“Christmas is not as much about opening our presents as opening our hearts.”

ITS CHRISTMAS!

Shouted in my best Slade voice. Or is it Wizard. I can't quite remember.

To be honest I'm actually shouting this inside my head as I happen to be sitting in front of a humongous roaring log fire in an equally gargantuan sized house in the country. Twitter followers amongst you will immediately assume this is my lovely sister's, who does indeed have a larger than average home, with log fires and spacious hall, grand enough to fit in a Christmas tree (featuring quite high on my own wish list), along with a piano and cosy armchairs, as I was there last night and tweeted about it.  But no, let's go up a notch or hundred.  Think estate, think elegant historic setting, think Victorian mansion, think Downton.  Only in order to justify it's existence and to keep going at all it has gone the way of a conference centre.  So I sit here as part of my job and I'm relishing in this place; the fire, the chandeliers, the wood panelling, the million foot Christmas tree, the library and indeed the most delightful grounds which come with attached pretty village, streams, bridges and waterfalls in the way that only England can do so well.  The mist hovering a foot above the lake type thing.  It's stunning.  And it feeds me.  It feeds my soul.  Heavenly is no exaggeration.

Sitting by the fire, shouting in my head, has set me pondering about Christmas. And why not?  It's worth a ponder, as the rather noble minded reverend informed me, via radio, on my drive over here. She urged us to think on Christmas and what's important and not to get caught up with the 'stuff', the paraphernalia of it all. Think about what matters she said.  I'm a Christian and of course I want to focus on what matters.  Of course I want to keep Christ in Christmas, and the last thing I want is to 'do away with the manger' as I often acted out in a Christmas sketch on countless occasions.  I want it to be about Jesus.

So here's my ponderings.  The 'stuff': the Christmas trees, the lights, the decorations, the angels, the lights, the Christmas tea towels, the baubles, those lights again, as you really can't have too many, and even the Father Christmas' they all do it for me.  It brings out my creativity.  And I, like God. look on my handiwork, hard work  and I'm able to say it's good and so thankfully does my family and my friends.  When all is done and decorated, I sit and reflect.  I sit and I see. What do I see?  Who do I see?  In a cosy, fairy lit room I see Jesus.  In each memory filled festive ornament, I see Him.  In the old and the new, in the charming and the quirky, in the tasteful and somewhat ridiculous, I see Him. Because I see Jesus in everything.  It's as easy for me to see Jesus in creation as it is to see Him in my Christmas paraphernalia.  It all feeds my soul because He feeds my soul and this 'stuff', for me at least,  is all about Him, his birth, his coming into our world,  God loving our world so much that he sent His son Jesus.  I can't 'do away' with Jesus at this time any more than I can 'do away' with Him anytime.

So friends. Feel free in joining with me as I shout out very loud,, whether it be singing carols at a carol service, screaming 'it's behind you' at a panto,  or squeals of delight as I unwrap my presents..............

.............. IT'S CHRIiiiiiiiSTMAaaaaaaS!

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My story, her story, His story.

Recently I was asked to give a testimony at the Ladies Bible Study at my church.  I thought I'd share the testimony with you.  Enjoy.

I'm a very blessed lady. 

 

There has not been a day that I remember when I didn't  know Jesus and all he did for me.

 

I was the daughter of a Baptist minister who at the tender age of ‘as soon as I could talk’ I would be found singing “gone, gone, gone gone, yes my sins are gone”, to the amusement of those around  who would wonder at the level of sins that this nearly two year old had experienced.   A glimpse into my future maybe.  To a teenager struggling with her desire to be cool and fit in, so much so that my life ended up as a battleground of who I really wanted to be. Only it was never really a contest.

 

Jesus had won me every time. 

Zip forward years later, past the wonderful husband who only God would have known would be so right for me, on to the call of God on our life to open our home and work with young people and amidst that, our two gorgeous girls.  And here was I with a huge dose of enormous love, more than I could ever imagine, alongside hopes and dreams, fears and an unfathomable sense of responsibility. You know that feeling. With the biggest hope and dream being that my girls would know Jesus as their Saviour. So often I would be found praying specifically for things but always including in my prayer ‘but not if it doesn't mean they won't know you.’  There was a lot of fear there I guess and not a lot of trust. 

 

“help them pass this exam but not if it means they don’t know you”

“help them succeed in this and that but not if it means they don't know you”

“give them friends,  but only if they lead them to you”.   You know that kind of thing. 

What are your fears for those who you love?

 

For a beautiful teenage girl?  

 

And then sure enough, one of my fears happened.  I was in America, Alan was in another state speaking at a ski retreat (some people get all the good jobs) and so alone, without my man, I took a phone call and heard the words that you hope you never have to hear.  “Mummy I'm pregnant!”  My beautiful baby girl,17 years old, and all I could say was “I love you, I love you, I love you.  We'll get through this”.   

As I lay on my bed that night, not sleeping but a lot of sobbing, I felt the crash of my hopes and dreams for her.  I knew what it would mean. I was scared. I knew she was scared.   What now?  What would her future be?  And I was angry too. You see the father was a boy she met at the club we ran, for unchurched young people, and we had always encouraged our girls to be involved, to come alongside all young people, to love and not judge.  And now God why did you let this happen?  Her having dropped out of ballet school because of injury and with time on her hands and him excluded from school with time on his hands.  I knew there wasn't going to be a happy ending here.  And there and then God gave me the verse in Romans 4 v 18,  

'Against all hope, Abraham in hope believed.'

'Against all hope, Alyson in hope believed.' 

I wasn't even sure what I was believing for, but I would hope.

 

When I told my friend and pastor of our church in America he said just three words, and I have dwelt long and often on those words.  He said. "Was God surprised?"  Was God surprised?  Of course not.  But what did that mean for us, for Hannah, for the baby Kai, because God wasn't surprised?  

Whilst I was away in another country my dear daddy took his granddaughter and enacted the love of our Father God and declared the forgiveness of Jesus and my prodigal daughter melted under the robe of righteousness placed over her.  Jesus had won her. She now has tattooed on her arm the bible verse 2 Corinthians 5 v 17   “Therefore if anyone is in Christ they are a new creation the old has gone and the new has come”.  

My prayers of whatever, as long as she knows you Jesus, often come back to me as I watch her struggle sometimes, as a young mum.  It was a dark moment and Satan desired to sift us as wheat, to rip us apart but Jesus had won us.  There was a greater plan that I won't totally understand  what, how or why,  but this I knew God was not surprised.  He knew.

 

I’m reading a book at the moment called 1000 gifts which summed it up so well. “That which seems evil only seems so because of perspective, the way the eyes see the shadows.  Above the clouds, light never shops shining."  The writer, Ann Voskamp, also includes these words heard by Julian of Norwich and written in her revelations of love. 

 “See that I am God.  See that I am in everything.  See that I do everything.  See that I have never stopped ordering my works, nor ever shall, eternally.  See that I lead everything on to the conclusion I ordained for it before time began, by the same power, wisdom and love with which I made it.  How can anything be amiss?”

I stood in the park one day watching my blond haired grandson play football and I was reminded of many years before, at a ladies meeting, just like this, there was a time of prophetic praying.  A lady gave me a picture; she asked me do you have a son.  No I said. Oh. Well I have this picture of you in a park with a blond haired boy playing football!  

“ before you were in your mother's womb I knew you.”  

Was God surprised?  Of course not.  For with him there is always hope.

 

As I read recently in the same book 1000 gifts: 

 “If we haven't lost Christ child. Then nothing is ever lost.”

 

 

 

That awkward moment when ........

Here I am again.  It's not normal for me to blog one day after another but yesterday something happened which if I didn't laugh about it publicly, I would die silently inside.

Alan.  Well that's enough to make you laugh straight off there.  We all know that his forever passion is football.  Playing it, watching it, his beloved Everton, his nearly beloved Tranmere.  It's an obsession.  There have been moments in our married life where it has become a little bit less of an obsession but these have been rare.  I remind him constantly that I am some special wife who still after 28 years of marriage lets him play football every Saturday afternoon during the season.  Believe you me it would be EVERY Saturday out of season if there were games going one.  For the last few years, now he's a bit older, he hints that this may just be his last season, my hopes rise only to be dashed because he just can't stop. 

New church.  We've been there nearly a year now but we still feel new. When you were at your last one 43 years then it's going to be new for quite a while.  It's taken Alan up until last month to find out if they play football as a church and when.  He's now as regular on a Thursday evening as they allow him!! 

Anyway  this last week it was Alan's turn to wash the bibs.  I will have nothing to do with this although I must say bibs aren't as bad as the full-blown muddy kit which he brings home from his Saturday games.  So as near as possible to him going to play he puts the bibs in to wash and throws in some other things too.  Fine I'm happy he's doing washing.  It all goes in the drier and then he grabs the bibs and off to footie he goes.  You know what's going to happen don't you.  Yep.  Sure enough, he doesn't just grab the bibs.  He's relieved when he notices a random sock that he's picked up by accident.  Shoves it in his pocket and then.....................

I feel sick just thinking about it.  The guys start to put the bibs on and not one, not two but three pairs of my knickers fall out and I don't have a clue.  He could have kept this from me and I would be blissfully ignorant.  I could walk into church as usual and feel no shame, no embarrassment.  But of course he didn't.  As soon as the game was over he was on the phone gleefully describing the flaunting of my underwear to a group of lads who I never want to have to look at again.  Oh the shame!

So in my best Alyson way, I will not hide away, tempted though I am, but will instead laugh out loud at myself and the embarrassing tale of my knickers and the football bibs.  And if anyone as much as sniggers I'll tell them they were Hannah's.

“Men like cars, women like clothes. Women only like cars because they take them to clothes.” Not.

Today was a first.

Not an exciting first, like the first time I bungee jumped, or the first time I sailed down the Nile, or the first time I skydived or the first time I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro.  To be honest there hasn't been a first for any of those either, but who knows what my future may hold.  The last one would be my choice if you were at all wondering.  No, this first was far more mundane. 

I was taking a car in for a service.

I've never owned a car and the car I would call my own actually very definitely belongs to my husband.  I know this, because he pulls rank on it every day when he uses it for his work rather than my trip to the garden centre, calling in on a friend for a cuppa along the way.  I also know this because when he scratches the car it's no big deal, but if I scratch it then something resembling an atomic explosion mushrooms from the mouth of a man who normally makes Switzerland look positively warmongering.  Actually, may I say here in the public world of blogging (even though it's only family and a few friends who see this)  I don't think I've scratched the last who knows how many cars we've had.  So there.  Probably because I don't get to drive them, but still!  So that's how I arrived at this age (wink) and have never taken a car in for a service.  It's his car, therefore his privilege.  But now I have a job and part of that job required me to drop off my employer's car in for a service.

This is not a service at the dirty garage at the bottom of the road but at an official dealership with dedicated professionals, (their words not mine) along with pride, expectations blah blah. To me it was a posh showroom with all these beautiful shiny new cars with their boots left open to show you just how little space there really is and for some reason that was supposed to make me want to buy one.  How is it that I never see all of these colours of cars on the road.  Where were all the silver ones?  There is a white one here with a bright pink roof.  Seriously.  It actually looks quite good apart from they made a terrible faux pas and accessorised with bright pink wing mirrors.  Eeeeeew.

You may not know this about me, as normally I ooze with confidence whenever you see me, but I'm a bit of a nervous one when faced with these kind of challenges.  Talking to people out of my comfort zone.  Driving into a manically busy car-filled area with no obvious place to park.  Wandering into the reception area to be met by a lady who looks remarkably like Paula from the TV show Stella, which fills my mind with all kinds of images (you need to have watched the show).  "You need to speak to me first" she informs me before ushering me to the seated area with a cup of tea and newspapers.  I smile inanely at the others waiting, hoping to find someone as nervous as myself only they don't make eye contact, so I pick up the only paper left.  Yuck.  It's the Daily Mail and true to form there's nothing worth reading except for the back page rant from Rafa Benitez, which doesn't take long enough, so I sit.  And think.  And sit.  And then I notice.  They've all got snazzy little folders!  And the floodgates open and worries come rushing through into my brain fortunately not reaching my eyes.  Oh no!  I left mine in the car.  Oh no!  There's this dawning revelation creeping up on me that I don't know the registration number and they're bound to ask for that.  Neither do I know the type of car, I'd be alright with the make because it's emblazoned everywhere around me, but the type!!! How stupid will I look.  "So which is your car madam?"  " Oh you now, that er... reddish one parked at a ridiculous angle blocking everyone else in.  You won't miss it!"  I casually glance towards the exit.  Can I slip past the Paula look alike and get all this info that I so obviously need.  Nope.  It's too late and they've accosted  called me.  I brace myself for the coming humiliation, remembering in the part of my brain that thinks twice as fast as in the normal world (now that would be a fun place to live) a tweet I had read that morning with a quote from my American pastor Al Jackson. "God, You give us grace to humble ourselves, so that we don't have to be humbled by You."  Here goes........

........ and it's all ok.  One signature.  Hand over the keys.  And I'm back in the waiting area, cup of tea in hand and wondering why the funky blue car with a white roof has been accessorised with fine looking chrome wing mirrors?

 It's obvious to me that they stereotypically think that women are really stupid  when it comes to cars and that when they buy the pink one they won't even notice that chrome wing mirrors are far more classy!

“the object of a new year is not that we should have a new year, but rather that we should have a new soul.” G K Chesterton

It's not a new year's resolution to the letter of the law but I have thought, and occasionally said out loud, that this year I would like to see more theatre.

It's not the only thing I've spoken about with regards to 2013, as I  have been heard to 'chew over' that Alan and I are going to cook together this year.  That would be proper cooking.  Following a recipe. I wanted to say grown up cooking but I realise for my friends who are good cooks that actually grown up is just chucking things in.  This intent has usually been uttered accompanied by a smirk on my face and Alan standing behind me shaking his head in a easily recognisable but silent 'no'.  He thinks I don't see, but I know my man, and whilst nodding vociferously in front of me, the truth is to be found behind. Still, I can always hope.  But, as for the theatre, now that I can do.  And Metamorphosis, at the Lyric Hammersmith was my first 2013 theatre experience.  http://www.lyric.co.uk/whats-on/production/metamorphosis/

Ooops I lie.  Sorry.  I did go and see Hannah in her pantomime at the beginning of the year.  Somehow, even as memorable as it was with Kai and Alan brought up on stage to sing the one Proclaimer's song that everyone knows (including Kai) 'and I will walk 500 miles' in their best Scottish accents, with Kai doing a better job than his poppy, I had momentarily forgotten.   Probably because it was the 2nd time of viewing. 

So Metamorphosis was my second foray into the theatre world.  And what a foray.  It was spectacular.  It had the emotional impact of invasive surgery to my very being, as it challenged my world and thoughts on how we treat unlovely people; whatever form unlovely takes for you, or perhaps it's more like lovely people who have become unlovely for what ever reason.  This play was uncomfortable to watch on every level.  From the very real issue as to whether the actors might fall to that awkward moment when you are witness to bad behaviour that exposes your own.  You know when you're in a shop and a mother shouts at a child, too much.  And you hate it but you know you've done it.  Hmmm. I realise that everything was heightened by the fact that I saw this play during a week when my mummy and daddy were staying with me.  The truth is that his Alzheimer's  sometimes reveals itself as not so lovely.  Ah.  'Not so lovely'.  This is my daddy, so unlovely was always going to be too hard a word to use with regards to certain behaviour patterns, but you get my point, especially when I felt a release when they left to go home.  Again release is a less distressing word than relief when we're talking  about loved parents.  I would hate you to judge me.........

So yes my selfishness was exposed.  I was challenged.  And I'm still processing all that God spoke to me and it's impact is even greater because he spoke to me through  a piece of theatre more than through any sermon I have heard.  I love that I heard him and as uncomfortable as it was I need to rise to the challenge.

2013, bring it on.  Now excuse me while I go read some recipe books.  ALAAAAAAN!