Faith

Messy Nativity

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

Picture the scene:

Friday morning. Not the last day of term, but at the moment the last day has changed four times for three different schools, so who knows – it might be the last day?! It’s the last day in school for our kids, anyway.

Children number 4, 5 and 6 are running around with bed head hair, wet wipe washed jumpers, and still sporting milk moustaches-not for Movember, just from the morning.

Child 3 has had his coat on and been trying to leave the house since 7:45. It’s likely that his hair and teeth are unbrushed and he almost certainly doesn’t have fruit or a drink in his bag.

Children number 1 and 2 are self isolating. They might not be any more actually, I heard a rumour the dates had changed, but that’s something we’re not sure of because it was another one of several hundred emails that landed this week with fresh information. However, they’re still here, I think, ready to roll from bed to laptop in one smooth move.

Child number 3 is finally released in a state of semi order.

Child 1 appears, very excitedly showing me the trailer for the new Marvel film, whilst Child 3 bursts back through the door, having forgotten the teachers presents that he’d been holding for 20 minutes prior to leaving. Child 1 enthusiastically tries to show him the trailer-at least he’s likely to be interested.

At this point I interject. Child 3 is now late, I point out, and you and Child 2 cannot be doing school in your pyjamas. I locate the missing presents, wash three faces, send Child 3 back out of the house hoping he now won’t miss the bus, pack two bags, and am presented with a note that says, simply: £2.00. Child 5 has observed that I have learned to filter out the frequent voices invading my brain and has decided on a new strategy to ensure I don’t forget the payment for the decoration she crafted in school. Requests made in writing are surely likely to be noted?

And off we go, with packed bags and fruit pots, several coins paying for things that may break on the way home, and funny feelings in tummies because change is on the way, again.

After I got home after a typically chaotic Friday morning I found it there, under the tree where the wires tangle and the needles drop, lying between the manger and the angel, a sentimental ornament in broken pieces between the holy.

And when we’ve been around for long enough we know, don’t we? At some point over the years, the broken pieces of memories and ornaments get wrapped up in the tissue with the tales of Christmas past. The family feuds dull the twinkle of the lights, or the money worries marr the magic of Santa on his way. The anxiety of grief pain merges with the excitement of family time, and we reluctantly wonder, is this really the Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

In all honesty, there was a morning this week where I was teetering over the edge of sanity’s cliff, and I was googling for answers and emailing the experts and waiting for appointments and there’s another referral for another child and I was snappy and tired and I wondered who was going to refer me for help? It felt more like the bleak midwinter than joy to the world, and I empathised with my little old snowman under the tree, lying broken with the festivities happening around me.

So I wrote a list and I started cleaning the kitchen drawer that’s bugged me for months, and I put on a podcast while I worked. And there amidst the grime on my kitchen floor I was reminded of the Light that has come, and that no matter how dark the darkness, the Light is always brighter.

And I opened the package the postman delivered, the piece I’d ordered weeks ago. ‘In Him was Life, and that life was the Light of all mankind.’ And as I arranged the holly and flicked the switch it lit up the hallway and lit up my soul with reassurance and promise. The Life-bringing Light has stepped into the darkness of a stable and shone hope onto the brokenness around Him.

I’ve delivered newborn babies and laid them in a crib and seen the quiet reverence of a post delivery room. But this one was full of animal waste, not sterile gloves. And the teenage mother had only her supportive young husband as her midwife, and the grubby shepherds for first visitors, outcasts on the outskirts of a city bustling with those who knew their lineage and were writing their name to show they belonged. And this little family were beginning their uncertain journey into parenthood of the One who had made the star that hovered where he lay, lighting the darkness He was being birthed into.

Today an email dropped into my inbox and it held these words:

‘The story of Jesus is the story of God at street-level, raw and routine. Luke shows Jesus’ parents cycling through both amazement and confusion over their son and how best to lead him. We bear witness to the universality of parenting through the ages. First, they accidentally leave a party without him, “His parents didn’t miss him at first” (Luke 2:34.) Later, in verse 48, we eavesdrop as Jesus’ mom, wide-eyed and frantic, basically screams, “We were worried sick about you!”

They might be famous for their leading roles in the Greatest Story Told, but most of their life together was lived within the inhale and exhale of the mundane. Because of their service to God, palpably aware of their human limitations through it all, they would be, and are, blessed. This is meant for our comfort.

As we hold space for the wonder of Christmas in the midst of our own grunge, may we not become so enamored of the Story that we lose sight of this truth: God so loved the world that he sent his son to live. In a body. Among us.

With parents and everything.’ (Shannan Martin)

This week words I’ve listened to and words I’ve read in books and emails and conversation over a phone and laughter on a Zoom have cobbled together to remind me of where in the middle of a messy advent at the end of a year of broken pieces the wonder of Christmas can still be found. The Light that was born to parents who didn’t know what they were doing, into a world that was desperate for salvation from its own mess, He is the same Light that shines gently into my hurting heart and my anxious mind, my mistakes in my marriage and my cluelessness in parenting. The same Light that streams into the darkness of grief and loneliness, of fear and fury. The same Light that lifts me out of my low places and reminds me of all the goodness around me.

As I look at the lights twinkling on my Christmas tree, I’m reminded of the Light of the World who carried His wooden cross and hung on that tree to save the broken world. And even in the middle of the messiness, His Light still shines and His arms of love reach out to us.

So it’s by no small miracle we’ve made it through another Friday and the end of school runs in the most disjointed year there’s ever been, and children have settled into bed with a wide range of emotions, and I’m sitting here just grateful. For the ups and downs, for the answers to prayers, for the teachers who’ve cared, and even for the dark points that have showed how bright the Light is. Whatever Christmas looks like, nothing can steal the joy and hope of the newborn King.

‘The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?’ – Psalm 27:1

Shaky Days

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

I opened the door and my heart sank. The thing I dread more than any other thing. The realisation of inevitable destruction done. The despair and ‘if only’s’ running through my head. The sight I least wanted to see. The sense of impending doom.

If only I’d been more careful.

If only I’d learned my lesson.

If only I’d checked the pockets for tissues.

So maybe I’m being a touch melodramatic (although I think tissue hitchhikers are up there as one of the worst domestic disasters), but opening my washing machine this morning felt a bit like the world feels right now. For every clean item of clothing I pulled out, clouds of washed and shredded tissue came too. Every item needed shaking, brushing, or re-washing. The signs of its presence in every trouser leg, every cardigan pocket, all over the kitchen floor. All the good of the 30 degree cycle undone in a momentary oversight.

And that’s how I’ve felt lately. For it can feel like every good thing we find to hang onto is touched and tainted and not as good as we’d hoped. The vain promises of the months of lockdown preventing our current reality, yet we’re back here for the second wave.

The ‘lifting’ of restrictions actually meaning more restrictions. Choices to be made on who should be a bubble. How do you choose between people you love? How do I pick three of a group to go to a pub with? Why can we meet in a café but not my garden? If only four of us can meet outside which of my family do I ditch?

And as one country relaxes, another locks down, meaning more and more weeks apart from my family and friends over the bridge.

Fear over finances. Fear over illnesses. Fear over weeks and weeks of children at home, the mental damage, the lonely days, the self-isolations, the when will this end?

Like a damp and dreadful tissue in my washing, the virus has infiltrated every aspect of our lives. And that’s without all the other hard stuff of life that comes our way.

Sometimes choosing to shake every item of washing free and making it clean again is the harder choice than just binning the lot and starting again. Sometimes choosing hope when we take hit after hit can feel relentless and exhausting and, just maybe, not worth the pain?

But as I took and shook and watched the tissue float away on the breeze and hung the clothes to dry crisp and clean, I looked down and I looked up and was reminded of all the hope there is.

There can be lockdowns and reds fighting blues and blood tests and surgery looming and losses and fear and difficult anniversaries and little boys crying over going into nursery, and we can feel tired of it all. Of the anxious nights and the lonely days and the shakiness of the world around us. But as @emilypfreeman reminded me this week, it’s worth taking a moment to stop and stand and take the photos and create the diptych and take notice. Notice how the ground underneath is firm and the sky above still shines bright. Because ‘in the beginning, God.’ He was. He still is. He always will be.

I listened to a talk yesterday that reminded me. Whatever we believe about how the world began, we know it didn’t start with us. My being here is nothing of my doing, and my being sustained day by day is not of me either. I didn’t create the earth under my feet or the blood in my veins or the clouds over my head. I am a tiny part of a beautiful story that isn’t finished yet. One day in the not too distant future, the hard stuff of today will have passed. Memories will remain, we will be changed, lessons learned, and it will leave a legacy for sure. But like the tissue floating around my garden, I like to imagine God giving the world a little shake and Covid 19 floating away merrily into the atmosphere.

And in the meantime I can choose hope. Some days that’s harder than others. But I can make conscious choices of what I read or watch or listen to. Whether to search the news or the Bible. To scroll through screens or throw leaves and laugh. To comfort shop or to send a comforting message. To react with impatience or understanding. To email a complaint or to email a thank you. To sulk about Christmas or to celebrate Christ’s coming.

When Jesus watched the humans in His world self-destruct the beauty of His Creation, He didn’t throw us in the recycling bag, He stepped in, into the mess, and washed it clean with His blood. And He’s still in the business of redemption, through Himself, and through the people He loves. We can choose to shine the light, shake the negativity and hang onto hope. And with each choice we can make a difference of how we get through the days ahead. We can be overwhelmed by the chaos of circumstances, or we can overwhelm the world with hope, faith, joy, gratitude and love.

‘He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities-all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross.’ – Colossians 1:15-20