All of us – followers of Christianity – have arrived to the time of great reflection: Christmas!

And this may be a period of deep meaning due to the pandemic caused by the new coronavirus. Those who are still here already have reasons to celebrate (however, with the required care) and also thank the Author of Life. In the long run, we were not a victim of this terrible virus!

On the other hand, thousands of our brothers and sisters, Brazilians, or of other nationalities, did not have the same “luck”. Many families are mourning the sudden goodbye and the impossible last farewell due to health safety measures. Others wander from hospital to hospital, looking for beds in intensive care units (ICU), without success.

Chaos continues on the Public Health, despite the Herculean efforts of health professionals - of the Unified Health System (SUS) - who with total stoicism embrace this fight, despite all political attacks.

The crimes occur in the midst of the Public Administration with overpricing of equipment and supplies (or lack of them) and, of course, due to the regrettable ethical-moral conduct of some government officials.

Senior officials, who should walk hand in hand with Science and common sense and provide the necessary means to safeguard their peoples, prefer to ignore the difficult reality and mock efforts to obtain a vaccine. They encourage disrespect to social isolation; they do not provide inputs for the protection of the masses; and publish and adopt weird or unscientific behaviors that do nothing to reduce the curve of those infected and, consequently, those who die…

Digital militias spread false news about possible vaccines; about scientific knowledge, in short, a digital violence against Science as never before seen!

The 2020’s turn off of the lights will be emblematic! Not because of the challenges imposed by the virus, but because of the disrespect on the part of those who should lead and govern wisely and who acted like moral vandals; irresponsible and morons. And who, certainly, will one day respond to the Divine Consciousness for their hostile acts and for dragging thousands of unwary to the Boat of Charon.

Many have lost their income, their livelihoods. From one hour to the next, families found themselves in a shortage situation.

The environment - especially the biomes of the Pantanal and the Amazon - was devastated and the consequences of the climatic changes are felt especially in the months of August and September - those with the highest temperatures across the country! We watched, shocked, burnt animals gasping in pain due to the action of man. And we also saw anonymous heroes dedicating their lives to the preservation of fauna and flora...

A year of contrasts.

A year of pain.

A year of much reflection.

A year of sudden departures.

A year of hope for the efforts of thousands of scientists around the world in search of a vaccine to destroy the small and powerful virus.

I have already had the opportunity to mention here – in this space and for the dissemination of Spiritism - the story written by the notable Russian writer, Dostoyevsky, “The Heavenly Christmas Tree”.

It is a libel against all forms of injustice. It is a reminder of the real birthday of a boy on Christmas night: The Christ. It is an invitation for those who groan in hospital beds, abandoned by the State that should offer a quality service and does not do it (because of lack of funds?!).

It is a refreshment for the souls of those who have seen their loved ones leave suddenly, without any possibility of a last goodbye. It is the certainty that there is a future, in spite of the materialism that blurs our eyes (temporarily) for the spiritual reality.

It is a tale that shows that it is worth doing something for the benefit of others, not only during the holidays, but throughout the year, because doing good is a balm for the heart and gives us a sense of existence.

It is a tale that shows that it is no use being materially rich and devoid of moral qualities; to be insensitive to the pain of others, to be indifferent to the profound social inequalities that prevail in our country.

It is a tale that, implicitly, shows that those who are in better financial conditions, and if they really want, they can help the unfortunate, not for them to stay in a permanent condition of misery and living at the expense of others, but that they may have an initial aid to acquire material emancipation and not be a burden for the State.

Let us be sure that better days will come! And that we can, together with the Sublime Birthday, be gathered in prayer and hopeful that He can intercede with the Creator so that new and better times will come soon for all of us.

The tale speaks for itself and I reproduce it, again, for our reflection on these Christmas days:

The Heavenly Christmas Tree

Once upon a time there was a child in a cellar, a boy of six years old, or even less. The poor thing had just woken up, shivering in the cold under the rags that covered him. When he breathed, a white puff came out of his mouth, and he, sitting in the corner of a room, started to blow on purpose, to see the cloud move. This kept him busy, but he preferred to eat more. He approached the old grass mattress several times, as hard and dry as a poor man's bread, where his sick mother rested with a bag for a pillow. How had she ended up there? Probably coming from another city, she had suddenly fallen ill. The woman who rented this basement had been arrested the day before; the other tenants had gone out to celebrate Christmas; the only one left, a cheater, had been drunk for two days previously celebrating the birth of Christ. In the other corner of the room, a rheumatic octogenarian moaned, a former nanny, who was dying abandoned; she kept sighing, lamenting and cursing the boy who, however, did not dare approach. In the corridor he had found drink, but nothing to eat, and had already been close to his mother more than ten times to wake her up. The obscurity was causing anguish oppression; it was already dark and no one had come to light the fire. He touched his mother's face and was surprised: it was as cold and rigid as a wall. “It's cold,” he thought, his hand unconsciously resting on the dead woman's shoulder; then he blew on his fingers to warm them, picked up the hat that had been on the bed and, trying not to make a sound, went out groping in the darkness. He would have left before if it weren't for the fear of finding a huge dog on the stairs that he had heard barking all day. But he didn't even see it until she reached the street.

Lord, what a great city! He had never seen anything like it. Where he lived the streets were dark, lit by a single lamp. The small wooden houses were closed; only night fell, the soul was no longer alive; everyone was silent inside the houses and only the dogs, hundreds, thousands of dogs, whined in the open. But, on the other hand, he could get warm, he was fed ... while here ... My God! won't he find anything to eat? And what a racket, what a bustle, what light, how many people, how many horses and cars ... and the cold, how cold it was! The fog freezes in fillets on the noses of the galloping horses, the horseshoes hitting the street stones hard, over the soft snow; passers-by bump into each other, pushing each other and, God in Heaven, how his empty stomach and little fingers stiff from the cold hurt! A guard passes and turns to pretend he doesn't see him.

Still a street: how wide it is! There is no doubt that he will be crushed; everyone shouts, goes and comes, runs; and looks at the clarity, what an extraordinary clarity! What's that? Ah! a large windowpane, and behind the windowpane a room with a tree that goes up to the ceiling: it is a pine tree, a Christmas tree full of lights, small objects, golden fruit, surrounded by dolls and horses. Clean, well-dressed children run in the room; they laugh, play, eat and drink. A girl is dancing with a boy. How beautiful it is! Music is heard through the glass. The little one looks at everything with astonishment; he smiles, while the toes of his poor feet ache, and his fingers too, which are so red and hard, he can no longer bend them. But, suddenly, the boy remembers the pain of his fingers; he starts to cry, runs, and finds another window, through which he sees another room, with another tree; but now there are tables covered in cakes of all kinds, almond cakes, red, yellow, which four rich ladies distribute to all who enter. At all times the door opens to let in well-dressed men. Slowly, the boy approaches, opens the door, enters in a rush. There! they expel him with screams and indignant gestures. A lady put a coin in his hand as she pushed him out into the street. So scary! The coin rolled on the stairs with a clear sound: he had not been able to close his fingers to hold it. Then the boy hurried away - without knowing where to go. With the desire to cry, with fear, he starts running. He runs blowing his fingers. A feeling of anguish overwhelms him, of feeling so alone and abandoned; but soon he gets distracted. Lord, what will it be? How many people stopped, looking curiously! In a window, through the glass, three huge dolls dressed in red and green look alive: one old man, sitting, plays the violin, and the other two, standing, have smaller violins in their arms; everyone nods their thin heads, and look at each other, move their lips; they speak, they must speak - really - and nothing is heard because of the glass. The boy first thought they were living people and, when he realized they were dolls, he started to laugh. I had never seen dolls like this, nor did I imagine they could exist! They were so funny, so funny that they made their weeping laugh. Suddenly, someone pulled him from behind. A big, bad boy punched him in the head, knocking his cap down, and then kicking him. It rolled on the floor, some people started screaming; terrified, he got up and began running, not knowing where to. He entered a basement, faced a patio, sat down behind a pile of firewood. “At least here he won't find me, he thought; it's too dark.”

He shrank all over, unable to catch his breath, he was so afraid, and suddenly - because everything happened in a second - a great well-being invaded him, his hands and feet ceased to hurt, and he felt very hot, a heat, as if near a stove. He shook himself; once again, and slept. How nice it would be to sleep there! "In a little while, I will see the dolls again", he thought, smiling just to remember; "I could have sworn they were alive!" And suddenly he seemed to hear his mother singing a song to him. “Mom, I'm going to sleep; ah! how good it is to sleep here!”

"Come with me, let's see the Christmas Tree, my son," murmured unexpectedly a voice of rare sweetness.

He thought it was his mother; but no, it wasn't her. Who then called him? He sees no one, but someone has bent over him, embraced him in the dark; he held out his arms and ... suddenly - ah! how everything was resplendent! What wonderful Christmas trees! But it is not a pine tree, he has never seen such a tree. Where were you? Everything shines, everything shines, and everywhere you see dolls - no, they are not dolls, they are boys and girls; they are just luminous children. They surround him, they circle around him; they kiss him in passing, hold him, take him flying; he too flies and sees: he sees his mother and smiles.

- Mom! Mom! Ah! how good it is here!

He embraces new companions; I really wanted to tell you the story of the dolls behind the window... Ask them who they are, where they are, laughing and throwing kisses.

- You don't know... this is Christ's Christmas Tree - they replied. - Every year, on this day, there is a tree like this, which Jesus gives to children who have not had Christmas trees on Earth...

And he was told that all these children had been like him; but some died freezing in the baskets in which they abandoned them at the doors of the palaces in Petersburg; others died in the provincial asylums, or in their mothers' wombs, during Samara's famine, or asphyxiated by the contaminated air of the tenements. But now they all live like angels, with Christ; and He blesses them, in a gesture of tenderness that extends to their poor mothers ... Here they are all, far away, crying, looking at the children passing by them, kiss them lightly, wipe their tears asking them not to cry, because they are so well…

And downstairs, the next morning, the doormen discovered the corpse of a cold boy near a pile of firewood. They looked for his mother ... she had died just before him; perhaps the two met in Heaven ...

Why would I have imagined such an unreasonable story, so little like a serious writer! And to say that I proposed to only tell real facts! But the point is precisely this: it always seemed to me, as it seems, that all this could happen, that is, the part of the cellar and the pile of firewood. As for Christ's Christmas tree, I cannot say that it exists.

But since I am a novelist, I can well imagine so.