red suit wearing a great flowing white beard, I ``ho, ho, ho’d’’ as good as the best of them. Or so I thought. And as the little ones came by in ones and twos it soon dawned on me that the ones most awestruck in that grotto were the mammies and daddies. For the children this stuffed up would-be Santa with the peculiar west of Ireland ``ho, ho ho’’ was as normal as the security man outside or the staff in nearby Burgerking. But their parents were like putty watching what they saw as their children’s delight. And me, I was soon like mush too observing all that unalloyed love of adults for their children. At home the following Christmas I was a bit more alert to what was going on and of course it soon became clear, even at 6 a.m., that it was the delight inspired in us adults by the innocent excitement of my nieces and nephews that made the morning so special. And there are few things in life to touch the heart like the sweet innocence of children. And what of people without children at Christmas? Well All I need do there is look into my own soul, - as another modest Irishman did when faced with perplexing questions! As well as family Christmas is about meeting old friends, which is why I always spend it in Ballaghaderreen. There we renew auld aquaintance with brio and gusto and realise once more how lucky we are to live in such a brave old world that has such people in it. It is also about memory and stories. One of my own favourites concerns my then four year old niece Roisin who was visiting the crib with my mother in the Cathedral at home. Roisin had endured a day of merciless teasing at the hands of her cousin, another a nephew of mine, Sean. As Roisin and my mother came down the aisle from the crib they passed the particularly graphic Pieta in that august building, with its very bloodied Christ draped across his mother’s arms. Roisin pointed at Christ's thorn-crowned head and said to my mother ``Sean did that..!’’ Christmas is about celebrating the good things in this life, children, family, friendships. It is the darkest time of year. It is my favourite time of year. And it is for adults, but not adults only. Patsy McGarry Religious Affairs Correspondent Irish Times December 2004 |