Who do you say I am?

"Jesus ... asked his disciples, 'Who do people say the Son of Man is?' 

They replied, 'Some say John the Baptist, others say Elijah; and still others, Jeremiah or one of the prophets.'

'But what about you?' he asked. 'Who do you say I am?'

Peter answered, 'You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.'"

Matthew 16:13-16 NIV

I've read this many times, and I read it again the other day. The difference was that this time it jumped off the page at me. Peter spoke up for all the disciples - I wonder what they were about to say or if there was going to be a long, painful silence. But Peter piped up, 'You are the Christ.'  He didn't say, 'We think that you might be the Christ.' or 'Are you the Christ?' He stated it as a fact. 

And then, this amazing bit:

"Jesus replied, Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah, for this was not revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by my Father in heaven.'"

Simon knew who Jesus was. I don't know how he came to this realisation, whether it was gradual or sudden, but Jesus tells him that it wasn't a conclusion he was ever going to come to on his own. God had revealed it to him. 

Now, you are the same God now as you were then, aren't you? Because you are eternal, unchanging. You don't need to evolve, or learn, or develop in any way. You are the same God. So how is it that I, too, like Peter, can say of your Son, 'You are the Christ'? 

This is why this little exchange just jumped out at me. Just as you gave Peter the understanding to grasp who he was, you have given it to me. How else would I know? 

Wow. 

The enormity of this struck me. You are the same God. 

'Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever.'

Hebrews 13:8

So if you blessed Simon Peter with the realisation that Jesus was the Messiah, and then all the normal everyday people down through history, then you have blessed me too. It therefore follows that just as you had a relationship with each of those people, spoke with them, directed them and expected things from them - you will do all that for me too. Because you don't change. 

AW Tozer summed it up for me, speaking about Peter's revelation and the foundations of the Christian church through him:

'If all of this is true - and everything within me witnesses that it is - we may insist that God is able to do for us all that He did in the days of the apostles. There has been no revocation in our charter!'

Mornings with Tozer

I don't really know why we read the Bible and believe that you did amazing things for and in and through the apostles and all those other Great People of the Old and New Testament, and then we look at our own lives and fail to apply what we've learned. It's as if we somehow think that you had your golden days back then and somehow you are a more distant, watered down sort of God now. Maybe in retirement. Capable of watching over us in a benevolent sort of way but without the dynamism and drama of the Bible. 

But here's the little tiny but hugely important thing that I learned in a new way the other day. Without you, Peter would not have seen who Jesus is.

Without you, neither would I. 

Thankyou, God Almighty. 

God of the Israelites, Father of Jesus Christ, and God of me too. 

A kind of magic

Afternoon, Lord.

Today has been a bit of a lukewarm sort of day. I have not been firing on all cylinders, because of something that happened last night.  Actually it wasn't last night, it was about 3 o'clock this morning. It was very weird and not something I'd like to happen that often, if you don't mind. 

About 2am I woke up and I wasn't surprised as round these parts we've been having gales and heavy rain and the noise of the weather outside was dramatic. The sort of night where you lie in bed and wonder what damage might be happening in the garden or if the roof tiles and chimney are stuck on properly. (Well, I don't suppose you do, but we mortals have these concerns).

So I was awake and I glanced at the clock only to find that it wasn't there. Well, it was still there but I couldn't see it because its digital display had gone. More groping about revealed no bedroom light, no lamps, no electricity. As I pondered this I noticed that I could hear music, and assumed that it was one of our neighbours who has a tendency to play his CDs too loudly. I have no idea why but I decided to go out onto the landing and it was then that I realised that the music wasn't coming from outside the house, but inside, somewhere. My first thought was that it was the children (how were they playing music with no electricity?) but as I walked past their bedrooms it was clear that the sound was coming from downstairs. 

Using the light from my phone to navigate (despite having a torch in the bedroom drawer) I went downstairs in the dark, trying lamps and light switches as I went. The music was coming from the kitchen, and it was loud. No wonder I could hear it upstairs. My iPod was playing. To be specific, it was playing Queen's 'It's a Kind of Magic' and it was playing it quite loudly. No other electricity was working, but the iPod, on it's dock, was playing away in the dark in a deserted kitchen and in a particularly spooky sort of way.

As you know, Lord, because you made me this way, adrenalin was coursing round my body at that point as I stood in my pyjamas in the dark in a house where everyone should have been asleep. 

Was this the work of a burglar who'd seen too many films and was luring me downstairs? Why would he play the iPod rather than nick it?  Why on earth would music be playing in the middle of the night? I tried the doors but they were locked. Windows closed. Valuables seemed where they belonged. Heart beating like crazy.

I whipped the iPod off it's stand and silenced it and then looked around. The digital display on the cooker and microwave were flashing, so the electricity had been off and come back on again. Further investigation in the cupboard under the stairs revealed that a switch in the fuse board had tripped. I flipped it back on and the second frightening moment was when the whole house leapt back into life. The computer beeped, the printer sort of revved up and did some exercises, the DVD player beeped and blinked, the phones all chippered and even the shower made some strange noises. Every room seemed to be beeping or flashing or whirring. I scurried back to bed. 

Not going back to sleep for a while after that. 

I might as well have downed a couple of espressos because I was so wide awake after that little adventure. I worked out that the electricity must have gone off for a while, and then come back with such a rush or a spike or something that it tripped the fuse for part of the house. The surge back on must have somehow switched on the iPod even though the iPod dock was still part of the house that was out of electricity.

'It's a kind of magic'. Ha! The ghostly voice of Freddie Mercury uninvited in my kitchen in the small hours was telling me it was magic. It might not have been magic, but it was certainly very odd. 

Electricity is a bit magical, when you think about it. My husband has a Masters degree in Electronics, among his many and varied qualifications, and so he understands it much better than I. I like to turn on the kettle and have it boil water for my coffee, or turn on the bedside light when I want to see what I'm doing, or switch on the music - when I want it to play, rarely at 2am - and I'm happy not really to grasp how and why it does what it does. He understood what had happened straight away when I told him. But to me, it was strange indeed. 

I am sure that there's a lesson to be learned here somewhere. Maybe about the unpredictability and power of electricity and a parallel with your good self? I accept that the lights come on when I flick a switch and grumble when they don't, without needing to know why or how. Maybe I should stop asking you for so many answers about what you do and don't do? We depend on you, even more than we do on the electricity.  You, like the lecky, are always there humming along in the background. Only occasionally do you intervene, and then, like electricity, you tend to get our full attention. 

However, if you ever stopped being or went offline for a while I suspect more would happen than a few flashing lights and beeping gadgets. I think we all might cease to exist. 

But maybe that's an analogy too far, is it? After all, many people manage quite well without electricity, and in the history of the world nobody has managed that well without you.

So, to summarise.

Thankyou for being there last night/this morning.

Thankyou for accompanying me downstairs when I'm not a great fan of the dark. 

Thankyou that my unsettling experience was really nothing; there was no actual danger even though my body took a while to accept that. 

Thankyou that you're always there to be called upon for help and moral support. For your faithfulness in life's little adventures.

Thankyou for the strange and complex things that happen in our bodies at times like this to enable us to do things even when we're afraid. 

So that was how me and you came to have a little chat at 3am. Or actually a number of little chats between 2am and 4.30am. It was a good job we did, to be honest, because at 7am when the alarm went off I was so tired I was pretty much beyond all coherent conversation. 

An early night tonight, I think. 

Another blank page

So, the beginning of a New Year. 

Full of potential, hope, possibilities. 

A little bit oppressive, like a blank page. I used to do a lot of drawing, years ago, and I stopped because I didn't enjoy it that much.  I used to like that I had drawn a picture, I just didn't like drawing it very much. I was always a bit overwhelmed by a large sheet of white paper and afraid to begin because I might mess it up and waste it. After a while, when the picture was going well, I'd become nervous to carry on lest I make a mistake and spoil it. 

A New Year feels a bit like that. The only thing that's different is that this year my perspective has changed just a bit. About as much as the difference in the point of view of the person next to me at the theatre - not as much as the person sitting eight rows away, or in the stalls if I'm in the circle; not as much as that. But still, I am closer to acknowledging the following:

1. I can make a mark on the white sheet of paper and you're proud of me just for making it.
2. I can make a mistake and all is not lost.
3. Because of you and your forgiveness there is always another sheet of paper.
4. If I can learn from the Artist, I might become better at drawing.
5. If I can learn to let you guide my hand, the marks I make might become more confident.

The thing that sums it up for me I think is that I am always, invariably delighted when one of my daughters brings me a drawing that they have done for me. Sometimes they are masterpieces, sometimes less impressive, but always done with love and enthusiasm and presented to me as precious. If I can do that for you, this year, Lord God, my Father, then I know that you will pin up my attempts at art on your noticeboard with the pride of a Daddy whose child is wanting to please them.

Because I do want to please you, God. I want to step out in faith this New Year. I want to make bold marks, make drawings with a steady hand and my eyes fixed on you. I want to create something. I want to leave the world a different place from the way it was before I existed (and in a good way). I want to grow and change. I want to carry on learning how to listen to you, to spend more time in your company and to make more space for you in my heart. 

I want to be more like you.

I know that you don't have only one plan for me; one course of action that is the Right Direction and if I miss a turn, I've blown it forever. I know that there are many junctions in life where you honestly don't mind which direction I take. I know that you've equipped me with a brain and feelings and an instruction manual and common sense (sometimes) so that I can make wise choices about my direction in life. But by the same token I also know that I am poor at map-reading and not so good at taking directions so I'm asking you to hold my hand and show me the route that might make the most difference. 

I think we can do it together.

So here's to the New Year. 

I trust you, Lord. 

In search of a punchline

So, another year is nearly over.

Do the years go by in the blink of an eye for you, Lord? Being outside time, what does it look like to you? Do you see us rushing about like ants? Always unaware of how much time we have left. Still searching, hurrying, trying to fit in all the things we want to fit in before some unknown deadline...

What a year it's been. I don't know whether to do a review of the year, or to look forward expectantly to the next one, or just have a bit of a ramble about New Year's Eves past and present - I guess I'll end up doing all of them, being a fairly introspective, slightly obsessive sort of person, but one thing has become clear to me over the course of this turbulent year and I wanted to run it past you.

I feel as if at the end of the year there should be some sort of momentous conclusion, some punchline, but there isn't, is there? It just sort of goes on.

The way that time is broken up into years is only our construct, isn't it? For you, regarding us, your creations, the span of time that matters is our lifetime; and that's only because you know how long that is. We don't. I don't honestly know if this coming year will be my last on earth or whether I'll still be here wittering away in another three or four decades. Perish the thought, hey?

At the beginning of this year I told you very earnestly that I had a sense that it was going to be a significant year. You smiled indulgently. Most of the way through the year I was still thinking that there was a point to it - a lesson to learn, or something to do, something to understand.  Although I think that I was partly right in thinking that, because there have been a myriad of lessons and ideas to absorb this year - what has dawned on me is that there is no end to the ride until you decide that It's Over.

Just as today ends and tomorrow begins whether there are fireworks and Big Ben strikes or not, the journey doesn't end because the year does.

Yes, we mark out our time with dates, festivals, hinges in a year so that we can stop momentarily, maybe; so that we can pause and get our breath back. Maybe that's it. Maybe we need to build in some things to look forward to. Maybe we need to reflect.

New Year is all about reflecting, it seems to me. It always makes me look back on a year and look forward to the new one. This time last year I was full of excitement and anticipation. I 'knew' that something was afoot - I sensed that you had something in store for me but naively I thought that it was something to do with 2011 and vaguely I thought that the something would be complete by the end of the year.  Now, on 31 December, I can honestly say that I did know that something was afoot. I was right. Something was. You have a plan for me, and this year not only have I had the penny-dropping moment when I realised that it was so, but I have begun to take a couple of little tiny baby steps towards it, with your help. That might not sound like much of an achievement for a whole twelve-month period but, God, you know how momentous it's been for me!

So, yes, I am going to look back on my year and try to distil what I've learned from it. I'll do that because, as someone pointed out to me recently, I am a 'completer/finisher' or something like that and I am obsessed with details and I like things wrapped up. It has to be done properly. I will also look ahead to a completely new, as yet pristine year ahead and try to determine what of this year I want to take with me and what I'd like to leave behind in the smoke and debris of 2011.

What I want most to do, though, is learn how to pause more regularly. To stop and watch and listen and learn to hear you. To reflect on a daily basis (is that too ambitious?) - anyway, more often then just once a year.

Ha.

I feel all smiley. Just thinking about the potential and the hope and the promise of going forward with you holding my hand and showing me where to go. This year has been hard but it's been wonderful and I want to go a bit further, please. You know what I'm capable of. Show me, so that I know too. Is that alright?

I want to praise you, Lord. For the snow and the blossom and for Easter and the sunshine and the seaside and the falling leaves and the Christmas story. For your constancy and ingenuity and beauty and mercy. I could go on and on.

Thankyou for the company we've had this evening. For fun and laughter and small children staying up beyond their bedtimes having had too much sugar. Thankyou for friendship and love and for the wonderful people you've arranged around me that teach me, inspire me, support me and care for me. It's a gift of such generosity and these people are so, so precious to me. Thankyou for my husband and a glass of champagne and a comfy sofa. I might not make it till midnight tonight but I will go to bed happy.

Thankyou for this year, Lord God. Thankyou that I survived it, that those I love are still around me and in pretty good health, and that you have never left my side; that you never, ever will. Thankyou for looking after me, for listening to me, for humouring me, for playing with me, for answering me, for loving me. For all the blessings that you've so generously given me. For all the glimpses and the revelations and the questions and the wonders.

Thankyou, my Father.

Here's to starting all over again, a bit further on, in a different place.

Cheers.

Time for the thank you letters

God, I've forgotten to water my poinsettia and it's looking more than a little droopy. I forgot last week as well but managed to get to it in time and it sort of perked up again, but this time the green leaves have taken umbrage and rolled up a bit so I wonder if it's past the point of no return. Lord, heal my poor neglected poinsettia. I hoped it would make it through to the new year. 

Sigh. This is the limbo period after Christmas, when visitors have gone, the presents are opened and the party food has been eaten. With the huge operation of Christmas over and all the excitement and noise gone. the space that has been taken up for the last few weeks by planning and organising and so on is free and this morning as I lay in bed I could feel unease lurking in the distance again. Vague worries and uncertainties just in the periphery looking opportunistically for a way in again. I'm fighting against it. 

Here's the thing. The presents have been largely assimilated into toiletry cabinets and toy boxes and bookshelves and jewellery boxes. One toy has been broken already and is waiting with other injured items for Gluing. The food mountain has gone - my bulging fridge is almost empty now; even the cling-filmed leftover plates are dwindling. The guests are back in their own houses and the Christmas music has been left off today because it doesn't feel festive any more. The washing machine is back in action (actually on it's sixth load already) and the bin men are back on their rounds with grim faces as they collect the permitted 'additional bags of seasonal refuse' that we have obediently 'placed neatly at the side of the bin'. Such is life. 

Festivities are over. The carols are finished and we've unwrapped our presents and eaten everything in our paths. I'm contemplating taking the decorations down - a job I never look forward to. It has all the mess and stress of getting them out and putting them up without the lovely warm sense of promise or anticipation. Sigh.

It feels like it's all over. We plan it all and enjoy it all but no matter how we try to savour it, it all slips away. Just like the food in the fridge, it all has a use-by date. We drain the last drops and we recycle the paper and we cast about for something to replace the Christmassy feeling. Every year I find this period a bit flat and when it's pouring with rain and cold and blustery and dark outdoors it doesn't do anything to lift the spirits.

It's a good job that you don't need tinsel and fairy lights surrounding you to be real.

The only thing that doesn't slip away out of our grasp is you. The only eternal, unchanging, everlasting, fundamentally permanent thing is you. All the joys that we can create here at Christmas are things that evaporate or run out or simply time-out. All the gifts are inconsequential apart from the baby in the manger.

I had some wonderful presents this year. I am far too interested in 'stuff' I suppose; I never feel that I am difficult to buy presents for because, I'm embarrassed to say, that there are always plenty of things that I want. This year I think people were particularly perceptive and many of my gifts were absolutely delightful. I am grateful for the thought that people put in and I'm grateful for the money and time they put in to choosing and buying things for me. 

But... I am aware that even beautiful jewellery will tarnish and the loveliest of wine will be drunk and electrical gadgets will become obsolete and clothes will wear and fade. Chocolates will disappear (miraculously - with two small girls in the house it's getting worse than ever - you can't put a chocolate down for five minutes unattended and expect it to be there when you get back) and even my old favourite books will be read and shelved and forgotten.

The only gift I have ever been given that I will always have is the gift that you gave me. 

Jesus Christ. Born into obscurity two thousand years ago because mankind needed a rescue package. Born because you love us more than anything. Born because you love us so much that the price of your only Son wasn't too high a price to pay to bring us home. 

There's a gift. It didn't come wrapped up in sparkly paper and it didn't look much like your average Christmas present but it was the most dramatic, extravagant, inspirational, wonderful, generous gift there could be. 

I'm going to get round to 'thank you' letters soon, Father. I have people all over the country to write to so that they know how pleased we are with the presents they sent. I can usually get them done without much hassle, but there's one thank you letter that I've no idea how to write.

I can't even begin to say thank you for what you have done for me; I can't put it into words that would be anywhere close to adequate. 

Let my life be a thank you letter instead. 

Family, fun, food and festivities. And turkey.

Thankyou, God.

What a lovely Christmas it's been. A few wonderful smiley days full of family, food and fun and it's been noisy and tiring and very happy.  I didn't want it to end. 

Christmas this year had all the components that make an occasion memorable. We were up early but not frighteningly early on Christmas day and the children opened their stockings and we saw the beautiful sunrise that was a special present from you. We played Christmas music and had breakfast and went to church and we celebrated the baby born in a stable in Bethlehem two thousand years ago. We lifted our Happy Birthday to you in carols and songs and prayers and fantastic organ music.

Christmas dinner made the table groan; Kevin the Turkey did us proud - a feast indeed. We set fire to the cognac on the Christmas pudding and pulled crackers and wore party hats and the children argued over the little plastic presents (Katy was most put out that her cracker present was a set of screwdrivers. She eventually negotiated a swap with Grandma who had a plastic gonk on a spring. I'm not sure that Grandma was particularly thrilled with the set of screwdrivers but she put a brave face on it). 

Presents, games, drinks, twinkly Christmas tree lights, laughter and thanks and smiles and mountains of wrapping paper. It was a wonderful day and I know how blessed we are. I know how much we have when so many have so little. I'm very, very grateful.

What I've loved most about this Christmas was that we had fun. We were all together and we played games and laughed and we enjoyed ourselves. I like that it was about people. I like it that you were here amongst us. Not everyone sitting round the table invited you but I did, and you came for me and I appreciate it. I know so many people would have been sitting round similar tables in dining rooms all over our country and I know that we were blessed to get on so well with each other, to have so much fun and to enjoy each other's company as we did. I have a great family. 

I've loved watching the children's faces as they opened presents and I'm thankful that they actually seemed to be excited with each one rather than shredding the wrappings and then dropping the gift to ask for another as we've had on occasion, to my embarrassment. We've spent time setting up racing tracks for matchbox cars (just like we did when I was small - some things never change!) and I've loved watching Elizabeth carry her doll round and feed it with the toy bottle with a special kind of tenderness. A fleeting sort of tenderness, granted, as she then dropped the doll on it's head when she saw that another game was being set up.

It's been lovely. I wish our family lived closer to us so that we could see them more often, but then perhaps it wouldn't be so special. Thankyou for the way that the children are getting on better and better as they grow up a bit. Elizabeth is in awe of her nine year old cousin and it's been a great way of getting her to try new items on her plate at mealtimes - if he likes it, then the chances are that Lizzie will too! The children have been tired out at bedtime, slept well and not been up too early in the mornings.

Thankyou, Father, for the many many blessings this Christmas. Thankyou for all of it, from the stockings and the sunrise to the fun and laughter. For family and good health and plenty to eat and the excitement and joy of the children. It hasn't gone unnoticed that you gave us so much to enjoy.

Thankyou. 

Happy Birthday Jesus!

Happy Birthday Jesus!

It's Christmas Day. 

Is it Christmas Day in Heaven? I suppose probably not - it seems likely to me that up there you all know exactly when Jesus was born and we only guess, or celebrate it now because we bagged a pagan festival or something. I know that many non-believers point out that your Son probably wasn't born on 25 December, more like February or something? So do you look down indulgently on our Christmas trees and gifts and carols and the like and marvel at how far off we are from the way it was? 

How wonderful to have all the answers.

Or maybe you do join in the celebrations just because we on earth who love you are celebrating. We have trees with beautiful lights, we have presents, we have a feast and pull crackers and we raise a glass. Or three.  Some of us are going to church today to wish you a happy birthday properly and to say thank you for the amazing thing that you did. To give up all that you had up there in Heaven to come and join in the mess and chaos down here for a while. And for what? Look what we did to you... you were born to die.  But that's not the part of the story we're concerned with today.

Today we look inside the stable in Bethlehem many years ago and we marvel at the tiny baby born humbly among livestock to a poor young girl and her bewildered fiancé. A tiny newborn baby who was God and man at the same time. Born the usual way but fathered by the Holy Spirit. Destined to grow up in a small town, learn a trade, live a relatively short life in comparative obscurity but to make an impact on the world that has not been seen before or since. One small baby who came into the world without fanfare or drumroll, his destiny to save mankind. That's quite a lot to lay on a newborn baby boy.

'For unto us a child is born

to us a son is given

and the government will be on his shoulders.

He will be called 

Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God

Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.'

Isaiah 9:6 NIV

You gave us your precious Son. Not because we deserved such a visitation but rather because we didn't. He took the weight of the world on his shoulders to put things right between me and you. Mighty God - a tiny baby lying in a stable in a small inconsequential town in the middle of the night two thousand years ago.

God with us. God with Mary two thousand years ago. Shepherds saw angels and came to see the baby. Wise men traveled a long, long way, because they saw something in the sky that compelled them to come and see. Just as then, we can't see anything special at all without you showing it to us. We can't see your glory unless you reveal it to us. Just as people walked past Mary and Joseph's stable on that first Christmas evening, concerned with other things, we so often walk past you, oblivious.

Lord thank you for the amazing generosity of that first Christmas gift. Thankyou that you understood what it would take to draw us back to yourself; that you had to come in person because there was no other way. Thankyou that you reached out to us with such warmth and understanding. You sent your beloved Son as a tiny, defenceless baby. You put a star in the sky as a sign that all Creation was coming together in one place. You spoke to humble shepherds because you were coming among the humble and lowly. You were born in poverty and yet you are the King of kings.

Today the sunrise was spectacular. It was pink and red and orange and yellow and all the colours in between. It was beautiful. I'm told that the sunset was exceptional too, though I missed it. I was helping assemble a basket for Elizabeth's new baby doll which is her favourite present. It has a bottle and a dummy and a little outfit and it sucks its thumb and everything. She is displaying a little maternal streak that I never knew was there... but I digress.

The sunrise. Since it's the middle of winter the crack of dawn wasn't exactly at the crack of dawn, if you see what I mean, so we all assembled outside in the garden in various states of pyjama and dressing gown to watch the wonderful sky. It was a gift from you, Lord, and I didn't miss it this time. The sunset too - you put on a show today; you did something special.

You know that question about celebrating in Heaven? I reckon you did, today, and the sheer extravagant exuberant beauty spilled over so that we could see it from down here.

There aren't sufficient words to say thank you, Father God.

Happy Christmas!

Welcome to the world, baby Jesus. I bet the party in Heaven is going well.

Cheers.



 
   

A pause in preparations

God, This is not going to have a Christmas theme. 

It's a pause in the endless stream of festive preparations because I've just had a thought.  

It's on the subject of worry, and not worrying, and things being out of my control. As you know, this is s subject very close to my heart. 

The other day we had some friends coming to visit and I wanted everything to be perfect as we hadn't seen them for a long time. I had a lengthy list of things to do that had to be fitted into the usual tight programme of things that need doing and as the date of the visit got closer it became apparent that the house was not going to be particularly tidy, or particularly well-dusted for that matter. I got tired and dispirited as my perfectionist nature kicked in with a vengeance, and then I got to the point where I thought, 'Oh bother it.' (or words to that effect) and decided that I wasn't going to worry about details any more. If the house wasn't immaculate (and whose is, with two small children and an under-developed sense of house-pride?) then it didn't matter all that much. 

Hard to dust, these decs.

As it turned out, it didn't matter all that much. Of course, as they left the conversation subject matter in the car down the motorway might have been about nothing else but the dust on the DVD player or the smudges of soap in the downstairs cloakroom sink after Katy went on a squirting-spree, but as far as I know, it wasn't.  And we've spoken to them since so I know that no-one contracted any sort of dire bug or infectious complaint as a result of an unsterile environment. 

It was just nice to see them. And they us, I assume. 

This is a silly example. But the thing is - there are times when I find that I can shelve an anxiety. I sort of give up on it. It times out. 

Going away, for instance. It's just occurred to me that sometimes when I go on holiday, or after a deadline has passed and I realise I can't change things, I stop worrying about them.  I remember more than once being on a plane or a ship going somewhere on holiday and talking about an anxious situation at home and because I was going to be miles away and couldn't get back easily or quickly I concluded that there was no point in worrying because I was incapable of remedying the situation. 

And I didn't worry.

Of course, as you probably remember, that situation (like so many) was one that I never did have any control over; my feeling that I did was an illusion, no matter what country I was in. I never could have done anything about it so to relinquish a control I never had was just common sense. Just a shame I didn't do it earlier. 

It might sound stupid for this to be a revelation to me but it's just occurred to me how wonderful it would be if I could do this all the time, without the need for airline or cruise tickets or indeed reaching the end of my tether. How much more efficient and emotional energy-saving if I could skip to the end bit.

There are so many situations in my life that are out of my control; but it doesn't stop me from spending ages worrying about them and turning them over in my mind and discussing them with friends and yet - and yet - when I eventually, finally, at long last reach the conclusion that there's nothing I can do, I can leave them alone. In fact, you are the only one who has control; the only one who CAN do something, and so I should leave them with you in the first place.

I can't help it, so leave it with the one who can help it. How come I can do this when I'm miles away but not when I'm right here? How come I can get a decent sense of perspective about trivia like the necessity for a perfectly spotless house when I'm stressed and tired and end-of-tetherish and not save myself the worry? 

Remember in May this year when I'd just been referred to the breast clinic with a worrying breast lump?  I thought I had cancer.  I was so sure that I couldn't possibly enjoy the planned weekend at the seaside for my Mum's 80th birthday - but I did. With your help, certainly, but an impossible situation was made possible. I thought with anxiety like that hanging over me there was no way I could relax and skim stones and laugh and play and celebrate but I did. On the way back as I drove closer to home and appointments and Katy's surgery and everything I felt things closing in on me, but for a few days you helped me push them away. It was nothing short of a miracle.  (Music in the waves)

In fact I think that's what it was. You took the weight of it from me. 

You are faithful indeed. You understand my little quirks and you know how I think. I am quite sure that you want me to worry less and enjoy life more. It's been on my mind all year and I want to get to grips with it a little more. 

So, help me. When there's nothing I can do, help me do nothing - including worry. That's a new year resolution and a half. 

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.

If you think you're not important...

So I'm getting close to the end of this year and I don't have all the answers to the questions I asked in January. In fact I asked them over and over intermittently all year, but I'm still quite a way from knowing what's what.

But that's ok.

I have some ideas. I have learned so much this year and I am definitely in a different place from when I started out nearly a year ago. It's been a roller coaster ride indeed.

I went to see the girls' nativity play yesterday. It was lovely. A really ambitious play involving every member of the school in costume of some sort, lots of songs, narration, speaking parts, dancing and choreography. My Katy shone brightly as a candle; she took the role very seriously indeed and the earnest look on her face as she sang was wonderful. Elizabeth sat on a bench with the other narrators with her legs elegantly crossed and a faraway look on her face - so faraway that she needed a prompt when it was her turn to scramble up onto the bench and announce the arrival of Jesus. Despite this inauspicious beginning the show went on and she was loud and clear. They both sang and danced the stable hoedown with the rest of the company and it was a bit of a tearjerker and no mistake. I was very proud.

Bearing in mind that the youngest of the children are only just four and the oldest just seven years old it was a masterpiece. so much work had gone into it and the audience were more than appreciative. We were positively doting.  There were some truly priceless moments - among them when a rogue ponytail knocked Katy's candle flame hat off her head and she rounded on the culprit with a mutinous expression and bared teeth; when a tiny but very energetic angel's skirts fell down mid-dance and when Mary carelessly dropped the newborn baby Jesus into the manger being just a few. It was lovely.

One song stood out for me. They were all lovely - the stable hoedown, following the star, the prickly hay song - but the best was a song called, 'If you think you're not important'.

If you think you're not important
All the little things you do
Just remember God above
Is very proud of you.

(Out of the Ark Ltd)

I talked about this with my girls at bedtime because they were so very tired at bedtime last night and Elizabeth especially was full of anxiety. She said she didn't feel special and tears rolled down her face. We talked about this song (and she corrected my memory of the lyrics) and it was easy to reassure her that she was indeed special. How special are my daughters? They are beautiful and interesting and clever and funny and touching and inspirational and witty... and so much else before we even touch on frustrating or tiring or any of those less positive words.

I can sit on the edge of their beds at night and reassure them with absolute confidence that they are special and unique and precious and wonderful. I will keep on doing it because I long for them to believe it. It will make such a difference in their lives as they grow up if they get a glimpse of how you see them, Lord. Not the mean girl in the playground who will be their friend on a Monday but not on Tuesday. Not the teacher who assesses their academic ability. Not the person who gives out the medals at the swimming gala. The God of the Universe who made each of them with care and love and doesn't make mistakes.

It's just hard to believe that about me, sometimes.

I remember when I was at school one of the nuns once told us that 'God made us and he doesn't make trash.'  I didn't really follow for two reasons - one because it came out of the blue, no context, and was delivered without any warmth or real belief, and the other because this same lady was known for her sharp tongue, her shouting and her impatient attitude. If she was trying to tell us that we were special (and I think she was - it must have been on the syllabus somewhere) then it wasn't a lesson that hit home.

But we are. I can tell the kids that over and over again but it's only this year that I've started to believe it about me.

'Just remember God above 
is very proud of you.'


I thought of this again today when I opened my email from Rick Warren (The Daily Hope) and today he was saying that each of us has a unique job to do.

'Think you're too ordinary? You are the one God wants to use.'

I have learned this year that even if I don't have the answers, you can use me. I know that you are shaping me into a different, better version of me; not a different person because you made me this way for a reason, but an upgrade. A me that's better able to do the job that you want me to do.

'If God created you for a mission, why would you think you are too ordinary to fulfil it?'

Why indeed? Do I know better than you? You don't make mistakes.

Maybe there's something specific you want me to do, Lord, or maybe you just want me to be me, here, now, in the place that you've put me, with my family, my friends, my church, my neighbours, the mums at the school gates, the people who visit the church coffee shop, the people in the supermarket and so on. I don't know. I do know that I'll carry on learning how to listen to you, how to see you around me and writing down what I see and hear and all the ways I'm learning. Even if it takes me the rest of my life I want to carry on.

Like the wise men. Following a star to the baby Jesus. It was a long, long way (and on Thursday at school Melchior took a wrong turn by the serving hatch and ended up with his camel among the candles) but it was worth the journey.

Look what wonder was at the end of it.