I’ve had a hard time reconciling myself to the layoffs so many here have experienced, right before the holidays.

For too many of us there is a tightening of the belt and the loosening of a fear.

It has cast a pall upon my Christmas spirit, upon the usual Norman Rockwell ideal of it, the gathering of friends and family, the faith in something that transcends the fluorescent reality of our daily lives, the presents wrapped in paper that is shiny and sparkled.

Until I sit back, and realize what it’s easy to forget, in a world where advertisements blare from television and radios and the Internet, where a simple trip to the store for milk means stepping into the hallowed halls of commercialism, and when all those tantalizing bits and baubles seem financially unattainable.

That friends and family, and faith, truly are worth celebrating, in and of themselves.

When did we start believing that Christmas, or Hanukah, are based on what we can buy at a store?

Don’t get me wrong: I love a bottle of perfume, a glimmering necklace and a stack of new books as much as the next girl. So I wouldn’t exactly be disappointed to find these under my tree!

But, and I won’t name names, this week I received a beautiful voicemail from a Goochland man and his wife that meant more to me than a wrapped box of chocolates. Their kindness and support reminded me that my job as a journalist actually affects, and pleases, a few people.

And even when readers disagree with this column, I welcome that too. It is a rare privilege to be able to encourage dialogue and constructive debate.

Sometimes when my phone has rung this week, it has been my friends calling with worries about the economy, and how the recession could affect their lives, and livelihoods, in the new year. As my friend Jody said tonight, “But you and I will ring it in together!”

There is a big group of family and friends who are driving in for a holiday at my house. Everyone is bringing something to contribute to the celebration. Many of us have agreed that we won’t be exchanging wrapped packages this year; we’re more interested in sharing camaraderie, in lighting a fire and raising a glass and pulling our children close.

That is actually the brass ring on this revolving carousel of financial fortunes: That we won’t be spinning alone, that there are people we trust to share the ride.

I was watching, as I traditionally do, “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and was struck by George Bailey’s assessment of his guardian angel: “Well, you look about like the angel I’d get. Sort of a fallen angel, aren’t you? What happened to your wings?”

Yes, it’s more than hard, these days, to remain optimistic, to sustain a belief that all that is good remains possible. But then a bell rings, even if not immediately, and wings are restored.

The other day at a bookstore, I was surprised to hear, over the loudspeaker, one of my holiday favorites. I will never let go of my need to hear Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra at this time of year, but I also relish a bit of the Pogues.

And that night, over the loudspeakers, the band and Kirsty MacColl sang: “Can’t make it all alone, I’ve built my dreams around you.”

There is more to that song, just like there is more to this holiday. And the more is, always, the people who spend that day, and the days after, reminding us of why our dreams matter, against all odds.

And why we should keep believing.