Date: Wednesday 20 December 2001.

Place: A small island called Bermuda. In five days it will be my birthday and Christmas is only a name -- my name! This is my story, and how I helped bring Christmas back to my island.

I never knew where my name came from or why it is so unusual. My mother said it came from the forgotten years, the years before the Great War. No one knows what it means, as all that happened before the war is now forgotten or discussed in the whispers of old people. But because I am called Christmas I am regarded as different.

It happened as I was walking home along North Shore, a stranger stopped to ask me for directions. His faded, tattered red cloak hung limply from his shoulders and his beard, which must have once been white was now streaked grey with dirt. But his clear blue eyes, much like my own, stared at me and twinkled. I thought how cold he must have been and pulled my own thin coat tighter. I gave him the direction and hurried home.

As I passed through the withered fields, I found home to be much as I had left it. Mother was frantically cooking, trying to feed five hungry children, father exhausted again and the farm still struggling to provide food for us all. These days had little meaning, one struggle after another, so little time to think. There was so much to learn and do. But that night as I looked at the murky purple sky, I couldn't help remembering the stranger with his warm and smiling eyes, so rare among the people of Bermuda.

Was it chance, or was it meant to be, that I was to be in town that day. After finishing my shopping and was about to return home, I was shocked to see a terrified horse bolting towards a familiar figure in a red cloak. Dropping my bags I ran and pulled the old man out of the way of the horse. The next thing I knew, I was sprawled on the ground and above me towered the old man.

Thanking me profusely he helped me up. I had sprained my ankle and could not walk. On asking my name he offered to help me home and for some reason I trusted him. As we limped along he asked me "Do you know what your name means?'' "No,'' I replied. "No one has been able to tell me.'' "Would you like to know?'' he asked.

"Yes of course, if you can tell me.'' I answered.

And so he told me the story of Christmas. How Christmas was celebrated across the world in many different ways. How God gave his only son, born on this day, and he was named Christ. He was to become our saviour. It was a day of great love and celebration. Families exchanged gifts in the spirit of Christ. It was a time to give to those less fortunate than yourself and telling them that you care. It was a time of magic. It was a time called Christmas. The world forgot its problems for this one day and took time to give love to its fellow man. As he finished his tory I was filled with a feeling of compassion and love but most of all hope. Hope that better days would come. That if we work hard enough, then anything could happen. I turned to thank him for sharing this with me and found that he had gone and that my ankle was better. I ran down the road that afternoon with a sense of destiny. I knew that it was my duty to tell people everywhere about the magic of Christmas. And I wanted my family to be the first to know.