The Christmas seasons of my childhood in Ireland were layered with magic and meaning. Families went “visiting” house to house, carrying tins of Christmas cake, pudding and mince pies. Laughter and stories flowed freely over glasses of whiskey for the adults and “minerals” — fizzy orange or red lemonade — for the children. Like the hospitality, the joy was effusive and abundant.
For our family, the heart of the season was Christmas Eve Mass. Dressed in our best with new clothes purchased just for Christmas, we sat in the balcony of our church, a cool space that quickly warmed with the heat of bodies seated closely together. The choir led the community in the familiar songs sung each year. Reassuring, comforting and achingly poignant.
That night, our whole village gathered as one. Parents sat beside their children, those who had emigrated but came home at Christmas, and the children that remained behind. Old friends exchanged nods, men duffed their caps, and women waved across the aisles. The air pulsed with history, mystery and glory. Even families who had not spoken in generations reached across the pews at the sign of peace. Reconciliation and the ache of our longings born in a manger’s light.
One of my favorite songs is the haunting “Wexford Carol.” Originating in the 12th century, it is associated with Enniscorthy, County Wexford, a place not far from where I grew up. In a world marked by war, famine and division on our screens, in our homes and in the quiet ache of our hearts, Jesus’s promise still holds. Jesus came “to end all strife.”
Christmas is not simply a memory to be revisited, but a season of expectant hope and a peace to be reclaimed. The same child who ended all strife still longs to be born within our restless hearts.
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