A Pilates class, a Saint Christopher and a Blessing.
I pushed open the blue outer door and left behind the chilly, dark, January evening. The mingled smells of disinfectant and stale tea greeted me. The inner doors admitted me to boxes of tinsel and baubles waiting to be packed away in the under-stage storage as well as warmth and friendship, smiling happy new year and embarrassed groans about too much Christmas Cake. This was the first Pilates class of the year. I’d left my dog collar at home, and I was looking forward to stretching away the stress and tiredness of December.
I’d claimed my space and was laying out my mat when she came up to me. Can I have a word? she said, do you do blessings?
Well yes, I do, I replied, why do you ask?
I’ve been given a Saint Christopher for Christmas, and I need it to be blessed. She held out her hand, and I looked at the medallion lying in her palm. Ever since I had a car accident I’ve been scared of driving.
Saint Christopher is the patron saint of travellers, so this was a thoughtful gift for a nervous driver. This was a serious request and while I looked at the necklace, pictures of other objects I’d blessed flashed through my mind, a hole in the road, a merchant naval standard, a ship’s bell, a narrowboat, wedding rings and houses.
Each remembered object represents someone’s life and their significant events. My training incumbent (the priest who worked with me and taught me through my first years of dog collared life) taught me that when you bless an object, you are blessing the person or people it represents, so choose your language appropriately but always take any request seriously.
Here was a woman who knew me as the village vicar and was putting her trust in me.
We went into the kitchen, and I prayed for confidence in driving and safety on our roads. I blessed the saint’s image, praying that it would be a reminder of God’s care and protection.
She fastened the chain around her neck, and we returned to the main hall, ready for whatever the instructor demanded of us.
To bless someone basically means to make them happy and as a priest it’s my huge joy, privilege and responsibility.
Personally, I like to follow the ancient practice of counting my blessings. It’s an antidote to miserable self-pity!
I’m a great fan of new year. Everything feels new and lighter to me, as if I’ve turned a new page and can start again. On the second day of 2026, I went for a walk and was blessed with blue sky, birdsong, buds bursting out of wintry branches and catkins dancing in the cold wind. This itself was a blessing and made me cheery as I thought about the coming year.
What will bless you at the start of this new year?
A short story in which a child knows what he wants for Christmas and expects it. It’s a story of disappointment, frustration, anger and finally, relief.
Maybe you’re not sure of what you want for Christmas, but you couldn’t say that about Mikey. He was as sure as sure could be and for two months he’d let everyone around him know as well. His heart’s desire was bright red with a shiny bell, and it stood proudly on its stand in the window of Wheels Are Us, the local bike shop.
With one parent or another, Mikey walked past that shop every day on his way to school and he never missed an opportunity to point it out to them.
At school, his exasperated teachers tried to engage him with maths, reading and writing or learning his lines for the Nativity Play, but all he wanted to do was draw pictures of a red shiny bike.
At night, he prayed his prayers because, like I said, he made sure everyone knew what he wanted and he slept soundly, dreaming of riding the bike down his road, through the park, up and down the hill to home.
At last, Christmas Eve arrived and for the first time ever, Mikey asked to go to bed early. He knew that the sooner he got to sleep, the sooner he’d be able to ride his bike.
Early on Christmas morning, when it was still cold and dark and his parents were snoring comfortably, Mikey jumped out of bed. This was the day he’d waited all those weeks for. He ignored the Christmas stocking which had laid heavily across his toes and crept downstairs. He pushed open the living room door and stopped for a moment to look at the dark room. He could make out the shapes of the chairs and settee and the Christmas Tree in the corner, but he couldn’t tell if there was anything different.
He switched on the light and blinkingly adjusted his eyes. He saw on the coffee table an empty sherry glass and plate with mince pie crumbs on it. He’d been! Santa Claus had been! Mikey closed his eyes again and took a deep breath before looking at the Tree. Surely that’s where the bike would be, but no, there was nothing.
Mikey moved closer and saw, propped up against a bauble, an envelope with his name on.
Now, his breath came out in painful sobs and tears of unbelief sprang from his eyes.
He knocked over the sherry glass as he rushed out of the room and up the stairs. In his bedroom he slammed the door and threw himself onto the bed. He kicked away his stocking, sending oranges and bags of sweets flying across the floor and cried into his pillow.
He made enough noise to wake up his exhausted parents who staggered down to the kitchen. Soon they called up to him that breakfast was ready and guess what? They could all eat some chocolate straight away!
Mikey yelled out that he hated chocolate. He stayed face down on his pillow.
Before long, he heard pots and pans clattering in the kitchen and soon the house filled with the scent of roasting turkey, roast potatoes, carrots, sprouts and Christmas pudding.
Come on down Mikey, dinner’s ready and we’ve got Christmas Crackers!
Mikey yelled that he didn’t like aunty and uncle, he didn’t like games and he didn’t want any presents.
By the time he heard the front door open again and cheerful adults kissing each other goodbye, and laughing when they said see you next year, it was dark again. The open door had let in a draught of cold air which rushed up the stairs and crept under Mikey’s bedroom door. It chilled his toes and settled around his shoulders like a cold, wet blanket. He was feeling hungry. He began to wonder what game he’d missed. He’d ran out of tears. For a second he looked at an orange that was lodged under his wardrobe, but he gritted his teeth, clenched his fists and carried on being angry.
He heard more clattering from downstairs. This time it was the sound of washing up. Then he heard the stairs creak underneath his parents’ footsteps. A knock at his bedroom door and in they walked, carrying the despised envelope.
Hey Mikey, we can’t wait any longer. We’re so excited. It’s time you opened this!
His parents put their arms around him and placed the envelope in his hands. Their warmth melted his tears and his head hurt, but he tore open the envelope.
Inside was a piece of paper which read.
Dear Mikey,
Happy Christmas!
Please take this certificate to “Wheels Are Us”, bike shop and choose whatever you want!
Ooh, it’s dark while I’m writing this and I don’t think it’ll get very light today. This shortest day of the year is special and I’m full of anticipation of longer days! It’s the sort of dark which can give birth to new things!
Thank you everyone who’s read these posts. You’ve really helped me Wander through the Land of Nod.
This week I’ll be cleaning, making beds, baking (those contenders for the best mince pies in the world won’t make themselves!), eating, drinking, seeing my family and going to church, singing carols and celebrating the best story ever told.
My next post will be on Saturday 27th December, when you can read a cautionary Christmas tale, so I’ll see you then!
Have a very Happy, Joyful and Blessed Christmas.
Photo by Su00f3c Nu0103ng u0110u1ed9ng on Pexels.com
Let me know how it goes!
Just before I go, here are my serious thoughts! Pardon me for getting preachy, but some things I feel very strongly about.
If you, or anyone you know, is anxious about “putting Christ back into Christmas”, take heart!
Christ isn’t an object that you can put here or there. Jesus is a person and was born so that we can have a good, living relationship with God. When we say Jesus Christ, we mean that Jesus is the one we have faith in, so be careful how you say it!
Here are some things you can do to line your life up more alongside Jesus Christ’s:
Resist the voices calling us to hate others and get rid of people we don’t like. Jesus taught us to love our neighbours as ourselves and treat others the way we want to be treated.
Give some money to a charity which supports refugees, fights homelessness, hunger and disease, supports prisoners or combats loneliness. Jesus taught us to heal the sick, feed the hungry, welcome strangers, care for those in prison and he was always including those on the edge and beyond of society.
Stop and say hello when you see someone sat on a cold pavement or is next to you in the supermarket queue. Jesus let himself be distracted and delayed by strangers.
Go along to your local church. This week you’ll definitely get to sing carols! Jesus always met with others to praise God, read scripture and pray.
Putting Christ back into Christmas? He’s already there, we should try joining him!
Brrr, I shivered as the last rays of sun faintly lit up the hills surrounding our field. It was that cold, dark time between sun and moonlight, before the sky was lit up with stars and I could fall asleep counting them. I snuggled up to my little lamb. Her mother had died when she was born and none of the other sheep would adopt her, so she was given to me to look after. How happy am I about that? Little lambs need a lot more than milk to keep them alive and well. Without a mother to keep them close, warm and safe, they need a lot of cuddles and that’s the job I love best.
At night, when my abba and uncles take their turns guarding the sheep, I lay down in the tent between my amma and lamb and dream the night away. However, that night, it was just me and lamb. Things were so busy in the town that amma and my aunts took their own turns watching the field, cooking food and keeping the men company. There was no sleep for adults that night.
I said the town was busy, it was more like chaotic. The Romans, who I’ve been taught to hate from birth had demanded that everyone travel to their hometown to be counted. Talk about harassment and control! Of course, our town’s not big enough to take everybody in. There aren’t enough places to stay or food to eat, so of course our fields and our sheep are tempting and not too far away. We didn’t want anybody camping out with us and we definitely didn’t want hungry strangers stealing our sheep, so the adults stayed awake and lamb and I tried to sleep.
My brother Jake is older than me, but he’s not a man yet, though he was determined to stay up that night. Soon, I heard the sound of the pipe he was playing. It soothed the sheep who were as anxious as the rest of us.
There it was, the evening star, the brightest of them all. Soon, it was joined by thousands of others and I lay, looking out of the tent, watching the stars appear and listening to Jake’s music. I hoped for happy dreams and felt Lamb’s tiny heart beating rapidly while she slept.
I must have dropped asleep quickly, because soon I was dreaming of a loud voice saying Do not be afraid. I’m bringing you good news, joyful news. A saviour has been born. You’ll find him in town, asleep in a manger.
Strange words indeed, what an odd dream, but unlike a dream, it didn’t fly away. I heard other voices, men’s voices sounding shocked, confused. I woke up properly then and looked outside. Everything was bright so I could see the men lying flat on their faces and the women huddled near the tents. Jake was standing close by. He’d dropped his pipes and was looking up, so I followed his gaze.
The stars were three times as bright as usual and as I looked at them, they started to move. I wondered if I was still asleep and dreaming, but my eyes were wide awake and I saw the stars begin to dance, up and down and round and round, waving their arms. Arms? Yes, they had arms and feet and faces and wings and were so bright. Then, I heard the most beautiful sound. The sky was full of singing! Glory to God on high and on earth, peace to men!
Almost as soon as they began, they fell silent, the sky dimmed and we were left with familiar stars. A hush had fallen over our field, even the sheep stopped bleating and everything was still for a few moments.
Eventually, figures began to move in the dark. Lamb was trembling and I pulled her closer to me while I watched my abba get to his feet and gather in a group with my uncles. Jack picked up his fallen pipes, wiped the dirt from them and came to stand near me. Amma and my aunts held hands, whispered and waited.
Finally, the men and women came together. We’ve got to go! I heard the words, but who was going where at that time of night?
Suddenly, all was movement. Amma came over to our tent and grabbed Jake and me. Come on, quickly, we’ve got to go into town.
Into town? What about the sheep, what about the tents? We can’t leave everything with a town full of strangers.
Yes, we can, screeched amma, town is where we’re going. That’s where the baby is, amongst strangers and we’ve got to find him.
Well, I wasn’t going to leave lamb behind, so I picked her up and ran, holding amma’s hand, with Jake running ahead.
This was the strangest night. Abba hated going into town. His rough and ready ways were better suited to fields and townsfolk didn’t like or trust him. They needed him to provide sheep and lambs but looked down at him because he couldn’t keep himself clean and didn’t turn up to synagogue. And yet, there he was, abandoning his sheep and leading the way, rushing to find a baby. He’d seen plenty of babies!
The streets were busy, the marketplace was full and some people were settling down there for the night. There were some drunken calls after us What’s the hurry, shepherds? You’ve forgotten the sheep, but you still smell of them!
Round corners we scurried until we found a narrow street. We had a sense for animals and quickly found our way to a stable.
Uncles, aunts, brother, abba and amma all paused to catch their breath. I stroked lamb and wondered what would happen next.
Eventually, the adults nodded to each other and abba pushed open the stable door.
I had no idea what to expect, but I walked into the lamp lit shack, smelling the straw and the animals before I saw them. In a corner, sat a young woman who wasn’t much older than me. she looked tired, but she smiled at us. An older man stood by her and he nodded in welcome.
We crept closer until we saw what the angel had told us. There was a manger, a feeding trough, and inside was a baby. The baby was swaddled tightly, just like me and Jake had been when we were born.
Photo by Jessica Lewis ud83eudd8b thepaintedsquare on Pexels.com
What happened next was the most surprising of all. My big, strong, abba who was used to seeing off wild animals and the odd Roman soldier, my abba, who would sooner curse or hit a man rather than kneel before him, fell to his knees in the filthy straw and bowed his head before this baby.
The baby opened his eyes then. He couldn’t wave his arms and legs because of the swaddling clothes, but he turned his head. His mother reached down and picked him up and my abba never took his eyes away while she rocked her baby in her arms.
Lamb started to bleat and the young mother smiled. Then, would you believe it, she looked at me and said shall we swap? I’ll hold your little lamb, and you can hold mine.
I kissed lamb and then passed her over. I took the tiny baby in my arms and I kissed him too. A lullaby wafted around the room. Jake was playing his pipes and I rocked the baby. His mother said His name is Jesus.
I kissed Jesus again and we exchanged lamb for baby. I looked around and saw tears falling down amma’s face. I hugged lamb and stroked her while a hush fell over us all. Then my adults looked at each other and nodded again. It was time to go.
Look after your little lamb and I’ll look after mine for you and for all of us said the mother.
A small interlude between Christmas Story Characters, in which I share some of my thoughts and feelings about Christmas.
So how is it going? Christmas? I’d like to hear about how you feel about it all.
Me, I have mixed feelings. I love Christmas. I love to celebrate the birth of Jesus. That for me is full atonement, nothing separating us from God now. Jesus shows us who God is, but he also shows us what humanity really is, so his birth is well worth celebrating.
Photo by Jessica Lewis ud83eudd8b thepaintedsquare on Pexels.com
I also like all the midwinter festivity. December would be pretty grim without Christmas lights, and I like the midwinter urge to brighten our houses against the long nights, huddle together, eating and drinking and telling stories.
At our university of the third age song and story group, we learnt a song. The lyrics are by Bill Meek. It’s called I Am Christmas:
The first line is “I will sew a braid of gold on grey December’s ragged sleeve.”
I love those words. December would indeed feel ragged without a fancy hem to neaten off the year.
However, alongside all the enjoyable things, I often feel like my heart is going to break and my head is going to burst. The cruel jagged, ragged edges of life seem much worse against all the Christmas expectations. Personal tragedy and international violence cry out against celebrating the birth of the Prince of peace. Homelessness, disease and poverty jars against the sugar-coated Christmas adverts.
And yes, all those adverts! And it all starts so soon! I feel compelled to do more, buy more and be more to make the perfect Christmas happen and I fail badly against my impossible expectations!
What’s more, the ghosts of Christmas past crowd in on me. I remember the way it used to be, I remember old friends who I don’t know any more (I know we can’t keep up with everyone) and yes, those who’ve died seem close, but they are untouchable. Add to all that the sense of passing time and it makes for a very intense and sometimes heavy season for me.
Still, I wouldn’t change it. Life isn’t just a bundle of laughs and Jesus wasn’t born so that we could have a great party, even though he was a fan of parties. He was born so we can know life in all its fulness and that includes living with unease.
This December, I read these words by the poet Wendell Berry:
“The empire of money, war and fire
Cuts across the land.
There are in the same country
Shepherds watching their flocks.”
Wendell Berry, published in Plough Quarterly magazine, December 2025.
It reminds me that everyday goodness carries on and that reminder is a blessing.
It also links nicely to my next post! Can you guess what Christmas story characters that will feature?
Now we’re in the last full week of Advent and we’re approaching the winter solstice, I’m posting a few imaginative thoughts based on the story of Jesus’ birth. This week in 2025 holds dreadful news and new sadness and fear has entered the world. It’s into just such a world that some messengers speak.
This is a story of a man whose life was rocked by personal and national events. It’s a story of bravery which begins with bewilderment, frustration, disappointment and anger but ends with reassurance, determination and hope.
That’s another day’s work done. Shelves, tables and chairs, fencing panels and dressed stone are all neatly stacked. I’m a carpenter, but I do more than you might think. I work in wood and stone, and I can build a house and everything to put in it. I’ve done a lot more today than was needed, more than I’ve got orders for to tell the truth, but a little hard work never hurt anyone or so they say. Anyway, I’m hoping for a good night’s sleep for once, so I’m trying to wear myself out.
Not that any amount of sawing and sanding will calm my mind out and blot out my worries. For one thing, the Romans, who normally ignore the hill towns, have decided to check up on us. It’s too much effort for them to come here, so we’ve all got to travel to our ancestral towns. What’s the point in that? Don’t ask me. I just know I’ve got to leave my business and lose money to go traipsing off to Bethlehem. Bethlehem! What’s so special about Bethlehem?
Maybe it’s a good idea to do some extra work now after all.
As if that’s not bad enough, the girl I’m meant to marry is pregnant. Whoever the Father is, I know it’s not me, but she’s come up with some story about it being God’s baby. Honestly, she’s so young and she’s lived her life in a daydream, like she was always expecting something out of the ordinary to happen. In my heart, I’m sure it’s not her fault, but I’d decided to end the engagement and find a different road through life.
That is, until a surprise visitor arrived. The visitor told me he was sent from God and that it’s true. Mary’s baby is from God and that I shouldn’t be afraid. The cheek of it, how did he know I was scared?
I’m good at making plans, estimating times and counting the cost of walls, roofs, doors and furniture, but it looks like I’ve got to make some different plans now.
My name’s Joseph and I’m about to plan a route to Bethlehem with a pregnant woman who still isn’t my wife and I’m not the baby’s father. Bethlehem – I have heard some ancient promises that someone very special is going to come from there. I’ve also heard that there are roads that lead from there all the way to Egypt.
Now we’re in the last full week of Advent and we’re approaching the winter solstice, I’m posting a few imaginative thoughts based on the story of Jesus’ birth. This week in 2025 holds dreadful news. New sadness and fear has entered the world. It’s into just such a world that some messengers speak.
This is a story of a young woman from a small village who was asked to do something great.
News and visitors are rare in our little town, hidden away in the Galilean Hills. Sometimes I complain about that, but I’m always told it’s for the best. Nobody takes much notice of us, so we can just get on with our lives. Still, I often wonder what’s over the horizon.
Roman soldiers are talked about but never seen round here. We’re not worth the effort of building their famous roads uphill to Nazareth. Sometimes I daydream about walking along the rough track that we call a road. Where will it lead?
My life plan was very straightforward and predictable, just like every other girl. I’m engaged to be married to a good man and I expected to live my life keeping house, cooking and cleaning, looking after our children and our parents until I can sit down with grandchildren on my knee. Well, that’s all changed since a surprise visitor arrived. As far as I know, he’s only been to see me.
It might have helped if he’d explained things to my parents first, but I doubt they’d have believed him. He told me he was an angel, a messenger direct from God. He told me I am very special and specially chosen by God to have his child, God’s child who will save us all. He listened when I told him it was impossible, but his eye twinkled when he reminded me this is God we’re talking about.
I know that God has promised wonderful things through the birth of a child, and of course everyone that’s ever done anything great started out in some woman’s womb, but this feels like more than that.
Of course it’s hard for any of us to take in. Suddenly it seems our hills can’t hide us or save us anymore, but I feel peaceful and strangely excited about it all.
My name’s Mary and I think I’m going to find out where our little track leads to.
Now we’re in the last full week of Advent and we’re approaching the winter solstice, I’m posting a few imaginative thoughts based on the story of Jesus’ birth. This week in 2025 holds dreadful news. New sadness and fear has entered the world. It’s into just such a world that some messengers speak.
This is astory of a man with the job of preparing the way for someone else. It’s hard work and he compares it to building a a road.
Building roads is hard work, back breaking, palm blistering, limb tiring, and head crushing work. Before you get to the hard physical work, there’s a lot of thinking to be done, then talking, consulting, objections and persuasions, plans and notices, permissions and start dates.
Once the consultations are over, the permissions are granted and the start date’s decided, you’d think it would be straightforward, but no. Everyone complains about potholes, mud and gravel. They complain about sharp bends, blind corners and traffic hold ups, so you’d think everyone would be delighted about a new road, wide enough for two-way traffic and straightened out with a clean smooth surface, but when it comes to being built, then a new load of complaints pile in.
Temporary traffic lights hold up traffic more than potholes, and diversions add more to journey times than wide bends. While the road workers toil, drivers get nostalgic for the bad old road.
My name’s John, son of Elizabeth and Zechariah. I’m the one Angel Gabriel was talking about when they interrupted my father at his most important work! My birth and name caused some trouble I can tell you. Blessing and trouble could be my middle names!
The road planned out for me was probably to become a priest like my Father, but God has sent me on a detour via the desert. God wants me to be a sort of road builder, preparing the way for the Messiah, filling in the holes and smoothing out the bumps in our nation’s life, clearing away the rubble that gets in between us and what God is doing.
I don’t expect it to be popular – I’ve never been a popular sort of man and I know people can get attached to the holes and bumps that trip them up, but I’ve got strong arms and legs and a good head on my shoulders and I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to get us on the road to God.
Now we’re in the last full week of Advent and we’re approaching the winter solstice, I’m posting a few imaginative thoughts based on the story of Jesus’s birth. This week in 2025 holds dreadful news and new sadness and fear has entered the world. It’s into just such a world that some messengers speak.
Now’s the time of year when my name gets mentioned, my words are read and someone’s idea of what I look like is scrawled with messages of love, hope and happiness, enveloped and popped through letterboxes. I smile at how the great artists of the world have tried to outdo each other by making me look opulent, over laden with dazzling feathers, gorgeous with golden robes and lightening the darkness with a shining halo.
Really, it’s all a bit more basic than that and my work is literally very down to earth. Christmas is a very down-to-earth time. Delivering messages is my job. It’s not always straightforward and to be honest, Happy Birthday cards aren’t our responsibility. Our busiest time is when life gets tough on earth and on the rare occasions we’re seen, it tends to be on battlefields or by deathbeds.
We live outside time and space, so we’re not bothered by clocks and watches and delivery time targets, but one earthly season, we had to make multiple visits to one small place.
Some messages are trickier to deliver than others. Just think about this:
I told an elderly man, that his elderly wife was going to have a baby and he’d got to give the child a name the family would disapprove of.
Then I told an unmarried teenage girl she would have God’s baby.
Then I told the man she was engaged to that he’d still got to marry her and bring up the child as though it were his own.
You can see that my job isn’t always easy. When it came to telling a band of shepherds that the saviour of the world had been born and was lying asleep in a manger, I took along a whole choir to back me up!
I always start my messages by saying Don’t be Afraid!
My name’s Gabriel and I know that earth is going through a dangerous time. My hope is that people on earth are not dazzled by Christmas glamour and hear the true message of Jesus. God with us, peace on earth and light in the darkness.
A true story of a 1960s primary school nativity play when a young child’s heart was stirred by jealousy and longing.
Calling can come at any age.
Photo by Jessica Lewis ud83eudd8b thepaintedsquare on Pexels.com
It was cold and dark when I walked down our city street. Familiar tree trunks grew black and dark in the gloom, bare branches loomed overhead, and pale lights glowed through thinly curtained windows. My biggest worry was not getting my shoes and socks dirty or dropping my orange booklet. That booklet, of typed Christmas carols, stapled together by my teacher was my current favourite possession. I was thrilled when we were given them and told to keep them safe for practices and performance. I was delighted that we could keep them and when it was all over, I saved mine in a special box ready for the next December when I would look at it again and sing the songs which stirred my heart.
Everything looks different in the dark.
The school was at the bottom of Serlby Rise, and it looked different with bright lights shining out from a dark building surrounding the still, shadow filled playground. Once inside, my insides leapt with excitement. School would only look like this once a year, in this strange fluorescent light with only blackness at the windows. What’s more, I had to go into a strange classroom to leave my coat and line up. Chairs, desks and the blackboard all faced different ways. There were different books, pictures and smells and I missed my own space where I’d found my way around.
Everything looks different in a strange classroom.
Thankfully, my shoes weren’t too muddy, and my face beamed when I took my coat off to show my new dress made of red corduroy with long sleeves and white lace at the collar. A jabot, mam had told me that was called, when she bought it specially.
As smartly as we could, all wearing our best clothes, we marched across the playground to the school hall. Strangely, that night our teachers let us out in the cold without our coats on, but that night everything was different and every nerve in my young body knew it!
The school hall looked different. It was full of chairs.
The hall was full of chairs lined up in rows. I didn’t know where the chairs had come from or how they got there, but there was a gap down the middle for us to walk along, between our patiently waiting parents. I felt my cheeks burn when I passed mine. They were there!
The wooden floor was three months on from its summer clean and polish and our footsteps added to the dulling scuffs when we took our seats. Wonder of wonders, we weren’t sitting on the floor, but there were more rows of chairs, facing the audience, for us to sit on.
I was part of the choir and turned to the first page in my precious orange booklet. Miraculously, all the carols were in the right order. Miss White struck up on the piano and we stood to sing. I don’t remember, but I wonder if we began with Once In Royal David’s City.
Sitting on chairs in the hall and standing up to sing was different.
At the front of the hall, two chairs were placed in front of a manger, ready for the story’s characters to gather and form a tableau. A wooden box was upturned ready for the readers to delight us. Bible readings and carols told each part of the story. So, we sang O Little Town of Bethlehem while Mary and Joseph walked down the gap in the chairs and took their places and While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night when the shepherds arrived to visit the newborn baby. We Three Kings of Orient Are accompanied the wise men.
Sitting in the choir, even with my new dress, clean socks and shoes and my precious booklet, I felt left out, as if I was there because nobody thought I could do anything else.
I didn’t want to be dressed up as part of the Nativity Tableau.
I longed for a different part, but I didn’t want to be dressed up, I didn’t want to be Mary or an angel. No, I wanted to be a reader.
When Gina (I think that was her name) stood up on the wooden box and spoke out Nearly two thousand years ago … I was overcome with jealousy. Her dress was red velvet, her cardigan was white and her dark curls were neatly brushed. Her voice was clear and perfect as she told us the story of Jesus being born.
Maybe I was different because I wanted to read. Maybe we all did!
My young heart filled with longing and sank into despondency when I realised that no one knew that’s what I wanted to do or would ever choose me to do it.
That feeling lasted a long time. I was over thirty before anyone asked me to read out in church. Once they did, it opened up a whole new life for me and before too long I was reading out in church every week!
I am very grateful to Gina for reading so beautifully and stirring up that longing in my heart. Gina, I wonder where you are and if you’re reading this? If you are, then thank you!
I am very grateful to the teachers who taught me to sing carols and gave me my own booklet to keep, then gave up their evenings for us.
Wandering Through The Land Of Nod. 