The remarkable Russian writer Dostoevsky had the opportunity to bequeath to posterity the tale: "The Heavenly Christmas Tree", which I copy below:

Once upon a time there was a child in a cellar, a six years old boy or even younger. The poor thing had just woken up, shivering under the rags that covered him. As he breathed, a white cloud of steam came out of his mouth, and he, sitting in the corner of a room, began to blow on purpose watching it flow away. That amused him, but he preferred to eat instead. He approached the old grass mattress, hard and dry like a poor man's bread, where, with a sack as a pillow, rested his sick mother. How had she come here? She must have come from another city, and had suddenly fallen ill. The woman who rented this cellar had been arrested the day before; the other lodgers were out and about to celebrate Christmas; the only one left, a dormer, had been sobering up for two days the drunkenness with which he had celebrated the birth of Christ beforehand. In the other corner of the room was a rheumatic octogenarian, a former children’s maid, who was dying abandoned; she kept sighing, wailing, and cursing against the boy who, however, dared not approach. In the hallway he had found drink, but nothing to eat, and had, more than ten times, approached his mother to wake her up. The darkness caused him a distressing oppression; it was already dark and no one had come to light the fire. He felt his mother's face and was surprised: it was cold and stiff as a wall. It's cold, he thought, his hand unconsciously resting on the dead woman's shoulder; then he blew over his fingers to warm them, took the cap that had been on the bed, and, trying not to make a sound, he left groping in the darkness. He would have already 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 he reached the street.

Lord, what a big 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 always closed; as soon as the night arrived, no soul could be seen; everyone was quiet inside the houses and only the dogs, hundreds, thousands of dogs, barked in the cold. But, on the other hand, he could keep warm, and they gave him food, while there… My God! Will he not find anything to eat? And what a racket, what a hustle and bustle, how bright, how many people, how many horses and cars... and the cold, how cold it was! The fog freezes in the muzzles of the galloping horses, the horseshoes pounding strongly on the stones of the streets over the soft snow; the passers-by bump into each other, pushing and, God in heaven, how his empty stomach hurts and his little fingers are hard with the cold! A guard walks past him, turns to pretend he doesn't see him.

Still one street: how wide it is! There is no doubt that he will be crushed; everyone screams, they come and go, and run; and what a clarity, what an extraordinary clarity! What's that? Ah! a large windowpane, and behind the windowpane a room with a tree that reaches the ceiling: a pine tree, a Christmas tree full of lights, of small objects, golden fruit, surrounded by dolls and horses. In the bedroom, clean and well-dressed children run and laugh, play, eat and drink. A girl is dancing with a boy. How beautiful she is! The music is heard through the windowpane. The little boy looks at everything with amazement; he smiles as his toes on his poor feet ache, and his fingers are so red and stiff that he can no longer bend them. But suddenly the boy remembers the pain of his fingers; he begins to cry, runs, and finds another pane through which he sees another room with another tree; but now there are tables covered with cakes of all kinds, almond cakes, red and yellow, that four rich ladies hand out to all who enter. The door opens constantly to let in well-dressed men. Lord, what a great city! Slowly, the boy approaches, opens the door, rushes in. There and there they expel him shouting accompanied by gestures of indignation. A lady put a coin in his hand as she pushed him into the street. He was so scared! The coin rolled down the stairs with a clear sound: he could not close his fingers to hold it.  Then the boy hurried away - not knowing where he was going to. Wanting to cry, and scared, he starts to run. He runs blowing on his fingers. A sense of anguish overwhelms him; he feels so lonely and abandoned; but soon he is amused. Lord, what is it? How many people standing, looking curiously! In one window, through the window, three huge dolls dressed in red and green look alive: one old man sits playing the violin, and the other two stand holding smaller violins; they all shake their thin heads in cadence, look at each other, their lips move; they talk, they must really talk, but you can’t hear anything because of the glass. The boy first thought they were living people, and when he realized they were dolls, he laughed. He had never seen dolls like this, nor imagined that they could exist! They were so funny, so funny that they turned his tears into laughter. Suddenly someone pulled him from behind. A big, bad boy punched him in the head, knocking his cap down, and then kicked him. He rolled on the ground, some people started screaming; terrified, he got up and ran, not knowing where to. He entered a cellar that ended in a yard, and he sat behind a pile of firewood. At least here he won't find me, he thought; it's too dark”. He shrank, unable to catch his breath, he was so afraid, and suddenly - because it all happened in a second - a great well-being came over him, his hands and feet ceased to hurt, and he felt warm, very hot, a heat, as if he was near a stove. He shook himself, and soon he slept. How nice to sleep there! Just now I will go and see the dolls again, he thought, smiling just with the thought of it; “I could have sworn they were alive!” And suddenly he seemed to hear his mother singing a song to him. “Mommy, I'm going to sleep; ah! How good it is to sleep here!”

"Come with me, let's see the Christmas Tree, my son," a voice of rare sweetness murmured unexpectedly. He thought it was his mother; but no, it wasn't her. Who then called him? He sees no one, but someone bends over him, embraces him in the dark; he held out his arms and… suddenly - ah! how all was glaring! What wonderful Christmas trees! But it's not a pine tree, and he had never seen a tree like that. Where was he? Everything shines, everything glares, and everywhere he sees dolls - no, they're not dolls, they're boys and girls; they are just glowing children. They surround him, they swirl around him; kiss him in passing, hold him, take him flying; he also flies, and sees: he sees his mother, and smiles at her.

- Mommy! Mommy! Ah! how good it is here! He embraces the new companions; he wanted so badly to tell them the story of the dolls behind the window… Asks them who they are, where are they, while laughing and blowing kisses. "Don’t you know…this is Christ's Christmas Tree", they answered him. - Every year, on this day, there is a tree like this one that Jesus gives to children who have not had Christmas trees on Earth…

And he heard that all these children had been like him; but some died frozen in the baskets in which they left them at the gates of the palaces of Petersburg; others died in the provincial asylums, or within their mothers, during Samara's famine, or asphyxiated by the contaminated air of the slums. But now all live like angels with the Christ; and He blesses them, in a gesture of tenderness that extends to their poor mothers… They are all, in the distance, crying, looking at the children who flutter around them, kiss them lightly, wipe their tears and ask them not to cry, because they feel so well…

And downstairs the next morning, the doorkeepers found the corpse of a frozen boy near a pile of firewood. They looked for his mother… she had died shortly before him; maybe the two met in heaven…

Why have I imagined such an unreasonable story, so little in the way of a serious writer! And to say that I intended to tell only real facts! But the point is exactly this: it always seemed to me, as it seems, that all this could happen, that is, the cellar and the woodpile part. As for The Heavenly Christmas Tree, I cannot say that it exists.

But since I'm a novelist, I can well imagine so.

The masterful pen of the writer denounces the indifference of the society of his time. It points to existing social barriers. However, in the end, it presents a comforting situation; a hope that unfortunately comes only with death. It is a hope for the future and, unfortunately, it is not in this world we inhabit.

The tale confronted with the reality that surrounds us raises a question: Why do charitable raptures only occur at Christmas?

At this time people greet each other in the neighborhood or in their workplace; they seek to gather with the family; they become supportive and charitable; participate in social movements that seek to mitigate the suffering of others and make a point of recording, through photos, their practices because their lives are on social networks and everyone needs to check the kindness done; they buy presents for their near and distant relatives... But after the hustle and bustle of Christmas and then New Year's Eve, everything is as it always was: indifference, social inequality, violence, quarrels at work or in the family... Why?

It is as if a kind of "magic" occurred on the date it was agreed to commemorate the birth of the Christ. People get a little better for a few moments. Strange, is it not?

But the Master of Love does not want the outward manifestation of the "whitewashed tombs, which on the outside really look beautiful, but inside they are full of bones and all filth." He wants more from us! He wants our dedication; our affection; our warmth; our respect for differences; our respect for religious manifestations; our respect for laws and institutions; our action for the good in favor of those forgotten by the State. He wants us to be charitable and Spiritists in the broad sense of the word. He wants us to do well to others.

Christmas is over ... Charitable actions seem to end with him. And the reproachable behaviors magnify day by day.

These are dark times!

And Christ continues to die in the hospital queues; in domestic violence; in traffic truculence. He continues to perish vilely in poor communities through "stray bullets". The Master continues to go on and die of starvation. He continues to be assaulted because of one's sexual choice, even religious or political. He goes on being used on political stands to be an instrument of violation of conscience; disrespect for public freedoms. The Christ continues to ask for food at the traffic lights... His silent cry is too evident and it is not seen only during the Christmas season.

Hopefully, we have a constant Christmas situation, where the birthday is celebrated through uplifting practices in the good. After all, "Truly, I say to you, when you did [charity] to one of my little brothers, you did it to me".