In rural Jamaica, where I grew up seven decades ago, going to church was at the heart of Christmas in my family. In my memory the night was moonlit or bright with stars, the air warm and soft, as we walked home together after the midnight service on Christmas Eve. Sounds of merriment were distanced by the hilly country as our neighbours set off fireworks in celebration. I felt secure and satisfied because the preparations were over, the baking and preserving done, gifts of new clothing and food distributed to the poor, and our parents, who taught school and served in church and community, were at leisure at last. The feasting and visiting could now begin.