The small Christmas tree lay, in a sorry state, in the dark dusty cellar. This had been its home for many years. Once upon a time it had been loved, admired, and much wanted but ever since it had begun to lose some of its glitter, some of its shininess, it had been removed to this place of darkness. So, alone it lay - away from the beauty that it had once known.

This small silvery tree - artificial though it was - had stood proudly in the Church each Christmas bedecked with all manner of finery. It had been the delight of both young and old; of both priest and laity.

Each Christmas it had been lovingly dressed by the hands of the ladies of the Church helped by excited children; and each Christmas Eve the priest had placed beneath its slender branches the figures of Mary, Joseph and the infant Jesus lying in a manger.

The tree`s favourite had been the donkey - this was not in keeping with the beautifully carved wooden figures of The Nativity but was a splendid papier-mache donkey made by the careworn hands of Sister Dominica.

Sister Dominica had painstakingly produced the donkey at very short notice one Christmas. The priest, finding the splendidly carved donkey badly damaged had, in haste, called the Convent to enquire if they had a spare animal. Not wanting to disappoint the congregation, especially the children, Sister Dominica had set to work to make a donkey. With such love and devotion had she worked to produce the creature that the donkey, when finished, had taken on something of that love.

From newspapers, which had been put on one side to be discarded, the donkey had been made; born from such a lowly; such an everyday material.

The tree now remembered that Christmas Eve with pain in its heart. It had been the most wonderful Christmas Eve. That special Christmas Eve the tree had stood bedecked in its finery. It had stood, watching, with anticipation, as it did every year, whilst the priest placed the figures beneath its branches. That special Christmas Eve he had been helped by Sister Dominica who had, herself, placed her donkey in the straw alongside the Christ child lying in the manger. The job complete, the tree gently bowed its head. Every year it did this - to take a peep at the infant, whom, it knew, would one day be nailed to a tree. The thought of this pained, so much, the little Christmas tree that it silently shed a tear as it bowed its head. The tear had fallen onto Sister Dominica`s donkey.

That special Christmas Eve, the new donkey stood in its place of honour. It stood, silently watching over the baby. As it stood it listened; it listened to the gentle strains of the organ; to the enchanting voices of the choir; to the sacred words which the priest recited. It listened to the `oohs` and `ahs` of the children as they walked past the tree. It listened to the voices of the mothers talking to their delighted sons and daughters. It listened to all the strange sounds around it. And all the while it listened it kept watch, silently, in love. It held within it, the love of Sister Dominica; it held within it the love of the Christ child over whom it watched; it held within it the love of the Tree under whose branches it was sheltered. It watched, lovingly, as little fingers touched the shiny baubles; the glistening snow-flakes; the silver stars which hung, like jewels, from the silvery branches of the tree.

It watched and it listened. Then it felt tiny fingers stroking along its back. It felt a tiny hands closing round its body. It heard a murmur of delight. It heard a cry of wonderment. Then it felt two tiny hands gently stroking; lovingly caressing. Two tiny hands now lifted the donkey and two tiny hands hugged the bewildered animal to a tiny face; a tiny warm face; a face glowing with love.

A tiny voice whispered:

`Don`t cry little donkey. Don`t cry.`

The donkey was hugged and caressed. Its face was stroked by a tiny finger as if that tiny finger were trying to brush away a tear.

`Don`t cry little donkey.`

Now the donkey was taken into two larger hands and placed back in the straw.

`Mummy. The donkey is crying`, the child`s voice said gently, with more than a hint of concern.

`I think it is crying because it is happy. It`s happy to be watching over Jesus`, the child`s mother replied.

The donkey was left to watch and listen.

The tear which the tree had shed had fallen onto the face of the donkey. It seemed to the child, who had held it, as if the donkey had, itself, shed the tear. The child had been blind - she, the only child in the Church on that Christmas Eve who hadn`t been able to see the Nativity scene, and she, the only child, who hadn`t been able to see the special donkey, whose heart was so full of love. But she had been the only child who had seen far more than the other children. She had been allowed to see, with her fingers, the tear which the tree had shed. The tear which had fallen from the tree. The tear which signified pain; the pain which comes from deep, deep love. This little child had hugged to herself all the love which the donkey bore. This little child, blind, had seen far more that Christmas Eve than any other who had been in the Church. This little child had taken to herself all the love of the world which she would hold for the rest of her life.

After that special Christmas Eve all other Christmases had been joyful but so ordinary. The organ played; the choir sang; the priest read the Sacred Words. The children `oohed` and `ahed`; love was there but nothing like the love that the tree had witnessed on that special Eve.

With the passing years the tree began to lose its silver; its glitter; its sparkle. It was decided that the tree was no longer worthy of a place in God`s house. A real tree would replace it. A new and fresh tree each year. A large tree with many branches which could be clothed gloriously with baubles, stars, spangles and all manner of finery. A tree which would be worthy to shelter the splendidly carved figures of Mary, Joseph, the infant Jesus lying in the manger and the new, splendidly carved, figure of a donkey.

So the old, artificial tree which had served for many years was dumped in the cellar to gather dust. Sister Dominica`s donkey was put in a cupboard which no-one ever looked in. Oh, yes! The tree still had its Christmas Eves. From its dark, gloomy prison it could hear the music resounding from the organ; it could hear the chatter and laughing of the children. It could hear all these things but it could not see the splendour - the beauty of the Church; the candles burning on the altar and on the Advent Wreath; the magnificent paintings; the richly embroidered altar frontal and robes of the priest.

It could hear but it could not see. And yet it could take part. It could remember all those Christmasses when it had stood, brightly bedecked, in its place of honour; but, above all, it could remember - for how could it ever forget - one very special Christmas Eve. The tree had shed many a tear since that night - for how much love had been born; how much love had been shown; how much love had been received. It often thought about Sister Dominica`s donkey and wondered what had happened to it. It often thought about the little child who, though blind, had seen so much, and wondered what had become of her.

So the tree lay, listening - thinking - wondering.

The years passed by. The old priest retired. The congregation began to dwindle. Christmas Eves weren`t the same any more.

Then, one day, when the tree was deep in remembering, its thoughts were disturbed by a piercing brightness. It could hear noises which it hadn`t heard for years; feel things which it hadn`t felt for so long. It heard voices; felt a breeze rustling its almost bare branches.

The piercing brightness became more piercing, more bright, as the young priest shone a torch directly onto the tree. Then it felt itself being dragged from its dark corner which had been its home for many years. The hand of the priest brushed its branches gently in a vain attempt to remove some of the many cobwebs which, now, adorned it. Then it was picked up; carried. Carried from its dark prison into the light. Into the light of the outside world. From the outside world into the Church. Inside the Church it was lain on its side; peered at; talked about. It was poked, stroked, picked up and put down again. Then a gentle yet strong hand; two gentle yet strong hands lovingly stroked and felt each branch in turn. The tree was carefully dusted; washed - harshly at first and then more gently. Its almost bare branches were entwined with ropes of silver glitter. It was lovingly being restored. The young priest, with some of the new ladies of the now growing congregation, were renovating the tree to something near its former glory.

The priest had been told by the blind Sister of a tree in the Church which she could remember from her childhood. It had been a small, beautiful tree, she recalled. Although she had never seen it she knew it must have been beautiful - for she had sensed its beauty. Now her hands were helping to renovate it in time for Christmas Eve.

She had also told the priest about the donkey which bore tears. One of the ladies of the Church, who had been curious, had found it in the cupboard which no-one, until then, ever looked in. The donkey was placed in the Sister`s hands - she knew, at once, by the feel of it, that it was `her` donkey.

Christmas Eve was fast approaching.

Christmas Eve arrived.

The ladies had decorated the tree with stars which shone so brightly; with hearts that gleamed with love; with white and red roses which glowed with holiness. A dove of the purest white sat atop the glistening tree surveying, protecting, his kingdom.

Now, the young priest, most reverently, placed the figures of The Nativity beneath the restored branches of the tree. The hands of the blind Sister, so lovingly, so gently, stood the papier-mache donkey in its rightful place beside the Christ child lying in the manger.

The donkey felt a tear fall upon him. The donkey felt two tears fall upon him.

The tree had bowed its head in love; in true love; in thankfulness; in respect. It had shed a tear of joy.

The blind Sister had stroked the back of the donkey before she placed him in the straw. She, too, had shed a tear of joy.

The tree stood proudly. The small tree bedecked in such glory. It stood, glistening in its Christmas clothes, radiant with so much love.

The donkey stood silently, watching and listening - a tear falling from each eye.

The organ swelled - such magnificent sounds. The voices of the choir were raised in joyful praise. The strong yet gentle voice of the young priest read, with so much love and meaning, the words of the Christmas Story. The children, once again, `oohed` and `ahed`; the voices of the mothers rang in the ears of the tree; in the ears of the donkey. Then, all was silent. But in that stillness, in the silence of the empty Church, the tree and the donkey could hear, so plainly, the voice of love; such deep, deep love. Such love as they had never known before.

The young priest; the blind Sister knelt in prayer. They knelt before the altar whose candles illuminated their radiance. They prayed, each in their own hearts, each in their own souls, their own prayer. But through their love they were united. United by God`s grace in His Love. United by their love for God. United in the act of prayer - an act of deep, deep love. Love which filled the Church - which filled the hearts of the small artificial Christmas tree and the papier-mache donkey.

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