It was a cold afternoon, the kind of day where words turn white when they hit the air and the sound of the pipes could travel unhindered for miles up and down the gorge.

We gathered at dusk at the bell tower by the armory. I was grateful for the warmth from my candle's flame and understood why our ancestors in the North valued their winter fires; we were approaching the shortest day of the year and away from city lights, night was falling quickly.

Up the road we went, curving toward the church at the top of the rise. It was a beacon amid the fairy-lights that decorated the houses. Official services were over and worshippers mixed with the kilted throng who were waiting in the cold.

In only a moment it was time for the blessing. The clerical robes, the color of deep wine, showed nicely against the white clapboards of the church. He spoke a few words of gratitude to Scotland for sending America her people and them offered a blessing... I found it particularly poignant because this year I could understand the Gaelic words.

The pipes began to play and spontaneous voices were raised in song. While other's sang "Amazing grace...", I was able to pay homage to our ancestor's with "O mhiorbhuil grais".... And because I was translating, the old words were fresh and meaningful.

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
'Tis grace that brought me safe thus far
And grace will lead me home.

The song was written by a slave-trader who repented of his cruelty of man and became a preacher and abolitionist, but it has become an anthem for many people; our's among them.

And so it was that amid December's hectic social calendar, my mind caught up with my heart, and I found the Christmas spirit I'd been chasing waiting in Volcano.