Saturday 9 December 2017

Light the Advent Candle

Christmas is doing that usual thing of being too far away for ages, and then arriving all too quickly - sneaking up at the last minute.

It is a time of year when, of course, I think about my Da a lot. He and Ma spent his last Christmas with Graham and I - a memory I treasure. The following year, still grieving his loss, we cradled our newborn son in our arms. Bertie is two now, and our second baby is due in March. Time seems to hurtle by: birth and bereavement affecting all our loved ones and the world never slowing down to stop. Except, it seems to me, in precious moments of Advent and Christmastide

One weekend not so long ago now, Bertie and I went to Sainsbury's. Not an unusual event in itself, but we were making a special trip to buy the makings of Christmas Puddings. I had explained this to B and he was very excited about the thought of cooking. I handed him each ingredient and he threw it lovingly with reckless abandon into the trolley. I made the Christmas puddings with Da every year for as long as I can remember, including 2014 - his last Christmas. In 2015, with Bertie as a newborn, I had the emotional experience of digging out the well-thumbed, annotated, 'Christmas with Josceline Dimbleby' and making the puddings solo. This year, with Ma looking on to ensure fidelity to Tradition, Bertie and I threw everything into the giant festive pot. Bertie is old enough to play an active role in mixing and the feeling of passing on a family secret is palpable.

Meanwhile, the role of crochet in birth and bereavement has been sneaking back to me also. I was making a blanket for Ma and Da the year he spent Christmas in hospital; I was crocheting a blanket for a new nephew when Da passed away quietly at 3am in April 2015; the making of Bertie's blanket helped me through some hard times after he was gone, the therapeutic concentration numbing, soothing. Since then I have made blankets for various purposes, and enjoyed each of them: one for a new niece, one for my own new unborn. Now, in January 2018 I am going to be embarking on a new project. A woodland blanket for our #lodgehousechallenge home. I am so excited it is silly, and it feels much like the day I bought the wool to make our newly wed honeymoon blanket. A new era almost, time passing, changing; new life, new adventures.

It is only Advent that gives rise to these reflections. It is a quiet time. As Justin Welby says: a time for listening to that which can barely be heard -  the heartbeat of an unborn child. This year, although the future is as yet unseen, Advent is whispering all change, prepare for change. I do not yet see clearly why this is, but I am sure something will transpire. In the meantime, faithful and joyful hope fills the season. We will have Ma and my sister and her family with us at #lodgehousechallenge Christmas. The house will be full, and the fire lit. We have taught Bertie the nativity story and he delights on crib scenes with that child-like delight I aspire to. So, bring it on. Like I said once before, when the newborn Christ-child reaches out for your finger, hold on.