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'Tis Christmas 

in Your Heart 

by 

Daniel A. LorJ, S. J. 

THE QUEEN'S WORK 

3 742 West Pine Blvd. 

St. Louis. Mo. 



Imprimi potest: 

Samuel Horine, S. J. 

Praep. Provo Missourianae 

Nihil obstat: 

F. J. Holweck 

Censor Librorum 

Imprimatur: 

*' J oannes J. Glennon 
Archiepiscopus Sti. Ll1dovici 

Sti. Ll1dovici, die 29 Septembris, 1934 

ANY }'INANCIAL PROFIT made by the 
C ent'ral 0 mce of the Sodality will be 
used for the advancement of the Sodality 
moverJ'lent and the cau,se of Catholic 
Action. 

Copyright 1934 

THE QUEEN'S WORK, Inc. 







'Tis Christmas in Your Heart 

'TIS a story that they love to 
tell in Ireland. 

'Tis a story the whole world 

loves to hear. 

For 'tis the story of how warm 

arms held the Infant King and 

Christ found His cradle on a 

human heart while Mary slept. 

It seems that Brigid was still a 

young woman, the loveliest and 

the sweetest in all Ireland. The 

water of Patrick's baptism was 

still moist on her white, unstained 

forehead; the light of faith had 

wakened Bethlehem stars in her 

eyes-

When God gave her a vision 

and a dream. 

She knelt, sweet maid, in her 

7 



father's castle, alone in the little 

room in which she prayed to God 

and loved God's mother. Christ-

mas was in her heart as Christ-

mas was in the crisp, crackling 

air about her. For 'twas the lovely 

eve of the lovely day when 

Heaven came to earth and the 

bosom of an immaculate maid 

became the first cradle of a God 

made man. 

A LONE with her thoughts, 
Brigid dreamed of the Christ-

mas soon to be sung in the chapel 

by the old priest who had once 

been a Druid, till he had bowed 

his venerable head, as did the 

Magi, before Incarnate Wisdom. 

The cold winds swept across her 

room, playing like mice among 

the rushes on the floor, or sighing 

about the comers like wishful 

souls of the weary Old Law, tired 

of their long delay. 

8 



But Brigid swept and garnished 

her soul for the coming dawn and 

the coming King. 

SOON at the Christmas Mass 

the the Infant Savior was to 

come again. Soon she could hold 

Him within her breast. And for a 

moment even Mary she regarded 

without any envy. Christ would 

be hers too. He would be born in 

her virgin soul. What else could 

Christmas be except Christ com-

ing to fill the soul with the glory 

of His Godhead hidden in swad-

dling clothes or in the disguise of 

a white host? 

Yet the heart of Brigid was only 

for a moment content. 

The white host would hide Him 

too completely. It held Him safe 

as never swaddling clothes had 

done, and it would bind Him 

away from her searching sight. 

9 



Ah, how she longed to see Him 

in all the pale sweetness of His 

infancy I How she ached to feel 

His tiny fingers fumbling at her 

throat, His helpless little head pil-

lowed against her breast, His 

warm breath keeping rhythm with 

the sighs which were the beat of 

His soul, that could not sleep for 

love of heedless men. 

T RUL Y the host was fair and 
hid Him in its whiteness. Yet 

even the Christmas Mass would 

not bring to her His mother. 

'Twould be the priest that would 

bear Him to her, not Mary, who 

had placed Him trustfully in the 

arms of shepherds sweaty from 

running at an angel's command. 

Brigid sighed for the whole of 

Christmas, for Christ and His 

mother, for the Child and the Ma-

donna. 

10 



S HE sighed and she prayed. 
She prayed and she sighed. 

For her heart was heavy with the 

joy of Christmas and heavy too 

with an unsatisfied longing for 

Bethlehem. 

Then came the vision. 

The sentry struck the midnight 

hour heavily on her father's wall. 

Brigid's eyes closed, then opened 

again. And Christmas began. 

The rough stone walls of her 

room, damp with the winter's chill 

and scarred with the never heal-

ing wounds of ancient masons, re-

ceded and grew dim. Gently the 

walls sloped back until they were 

the slanting of autumnal hills, 

grey-brown against the heavy 

folds of velvet sky. She lifted her 

head to see, not the tapestried 

ceiling of her cell, but the faint 

flickers of watchful stars grown 

11 



pale before the resistless glory of 

one rival star that glowed over 

the hills. 

And the little door that she had 

passed so often, as she walked 

from her room to the chapel, was 

the dark, forbidding entry of a 

cave. 

s LOWLY Brigid rose, for the 
vision needed no angel to in-

. terpret it. Off in the pathways of 

the hills she heard voices that she 

knew were those of shepherds 

hurrying away to their heedless 

fellows with glad tidings of great 

joy. It was no longer the sighing 

of the wind she heard about her, 

but the last faint echoes of angelic 

song stirring the farthest comers 

of the earth. 

And through the mouth of the 

cave trembled a failing light that 

touched the scarred entry with 

12 



fading warmth and beckoned her 

as it receded. 

WITH quick steps she hurried 

forward and stood while the 

last rays of the light died against 

the warm wool of her white man-

tle, and the heavy red folds that 

were her sleeves, and the linen 

coif that bound her head and held 

captive her heavy braids. 

Drawn forward by the dying 

light, she entered the cave-

And paused. 

Surely, she should kneel and 

adore. Heaven was here, buried ,., 

in the blue shadows of a cave. 

God was among His people, wait-

ing for His worshipers. 

But Brigid did not kneel. Her 

woman's heart was too full of pity 

for the scene. 

13 



FOR, struck down by the heavy 

hand of exhaustion, a stalwart 

man lay upon the rough earth 

of the cave, his traveler's cloak 

scarce wrapped around him, his 

traveler's stick dropped from his 

nerveless hand. 

And against the wall, close to 

the manger, in which no mother 

long would leave her child, sat 

the weary Mary. 

Her back curved as it sought 

rest against the cold surface of the 

cave's hewn rock. Her eyes were 

stroked with heavy lines of blue. 

Her shoulders sagged as if they 

bore the weight of the heavens. 

And her head bent forward in 

utter weariness. 

Only her arms were alert. With 

the tireless skill of a mother, those 

arms made up for the frail 

strength of the girl. They curved 

14 



protectingly about her sleeping 

Son. 

B RIGID looked and marveled. 
Marveled that God could 

be so small and so sweet. 

Marveled that God's mother 

could be so weary. 

Marveled that she herself felt as 

much of pity as of love. 

And out of a heart of mingled 

pity and love Brigid spoke. 

"Mary," she said, and her voice 

was like the voice of a harp which 

is swept by a breeze, "Mary, 

you're tired indeed." 

And the gentlest eyes in all the 

world looked up beneath lids 

laden with sleep, and the fair 

head that was Mary's bowed in 

assent. 

Then whispered Brigid: 

, , A H, well you might be, ma-
cushla. For 'tis I that know 

all you did and suffered ere you 

15 



bore your JOY. Long was the way 

from Nazareth and few the inns, 

and crowded. Sure, your strength 

was never great, and 'twas far 

miles you carried Him under your 

heart. You wandered long from 

house to house, weary and 

affrighted with the doors slam-

ming in your face-and in His. 

Then up the long hillside to the 

cave and this cold comfort on a 

wintry night. 

"Alone, macushla, well I know 

it was alone you bore your Child. 

For what use is even a good man 

when a woman's great hour has 

come? No woman took Him from 

your arms to bathe Him and wrap 

Him against the bitter wind. That 

too you did, alone. 

, , N OR could you sleep, mav-
ourneen, till you had held 

Him up to adoring angels. And 

16 



were you wearied by the shep-

herds, who lingered long, held 

captive by their joy in Him and 

their unwillingness to leave the 

Lamb of God even for their own 

straying lambs along the hillside? 

"Mary, beloved, you're weary. 

Good reason you're weary." 

And Mary smiled, even though 

her lips were tremulous and her 

head was crushed with sleep. 

"But you can sleep now, Mary 

machree." And Brigid slipped off 

her white wool mantle and laid it 

on the ground. "Of course you 

couldn't sleep; not till I came, be-

loved. What with the dangers of 

the night and the men that hate 

Him, you had to watch. But, Mary, 

if you'll let me ... H, Mary, you'll 

trust me ... H my arms can learn 

from yours the art of guarding 

Him ... why, here's my cloak for 

17 



your cot and my bosom for His 

cradle." 

A ND bold in her desire, yet 
abashed at her t e mer i t y , 

Brigid dropped her eyes-blue, 

starred with the stars of hope; then 

slowly lifted them, hoping, pray-

ing, holding out her arms. 

Then Mary smiled again, and 

Brigid knew her prayer was an-

swered. 

Brigid was on her knees that 

second, close to Mary's side. 

Gently the mother passed her 

Babe from the hollow of her arms 

to the cradling arms of Brigid. 

Gently she relaxed her weary 

body upon the soft wool of Brigid's 

mantle. Her eyes fluttered and 

closed. She was asleep. 

Within the arms of Brigid the 

Infant King stirred as if accustom-

ing Himself to His new cradle. 

18 



Then a deep sigh was born of 

trust and contentment. His tiny 

body snuggled against her bosom. 

Small fingers, warm and helpless 

yet resistlessly powerful, touched 

her throat. And Brigid sank back 

against the wall of the cave, her 

voice, the sheerest breath of mel-

ody, singing to Jesus of Bethlehem 

an Irish lullaby. 

A ND so it happened that while 
Joseph slept the sleep of 

shame and exhaustion (shame for 

the cave he had offered his bride; 

exhaustion from his efforts to 

avoid that shame), · and Mary 

rested trustfully upon the mantle 

of Brigid, Brigid played nurse and 

foster mother to the Son of God. 

And the Son of God accepted 

her bosom, pure as the snows 

never were upon the roofs of her 

·convents, comforting as the fire of 

19 



a love that was strong enough to 

warm her God. 

The Infant of Bethlehem had 

made of Brigid's heart the second 

cradle of His Christmastide. 

T HE vision faded, say the Irish 
bards who tell the story, as all 

visions must fade until the unfad-

ing vision of the eternal Christ-

mas. The slanting hillside stood 

straight again and became the 

cold gray stone of her familiar 

wall. The tapestry-hung ceiling 

shut out the sight of stars. The 

weary Joseph and the sleeping 

Mary were gone, and Brigid 

looked down into the empty hol-

low of her arms that had recently 

cradled the King of Christmas. 

Empty, but not for long. 

For Brigid rose, and through the 

door that had been the mouth of 

Bethlehem's cave she w a 1 ked 

20 



from her room into the chapel for 

the Mass of Christmas. 

Do you see now why the Irish 

call their Brigid the foster mother 

of the Savior? 

And shall we follow her through 

that little door which leads to the 

Bethlehem that is our Christmas 

Mass? And shall we too take into 

our cradling hearts the Christ of 

the Christmastide? 

21 







THE QUEEN'S WORK 

3742 West Pine Boulevard 

St. Louis. Mo. 

PRINTED IN U. S. A. 






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