The queue for haloes

Katy, then aged five, was getting dressed in her costume for the school Christmas play. In reception, most of the girls were making up the heavenly host of angels, and most of the boys were a fairly rowdy bunch of shepherds. Everyone wanted to be Mary, or Joseph, or (for some reason, that year) the Innkeeper, but no, the main characters were selected from the older classes. 

I remember clearly arriving at school and entering the classroom to find a scrum of harassed parents all struggling to shoehorn their excited children into their costumes. 

Teatowels abounded, as did satin, glitter and tinsel.  Katy's angel costume (Sainsbury's, £5.99; I am no seamstress) was on the desk and we were expected to get our little angels dressed for the last rehearsal before the Main Performance later that day. 

Katy was distracted by the classroom decorations and was more interested in pointing out her moose - or reindeer, or whatever - among the herd on the wall. A little boy next to her began to cry because his tea towel had a mysterious stain on it, and his mother was mortified. Someone else's wings had come un-velcroed and there was some stamping going on until Mummy could find them in the crush and stick them back on. Nobody noticed that they were now upside down. 

Katy attempted to put her white tights on over the top of her outdoor shoes and I was getting hot and bothered in my jacket and woolly hat. It was quite stressful. Things were said, and I know that you know what I mean. 

And then, all of a sudden, she turns around and there is my five year old girl in a white and gold angel costume, standing on tiptoe for a cuddle. Well, I had difficulty letting her go. 

One more hurdle - she had to fetch a halo from the teacher who was doling them out and she needed me to help her put it on. Katy has very silky, slippery hair, and so a headband with a lump of wire and tinsel attached was a bit of a balancing act. 

She sashayed off for her halo. Minutes later she returned with a small thundercloud where the halo should have been. And then it came:

(Accusingly) 'Mummy, how come I'm always last in the queue when they're giving out haloes?' 

There's one to write down and repeat in a wedding speech one day. My gorgeous little girl stood there  with a scowl and her halo all lopsided. She wanted one of the newer haloes; one that wasn't slightly battered from being fetched out every December for the last few years, but the shiny ones had already gone by the time she got to the front of the queue. 

Her halo was not what she wanted it to be. 

I think I was also at the back of the queue when they gave out haloes. I don't know anyone who was at the front, to be honest, though I suspect I know a few who were further up than I was. From where I'm standing, other people's haloes seem much more highly polished than mine.

Katy's five and I was impatient, frustrated and irritated; ready to shout at her (and indeed, probably would have done had we been at home and not in a sea of other, more rational, patient Mummies and Daddies). She was wriggly when I wanted her to be still. She was excited when I wanted her to be calm. She was happy and distracted and I was narked about having to get her into her white tights and then realised that they were on the wrong way round and the heels were in front. I snapped at her. 

She was an angel in the school play but her halo wasn't quite right. 

My halo is a bit battered too, Lord God. It droops quite often and I'm sure that it should shine a bit brighter than it does. But you love me anyway. 

She stood there, my little angel, looking disgruntled and disappointed and I pulled her into my arms for a hug and we cuddled for a long few minutes, right there in the middle of the busy hustle and bustle of pre-dress rehearsal preparations in the reception class at school. 

Two of us with less than perfect haloes. 

Come and worship

I've always loved Carol Services. 

If I can hold a candle and the church is nicely decorated and there's a choir and a band and so on, so much the better. The other night I walked down the road to church and on the way I asked you if you'd speak to me. If I could spend time with you - and feel your Presence there with me in the candlelight. 

Oh, Lord, you answered that prayer. 

The carols weren't just carols. They weren't the same over-familiar tunes and words that we trot out each year and know by heart because we dust them off each Christmas. For me, in row six, sitting next to a man who didn't sing a single word - not a single word! - it seemed fresh and new. 

Hark! The herald angels sing

Glory to the new born King

Oh, Lord Jesus. It was as if those angels were singing with us. The glorious company of heaven was watching the miraculous events in a small middle eastern town way back when and they were proclaiming the wonder of it for the very first time

.

Joyful, all ye nations, rise

Join the triumph of the skies

The very angels of heaven were singing to say, 'He's there! He's come to you! Can you believe it?'

As we sang the weariness of the day full of Christmas preparations melted away and I realised that I found a little bit of that joy deep inside. It's not a fluffy, light as a feather happy sort of feeling; no, it's a deep, weighty, full-bodied overwhelming thing. 

Light and life to all He brings

Risen with healing in His wings

Light. Life. Healing. Don't we all need those things? How I need them; I am broken in so many places. And you are the balm to my hurts, the light in my darkness, the answer to my question. 

As the candle flame in my hand flickered and people's faces were lit up and made beautiful with the soft light, the music soared and my soul reached for you. 

Born that man no more may die

Born to raise the sons of earth

Born to give them second birth

Born that we might live and not die. Born to lift us to heaven to be with you rather than strike us down and leave us where we deserve to be.

Oh, Father. What mystery is it that you came to earth and poured deity into a tiny wriggling body. How amazing that a young girl heard your voice and said 'Yes, let it be as you say', instead of 'You want me to do WHAT?' 

How wonderful that a good man stood by his faithful young wife and raised a baby that wasn't his?  

He came down to earth from heaven

Who is God and Lord of all

and His shelter was a stable

And His cradle was a stall

And the Saviour of the world had his birth day among animals and shepherds and other odd visitors? (Yes, I know, the wise men came some time later, but you know what I mean).

There isn't a palace in the world that man could make beautiful enough for you. There isn't a cathedral or a landscape or a crown of jewels that befits your majesty - but you chose a little known town in the back of beyond for your entry. 

Why? Because you had a Plan. 

God rest you merry, gentlemen

Let nothing you dismay

For Jesus Christ our Saviour

Was born upon this day

To save us all from Satan's power

When we were gone astray

Yeah, let's stay merry, people! Let's not let anything dilute or diminish the amazing thing that happened. You came to rescue us. You loved us too much to leave us in the mess we'd created, were creating, and would go on to create (and it's quite a mess). You came to bring us home to be with you, because you loved us. 

O, tidings of comfort and joy

Comfort and joy

O, tidings of comfort and joy

If that's not good news, I don't know what is. 

My God, it seemed amazing to me. Emmanuel - God with us. 

God. With. Us. Sing about it. 

Sing, choirs of angels

Sing in exultation

Sing, all ye citizens of heaven above

Glory to God

In the highest

O come, let us adore Him

Christ, the Lord. A tiny baby. 

Why exultation? Exulting? Lively, triumphant joy. Celebration of success, not just happiness. This is a triumph, and the angels could see how profound it was. Everything would be different, now. It was a game-changer. The earth was transformed that night and most people down here were completely oblivious to it, but the angels weren't. 

It was a big deal.

Ding dong! merrily on high

In heaven the bells are ringing

Ding dong! verily the sky

Is riven with angels singing

Gloria 

Hosanna in excelsis!

Riven! The sky was split across with the sound of the angels. Torn apart with the pealing of bells and heavenly host worshipping and celebrating. That must have been some sound.

Ye who sang creation's story

Now proclaim Messiah's birth

Come and worship

Christ the new-born King

We came and we worshipped. The choir sang in harmonies that must have pleased you. The band played music that lead us into your presence and the old songs meant something new.

We got to play a small part in the anniversary of that earth-shattering day in history.

E'en so here below, below...

Even so, here below. In my church, at Christmas 2013. Me. Even me. 

Now to the Lord sing praises

All you within this place

And I closed my eyes (making sure that my candle was still vertical and not dripping wax on the floor or setting fire to anyone's hair or anything) and I remembered the way I saw you on your throne with the scenes of glory and majesty and power and gentleness and unending, dramatic love playing out in your heart and I lifted my small, substandard, stained one to you. 

I think maybe even if we manage to see beyond the turkey and tinsel and gifts and Christmas telly sometimes we get too wrapped up in the tiny baby in a manger and no-crying-he-makes and all that. Even with the benefit of more than two thousand years we might miss the big picture - this baby was God. The Creator and sustainer of life, in a bed made of straw born to a normal girl who believed and her bemused husband. 

Christ by highest heaven adored

Christ the everlasting Lord

Adored by the angels of heaven and adored by me.

The Word made flesh. God with us. 

Oh, God, thank you for my glimpse past the familiar and into the realms of worship. Thank you that I heard an echo of the angels song and you let me add my poorly tuned but enthusiastic voice to the heavenly host.

Glorious now, behold him arise

King and God and sacrifice

Heaven sings, Alleluia!

Alleluia the earth replies

God with us. 

Jesus, our Emmanuel.

Amen and Alleluia. 

Away in a manger

Hello, God.

Is it Spring soon?  In the last week we've had subzero temperatures, heavy frost, treacherous ice, torrential rain and high winds. Today is dank and dreary. Spirits are in need of a lift, please. 

I know, I'm not going to spend the next few months complaining about begin cold and unstable (on my feet, I mean) until the first green shoots show their faces. I'm not, really. 

Well, it's the shortest day soon so a small celebration is in order, don't you think? Not that I'm ungrateful for wintry days where it's so cold that my chin gets left behind and I can't stay upright. No, not at all. 

Not much, anyway. 

I've had a good weekend, thank you. Church this morning was good; our little nativity, under-rehearsed and beset with dodgy microphones and howling PA but lovely and touching and heartwarming as always. The Christmas story, told with a tableau of small children, choreographed manfully by hardworking Sunday school leaders. 

So simple. My two girls were angels (again! Got great value out of that angel costume. I reckon it's been used at four nursery nativities, four church ones, one at school and a couple of parties, and is only slightly unravelled in the wing department). They sat looking somewhat bemused and largely unsmiling on a bench at the back of the tableau but their Mum and Dad were proud of them nonetheless.  Of all the congregation only we know how incongruous a pair of halos are on my daughters! Only joking. Well, a bit. 

The Christmas story is so familiar, isn't it? I mean familiar to us. I can't count the number of nativities I've seen or been involved in or heard about in church, in schools and in playgroups and nurseries.  The shops are full of costumes - Mary, Joseph (usually interchangeable with the shepherds), Wise men, even stars, cows, donkeys and camels. Many a doll or new baby have played the title role and little girls always want to be Mary and sit looking suitably serene. 

The two smallest,
most bemused angels are my daughters.

So familiar that I send Christmas cards with a nativity scene on (if I can find them in the shops among the snow-scenes and robins and Santas). All the plays and tableaux and advent calendars and so on just wash over me because I'm so used to them, and then one day there's something that stops me in my tracks. This weekend it was the home-made manger on the stage in church with a bundle of hay in it and an elderly Tiny Tears doll. 

I have no idea how accurate a representation of the Holy Manger this one was, but it's roughness and simplicity and unsuitability for a real baby struck me as something new.

When my girls were born I had all the stuff that you need when you're going to have a baby. I had a small wardrobe full of tiny clothes (mostly in yellow and white as we didn't know if we'd need pink or blue), nappies, wipes, baby oil (what exactly was that for? I don't think I ever knowingly used baby oil and yet I must have been given a dozen bottles, some of which I still have), muslin squares, toys, mobiles, baby type sleeping bags and the softest of soft blankets. And that brings me to the cot. 

Our cot was pale wood, varnished with a clear lacquer that was considered safe and suitable for babies, with a plastic protective bit over the top to stop the remote possibility of splinters where tiny gums might gnaw as teeth emerge. The side lowered in a convenient way so that no discomfort was caused to my back as I bent to pick up the baby. The cot had a sprung mattress with a chemical-free waterproof fabric coating and then a couple of warm, brushed cotton fitted sheets to make it snug and comfy. 

When I was kitting out our nursery cot bumpers were not considered the thing to have for health and safety reasons but I know many people then and now position soft and pretty padding all round the cot so that baby won't bump his head and is even cosier. My baby was swaddled in the softest of baby blankets for a few months and then when a little older she slept in a custom made sleeping bag. I monitored the room temperature carefully and adjusted her tiny, well-fitting sleep suits and vests accordingly. A jungle animals mobile in pastel colours dangled over her cot and when we wound it up it played a soporific little tune (that was never particularly successful in inducing sleep but nonetheless sounded nice). Stuffed toys were arranged all around the perimeter of the cot and the room was tastefully decorated with 'Elizabeth Lucy' and two years later 'Katherine Emily' on the walls, a chest of drawers just for her things and changing mats and accessories all co-ordinated. We had everything.

That was how my child came into the world. 

No crib for a bed

Yours was born in a stable and slept wrapped in a cloth on top of a bundle of uncomfortable straw in an unhygienic feeding trough for animals, in a cold, grubby and draughty stable, surrounded by smelly cows and sheep. 

Wow. 

Now, my daughters are very special to me, and to a few other people too, but they are distinctly human. They may be children of God in one sense, but not the actual, factual sense. Your son was born into circumstances that were beyond normal - he was positively poor. I imagine that even in those Biblical times not many children were born in a stable. When I was small I used to sing, 'no crib for a bed' and think that the word 'crib' meant money in the olden days and Mary and Joseph didn't have any cash for a decent bed. Well, the idea has merit, I think, but it isn't quite what it means. You didn't have any of the home comforts, did you, Lord?

The Son of God came to earth in such a way. I've heard the nativity story over and over and yet the little wooden manger in our church play brought home to me the truth of it. You certainly did lay aside your majesty. The King of Kings, the Lord of all Creation, tiny and vulnerable and human. 'No crying he makes'? - I bet you did cry. You must have been prickled by the hay even if you were OK about the cows peering at you and wondering where their dinner was. I bet Mary had a nightmare trying to settle you sometimes. 

And then there's Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ, giving birth in such a cold, uncomfortable, inappropriate place for something so personal, so difficult, so scary, so momentous. It's a Big Thing when a woman has her first baby - how much more when the mother is a virgin, no more than a child herself and the baby the Son Of the Most High?  Nowhere in the Bible does it say that Jesus' birth was any different from any other birth - it was probably painful and messy and risky and undignified, and to do it without any health and safety advice or gas and air or glucose tablets or towels and hot water, or the benefit of a midwife and a bath and a comfy bed, or even your own Mum - this was basic, wasn't it. 

You wanted it that way. I cannot fathom it, other than that you wanted to demonstrate that you were fully, fully human. You came to us without any of the benefits of the world and with no advantage. You related to the lowest, poorest, most unsophisticated. You were really one of us.

Lord, it amazes me. So much does. So much that I take for granted then my eyes open for a moment and I see something and it amazes me. You showed me. You made the earth and everything in it. You understand all that there is to understand. You are there outside time, looking back on history and forward to the end of the story; you are the beginning and the end and you are the Almighty God, and you arrived on earth in such a simple, understated way that many, many might have missed it. 

I don't want to miss it, Lord. I want to see and understand and marvel. God become man. A tiny baby in a stable more than two thousand years ago, born to a young girl and a simple carpenter without fanfare or news flash. An eternal door opened up wide, light flooded out and heaven and earth saw each other clearly for the first time. 

The world changed beyond imagination on that day; history hinged, and yet most of the population of the world went about their business without any inkling. Without sensing the shift. 

Without understanding that nothing would be the same again.

The angels, however - I bet it was a different story. 

 'Sing, choirs of angels

Sing in exultation

Sing, all ye citizens of heaven above

Glory to God in the highest

Oh come, let us adore him

Christ, the Lord'

Amen.  God with us. The new story was beginning.


Edited and reposted from December 2011. They were angels again this year, they were still bewildered, it still moved me to a little tear, and the PA played up just the same. Thankyou, Lord. 

Knocking on the door

Afternoon, Lord God. 

I was reading something the other day and it made me think. Let me run this past you. 

You know when Peter was miraculously released from prison? I know it in terms of Acts 12 in the Bible, but I imagine you remember it as if it were yesterday. For me it's a story that I believe is true but can't quite get into the reality of; for you it's a fond memory.

Peter was in prison and then it got all dramatic; an angel appeared, chains fell off, doors opened by themselves and he walked free. I know he was pretty confused because it tells us so. At first he thought it wasn't actually happening to him, but just a vision, and then as the angel left we hear that Peter is standing in the street gaping. Well, that's how I imagine it. It says that '...when he came to himself...'(Acts 12:10) he makes his way to where he knew his mates were hiding. I wonder what he was thinking. Amazed, scared, awestruck, confused, overjoyed, excited? I'm quite sure that he couldn't wait to find his friends and tell them what had happened. Then maybe a glass of wine or two?

So he knocks on the door and Rhoda answers it. 

'Peter! Wow! We thought you were in prison! It's a miracle! Come in and tell us all about it.'

Nope. 

'Peter knocked at the outer entrance, and a servant named Rhoda came to answer the door. When she recognised Peter's voice, she was so overjoyed she ran back without opening it and exclaimed, 'Peter is at the door!'

Acts 12:14

The disciples and Rhoda debate this for a while. Surely not. Peter is in prison. He's not at the door. Maybe it's his angel? (Seems to me that the disciples at this point were much more used to angels than we are these days. Why is that? If I'd been there I'd have suggested that it wasn't Peter at all but perhaps someone who sounded like him, but no, his angel. What about that?) 

Anyway, Peter's still at the door. Ahem. Knock, knock. 

It is Peter. It isn't Peter. Yes it is. No, it can't be. And so on. 

Knock, knock.

'But Peter kept on knocking, and when they opened the door and saw him, they were astonished.'

Acts 12:18

When they eventually open the door, Peter can get in. I'd love to have been there. 

'Of course it's me, you halfwits. I've been out there twenty minutes!'

Acts 12:18b (my version).

How wonderful, the tale he tells. A miracle indeed. Saved from Herod and secure in the knowledge that God Almighty is watching out for him and has a job for him to do. I bet the wine flowed and they talked into the night, even after Peter left (it says, '... for another place.' Where? That sort of thing intrigues me. Where did he go?) 

Anyway. It was a night to remember indeed.  I bet songs of praise were sung. I bet your name was lifted high that night. 

The thing that made me think was this: the disciples had been praying and praying for Peter. 

'So Peter was kept in prison, but the church was earnestly praying to God for him.'

Acts 12: 5 NIV

They prayed earnestly. They prayed, presumably, that he would be alright, that he wasn't having too nasty a time, and that he might soon get out of prison.  

So they pray that he might be released, and he is. And yet, when he arrives at the door, they don't believe it. To the extent that Rhoda leaves the poor bemused man standing in the street knocking and knocking and looking over his shoulder for prison guards while she gets a bit high pitched in the living room with the disciples. 

They prayed fervently and their prayers were answered. And yet they were astonished. 

Nothing changes, does it? How incredibly reassuring that the disciples were taken aback and disbelieving when their prayers were answered just like I am. 

I pray about something (how often can I actually say I pray 'earnestly'? Feeling a bit uncomfortable about that) and then, sometimes, I am aware that you have answered my prayer. Of course, I suspect that you answer them much more often than I realise, but on the occasions where I see it and recognise it, what do I do? I run about like Rhoda telling people, 'You'll never guess what's happened! It's amazing!'

So I pray in faith, and yet I don't expect an answer. I'm sorry. The faith part is a bit thin, hey? 

Is it a sign of spiritual maturity when answered prayer, even the dramatic type, doesn't send me into a flat spin? When I'm not 'astonished' as the disciples? When I can say, 'Of course God answered my prayer. I'm not surprised; I knew he would'. Hmm. Is that faith, then? 

I think so.

'"Jesus replied, 'Truly I tell you, if you have faith and do not doubt...you can say to this mountain, 'Go, throw yourself into the sea,' and it will be done."'

Matthew 21:21

Ah. It's about the measure of faith, then. Is it possible for me to have a faith that can move mountains? I pray and I think I'm not doubting... but I'm wavery and wondering and I can't honestly say that I'm particularly earnest, much of the time. I'm in good company, because the disciples (who clearly did a better line in earnest) were astonished and doubtful when it came to answered prayer. Thankyou for them, Lord God. Thankyou that I you comfort me with their humanity. They were the very foundations of the Church and yet were reassuringly slow on the uptake.

I would like to ask, though; is it not always a breathtaking, awe-inspiring wonder that the God of the universe would listen to me and answer a prayer in my little life? I can't imagine taking it in my stride, or being unimpressed, because it's amazing to me that you hear me at all. 

I'm sure there's middle ground. I'm sure that I haven't got to the bottom of this; for now I'll go on trying to practice enough to pray earnestly and I shall be on the lookout for an answer. I shall try to expect one. Help me to notice more of the answered prayers that I know are heaped up all around me. Help me to be more sensitive to your hand in my life, Father. Show me how to pray with expectation, not just on the offchance. 

Give me more faith. More and more, Lord. I want to be faithful. I want to be what a friend of mine calls a 'Power Pray-er'. I want to hear from you so often that your voice becomes familiar to me. I want to chat. I want to listen. I want to pray in such a way that your will is done, here on earth, as it is in heaven. I want to bring a little bit of your Kingdom right here. I want to make a difference. 

I don't want to leave Peter knocking in the street. I want to see him stumbling down the road towards me with a startled expression because I was waiting for him to arrive. I was expecting him to arrive.

I just can't guarantee that if - no, when it happens I won't dash off excitedly to tell the world about it. I shall shout it from the rooftops. 

My God is good. He answers prayers. 

Away in a manger

Hello, God. It's Monday. 

Do Mondays come round more than once a week? Because it sometimes feels like it to me. Bryan's taxi to the station was late this morning causing more than a little panic about missed trains; I had to wake the children up (which, as you know, I consider to be against nature - several years of my life have been spent trying to get them to go to sleep so to reverse the process seems incomprehensible to me) and then we had to teeter our way round to school as the pavements were treacherously icy and the girls and I held each other up until we got to the safety of the school. Then I minced my way back again with much clutching at walls and garden fences.  Phew. 

Is it Spring soon? 

I know, I'm not going to spend the next few months complaining about begin cold and unstable (on my feet, I mean) until the first green shoots show their faces. I'm not, really. 

Well, it's the shortest day soon so a small celebration is in order, don't you think? Not that I'm ungrateful for wintry days where it's so cold that my chin gets left behind and I can't stay upright. No, not at all. 

Not much, anyway. 

I've had a good weekend, thank you. Church on Sunday morning was good; our little nativity, under-rehearsed and beset with dodgy microphones and howling PA but lovely and touching and heartwarming as always. The Christmas story, told with a tableau of small children, bible story read by older ones and all of it choreographed manfully by hardworking Sunday school leaders. 

So simple. My two girls were angels and sat looking somewhat bemused on a bench at the back of the tableau but their Mum and Dad were proud of them nonetheless.  Of all the congregation only we know how incongruous a pair of halos are on my daughters! Only joking.

The Christmas story is so familiar, isn't it? I mean familiar to us. I can't count the number of nativities I've seen or been involved in or heard about in church, in schools and in playgroups and nurseries.  The shops are full of costumes - Mary, Joseph (usually interchangeable with the shepherds), Wise men, even stars, cows, donkeys and camels. Many a doll or new baby have played the title role and little girls always want to be Mary and sit looking suitably serene. 

The two smallest,
most bemused angels are my daughters.

So familiar that I send Christmas cards with a nativity scene on (if I can find them in the shops among the snow-scenes and robins and Santas). All the plays and tableaux and advent calendars and so on just wash over me because I'm so used to them, and then one day there's something that stops me in my tracks. This weekend it was the home-made manger on the stage in church with a bundle of hay in it and an elderly Tiny Tears doll. 

I have no idea how accurate a representation of the Holy Manger this one was, but it's roughness and simplicity and unsuitability for a real baby struck me as something new.

When my girls were born I had all the stuff that you need when you're going to have a baby. I had a small wardrobe full of tiny clothes (mostly in yellow and white as we didn't know if we'd need pink or blue), nappies, wipes, baby lotion (what exactly was that for? I don't think I ever knowingly used baby lotion and yet I must have been given a dozen bottles), muslin squares, toys, mobiles, baby type sleeping bags and the softest of soft blankets. And that brings me to the cot. 

Our cot was pale wood, varnished with a clear lacquer that was considered safe and suitable for babies, with a plastic protective bit over the top to stop the remote possibility of splinters where tiny gums might gnaw as teeth emerge. The side lowered in a convenient way so that no discomfort was caused to my back as I bent to pick up the baby. The cot had a sprung mattress with a chemical-free waterproof fabric coating and then a couple of warm, brushed cotton fitted sheets to make it snug and comfy. 

When I was kitting out our nursery cot bumpers were not considered the thing to have for health and safety reasons but I know many people then and now position soft and pretty padding all round the cot so that baby won't bump his head and is even cosier. My baby was swaddled in the softest of baby blankets for a few months and then when a little older she slept in a custom made sleeping bag. I monitored the room temperature carefully and adjusted her tiny, well-fitting sleep suits and vests accordingly. A jungle animals mobile in pastel colours dangled over her cot and when we wound it up it played a soporific little tune (that was never particularly successful in inducing sleep but nonetheless sounded nice). Stuffed toys were arranged all around the perimeter of the cot and the room was tastefully decorated with 'Elizabeth Lucy' and two years later 'Katherine Emily' on the walls, a chest of drawers just for her things and changing mats and accessories all co-ordinated. We had everything.

That was how my child came into the world. 

No crib for a bed

Yours was born in a stable and slept wrapped in a cloth on top of a bundle of uncomfortable straw in an unhygienic feeding trough for animals, in a cold, grubby and draughty stable, surrounded by smelly cows and sheep. 

Wow. 

Now, my daughters are very special to me, and to a few other people too, but they are distinctly human. They may be children of God in one sense, but not the actual, factual sense. Your son was born into circumstances that were beyond normal - he was positively poor. I imagine that even in those Biblical times not many children were born in a stable. When I was small I used to sing, 'no crib for a bed' and think that the word 'crib' meant money in the olden days and Mary and Joseph didn't have any cash for a decent bed. Well, the idea has merit, I think, but it isn't quite what it means. You didn't have any of the home comforts, did you, Lord?

The Son of God came to earth in such a way. I've heard the nativity story over and over and yet the little wooden manger in our church play brought home to me the truth of it. You certainly did lay aside your majesty. The King of Kings, the Lord of all Creation, tiny and vulnerable and human. 'No crying he makes'? - I bet you did cry. You must have been prickled by the hay even if you were OK about the cows peering at you and wondering where their dinner was. I bet Mary had a nightmare trying to settle you sometimes. 

And then there's Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ, giving birth in such a cold, uncomfortable, inappropriate place for something so personal, so difficult, so scary, so momentous. It's a Big Thing when a woman has her first baby - how much more when the mother is a virgin, no more than a child herself and the baby the Son Of the Most High?  Nowhere in the Bible does it say that Jesus' birth was any different from any other birth - it was probably painful and messy and risky and undignified, and to do it without any health and safety advice or gas and air or glucose tablets or towels and hot water, or the benefit of a midwife and a bath and a comfy bed, or even your own Mum - this was basic, wasn't it. 

You wanted it that way. I cannot fathom it, other than that you wanted to demonstrate that you were fully, fully human. You came to us without any of the benefits of the world and with no advantage. You related to the lowest, poorest, most unsophisticated. You were really one of us.

Lord, it amazes me. So much does. So much that I take for granted then my eyes open for a moment and I see something and it amazes me. You showed me. You made the earth and everything in it. You understand all that there is to understand. You are there outside time, looking back on history and forward to the end of the story; you are the beginning and the end and you are the Almighty God, and you arrived on earth in such a simple, understated way that many, many might have missed it. 

I don't want to miss it, Lord. I want to see and understand and marvel. God become man. A tiny baby in a stable more than two thousand years ago, born to a young girl and a simple carpenter without fanfare or news flash. 

The world changed on that day; history hinged, and yet most of the population of the world went about their business without any inkling. Without sensing the shift. 

Without understanding that nothing would be the same again.

The angels, however - I bet it was a different story. 

 'Sing, choirs of angels

Sing in exultation

Sing, all ye citizens of heaven above

Glory to God in the highest

Oh come, let us adore him

Christ, the Lord'

Amen.  God with us. The story was beginning.