It was the night before Christmas, and I was very sad. My family life had been severely disrupted, and my grandmother had just died. I was sure that Christmas would never come again. There was none of the usual joy and anticipation that I always felt during the Christmas season. I was eight years old, but in the past few months I had aged a great deal. Before this year, Christmas in my village came with many things. Christmas had always been one of the joyous religious festivals for me. It was the time for beautiful Christmas music on the streets, on radio, television, and everywhere. Christmas was always a religious celebration, and the church started preparing way back in November. We really felt that we were preparing for the birth of the Baby Jesus. Christmas was the time when relatives and friends visited each other. There were always people traveling from all the different tribes and visiting with great joy. I thought that was the way it would always be on Christmas.

That year, oh, how I wished I had some of the traditional food consumed at the Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinners. I knew I would not taste the rice, chicken, goat, lamb, and fruits of various kinds this year.

Houses were always decorated with beautiful paper ornaments. The children and all the young people loved to make the ornaments and decorate their homes and schools with colorful crepe paper. All of us looked forward to Christmas Eve Service at our church. Every year after the service, a joyous possession wound through the streets. Everyone was in a gala mood with local musicians in a Mardi Gras mode. Then, on Christmas Day, we all went back to church to read the scriptures and sing carols to remind us of the meaning of the blessed birth of the Baby Jesus. We thought that these were the things that meant Christmas. After the Christmas service, young people received gifts of special chocolate, special cookies, and special crackers. Young people were told that the gifts came from Father Christmas, and this always meant Christmas for us.

We also received new clothes and perhaps new pairs of shoes. Meanwhile, throughout the celebration, everyone was greeted with the special word, "Afishapa" meaning Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Oh, how I wished that those memories were real that night in order to bring us Christmas. However, that Christmas Eve, things were different, and I knew Christmas would never come, maybe never again. Everyone was sad, desperate because of what happened last April when the so-called Army of Liberation attacked our village and took all the young boys and girls away.

Families were separated, and some were murdered. We were forced to work and march for many miles without food. We were often hungry, and we were given very little food. There was little food. The soldiers burned everything in our village, and during our forced march, we lost all sense of time and place. Miraculously, one rainy night, we were able to get away from our captors. After several weeks in the tropical forest, we made our way back to our burned-out village. Most of us were sick, exhausted, and depressed. Most of the members of our families were nowhere to be found. We had no idea what day or time it was.

This was the situation until my sick grandmother noticed the reddish and yellow flower we call, "Fire on the Mountain." It was blooming in the middle of the marketplace where the tree had stood and had bloomed for generations at Christmas time. For some reason, it survived the fire that had engulfed the marketplace. I remembered how the nectar from this beautiful flower always attracted insects making them drowsy enough to fall to the ground to become food for crows and lizards. We were surprised that the soldier’s fire did not destroy the "Fire on the Mountain" tree. What a miracle it was for us. Grandmother told us that it was almost Christmas because the flower was blooming. As far back as she could remember, the flower only bloomed at Christmas time. My spirits lifted for a few minutes when I saw the flower. But, soon I became sad again. How could Christmas come without my parents and my village?

How could this be Christmas time when we celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace, because since April we had not known any peace, only war and suffering? How could we celebrate as grandmother instructed us to do before her death? Those were the last words she spoke before she died the previous night. As I continued to think about past joyous Christmases and the present suffering, I heard the horn of a car. Not just one horn, but several cars were approaching our village.

At first, we all thought the cars were full of men with machine guns, so we hid in the forest. To our surprise, they were not enemies, and they did not have guns. They were just ordinary travelers. It seemed the soldiers had destroyed the bridge over the river near our village last April when they left. Since it was almost dusk, and there were rumors that there were land mines on the roads, the travelers did not want to take any chances. Their detour led them straight to our village. When they saw us, they were shocked and horrified at the suffering and the devastation all around us. Many of the travelers cried. They confirmed that tonight really was Christmas Eve. They were on their way to their own villages to celebrate Christmas with family and friends. Now, circumstances brought them to us at this time, on this night before Christmas. They shared the little food they had with us. They even helped build a fire in the center of the marketplace to keep us warm. Earlier, when we first returned to the village, my grandmother told me that my oldest sister was expecting a baby, but she had been in a state of shock and speechless since we all escaped from the soldiers. Now, in the middle of all the excitement with the visitors, my sister became ill and could not stand up.

I was so afraid for my sister because we did not have any medical supplies, and we were not near a hospital. Some of the travelers and the villagers removed their shirts and clothes to make a bed for my sister to lie close to the fire. On that Christmas Eve night, my sister gave birth to a beautiful baby boy.

This called for a celebration, war or no war. Africans have to dance, and we celebrated until the rooster crowed at 6 a.m. We sang Christmas songs. Everyone sang in his or her own language. For the first time, all the pain and agony of the past few months left me. When morning finally came, my sister was asked, "What are you going to name the baby?"

Would you believe for the first time since our village was burned and all the young girls and boys were taken away, she spoke? She said, "His name is Gye Nyame, which means, except God I fear none."

And so, we celebrated Christmas. Christmas really did come to our village that night, but it did not come in the cars or with the travelers. It came in the birth of my nephew. In the midst of our suffering, we saw hope in what this little child could do. This birth turned out to be the universal story of how bad things were turned into universal hope by the birth of the Baby Jesus. A miracle occurred that night before Christmas, and all of a sudden I knew we were not alone any more. Now, I knew there was hope, and I learned that Christmas comes in spite of all circumstances. Christmas is always within us all. Christmas came even to our village that night.