Colours of the Day

Wednesday morning saw us in school for Open the Book. Afterwards, the school went straight into a quick hymn practice ahead of a special service next week.
They sang Colours of Day -  which was a bit of a blast from the past. We joined in with the words we could remember, but failed to match Year One for enthusiasm and volume!

On Thursday we woke up to a winter white world. Overnight the temperature had plummeted to -5 and the trees in the distance were coated in a delicate covering of hoar frost. The bottle lanterns that hang on the fence had transformed to translucent shades of pastel.


Ice crystals added extra interest to the garden ornaments.
I went out and broke the ice on the bird bath and added some warm water to stop it from re-freezing, so that the birds could have a drink, and permit the starlings to perform their morning ablutions.

The low temperatures will suit the olives, which need the temperatures to drop to around -5 to keep them healthy.
If the temperatures go too low we will need to move them into the summer house until it warms up. If they stay in there too long I will forget about them and they will surely fade away from neglect.

Later I got a Whatsapp message.
The school had found an unexpected item,
a lovely piece of multicoloured knitting.
Was it ours?
Indeed it was.
Gorgeous colours and definitely not produced by me - far too neat and tidy.

In the afternoon DH goes shopping and asks what shopping I would like. The daffs on the dining table have reached the point of despatch to the compost and I request replacements.

"Can you get me some daffs, and something to go with them - like carnations"
A big ask for a non-floral husband.
It would be interesting to see what he purchased.
Later, I receive a text with a picture of some flowers and the question
"Any good?"
I try to imagine these coloured carnations with daffs, and fail.
I ring him.
"Are there any pink carnations?"
"What does pink look like?"
A good question. How do you describe colour to the colour blind?




DH sends a further picture.
I ring him back, and we discuss the relative merits of the flowers in this second picture.
"Can you get some Gysophilia as well?" I suggest.
Bright pink, yellow, white - colours of the day.
What can possibly go wrong?






He returns having completed his mini supermarket sweep.
I arrange the flowers.
Some go in the bay window.
The vase containing the rest is placed on the dining table.
It is only then that I realise that the colours of the flowers may go with each other,
but they don't exactly go with the table cloth!

Moral of the tale - colours of the day don't always live in perfect harmony.

Snowdrops and Charity Shops

"Snowdrops are out and the forecast is for sun tomorrow!" announced my fellow explorer. "Let's go and see the snowdrops at Birlingham."

Birlingham is a pretty little village in south Worcestershire, nested in the crook of the Avon. Contrasting somewhat with the similar sounding urban metropolis that sprawls around the M6, M5 and M42, between Ikea, the NEC and Hopwood services.

Back in 1870, the Vicar of Birlingham had the vision to plant some snowdrops. One hundred and fifty years later hundreds of thousands of snowdrops adorn the churchyard, attracting a stream of visitors during the opening months of the year.

A few tentative snowdrop blooms have appeared in our garden, evidence of a previous visit to Birlingham,
so we were hoping there would be a good display at our destination.
It did not disappoint.
Delicate white blooms festooned the grounds with an extravagance that would delight any bride, but especially the Bride of Christ.
We purchased more of these Birlingham beauties, and hope that they thrive as well in our clay as they do in the fertile ground of a churchyard. I pray that we do not need to bury any bodies in our garden just to get the same effect!




Next stop was Eckington Wharf, where the willows watch on, as the Avon flows to its nearby confluence with the Severn at Tewkesbury.
We observed, as some kayakers launched their craft, and paddled off down the bright stream.





In Tewkesbury, we went first to Alison's Bookshop a treasure trove of literature to gladden the heart of any bookworm. I found myself in the poetry section and recalled reading that a poet I had not heard of, had died recently, and wondered if they had any of her work, as the quotations I had read had piqued my interest.
I sent my fellow traveller a text to see if she could enlighten me.
Right on cue, she appeared.
"'I just sent you a text, who was the woman who died?"
"What woman?"
"She was a poet. It was on facebook last week that she had died. I had never heard of her, and I wondered if there would be any of her work here."
Unfortunately, neither of us could remember her name, so I was not able to ascertain if any of her work was for sale.
All the best-laid plans...
We went to our current preferred cafe, and the food was of the usual high standard.

After lunch, we toured the charity shops. Our favourite was the vintage shop, where a customer was bemoaning the tendency of charity shops to buy in new stock to sell, putting them in direct competition with the other shops in the town centre.
I purchased a scarf ring for the extravagant sum of £3.
There are a significant number of empty shops in Tewkesbury. A sign on the window of Superdrug announced its imminent closure at the end of the month. Soon there will be another.

Just off the high street, we discovered an antique centre in an old chapel. The stock was vintage, but the prices were more tomorrows than yesterdays.
My cash was spent, but they didn't take cards so I couldn't buy anything.

A couple of pieces of jewellery caught my eye, but not sufficiently to motivate me to go and find a cash point!
I am trying to be more discerning about my purchases and to be less impulsive. If the jewellery is still there next time I visit AND I have the cash, then I may consider buying them. If they had taken cards I would probably have purchased both there and then.

Later my fellow traveller remembered the name of the poet who died - Mary Oliver.
Unfortunately, I misheard or misremembered the name and then googled Alison Oliver and discovered the work of a children's author and got rather confused...
Blame it on the snowdrops...

Bird Watch Sunday

Breakfast time on Birdwatch Sunday
"Ooh! Can we count the pigeons in the oaks?"
"Only if they are above our garden" 
I looked up at the trees towering over our winter-bare borders. How can I tell from this distance if the birds are perched over our land?

A pink feathered bird lands on one of our feeders.
Hmm
"Must be a chaffinch!" I declare
Then I notice the sleekness of the head
"Nuthatch!"
"Where?"
"Well, it has swooped back into the tree now!"
That is nuthatches for you.

Blink and you have missed them.

A collared dove struts around the border beneath one of the birdfeeders, foraging for free food.

Goldfinches arrive to feast on Nyger seeds, taking turns to dip their heads forward to feed, giving the effect of a 'pecking hens' retro toy.
Someone walks along the path behind the house, feathered friends take flight.

Meanwhile, a squirrel bounds down the trunk.
"Gosh you're up early! Did the alarm clock disturb your slumbers?"
I find myself imagining a squirrel-shaped pyjama'd arm, reaching out from beneath a duvet to silence an unwelcome alarm...and admonish myself for the foolish flight of fantasy.

"Wait! This is a squirrel you are talking about, why humanise him/her? 
It lives somewhere in the tree, 
does not have a duvet or alarm clock,
talk, other than to swear in squirrelish at whatever causes annoyance or is perceived to be a threat. 
You will be humanising God next!"

Back to the bird count. I suppose I ought to start noting down my observations.
"Female blackbird..."
My attention drifts back to my phone. Too soon it is time to depart for church."

At lunchtime I continue to observe ornithological activity from the warmth of my home..
"Robin"
"Male blackbird. And another. That makes two..."

After lunch, my attention is drawn by increased activity in the sky.
"Wow look at that flock of birds, swooping and soaring.
An interested voice enquires if they are seagulls.
"No. They aren't flapping enough."
This is the extent of my ability to identify birds.
We watch as the mini murmuration of a dozen starlings perform an aerial routine that the Red Arrows would be proud of, with a tight formation, turning as one.
Fortunately for the laundry, no trails emitted out of the rear ends of our feathered friends...
Did they fly over our garden though...?

My mind drifted off along some other non-bird related thread.

I looked up from my computer in time to see smaller birds invading our garden
"Tits! What sort?
Probably not blue, 
but maybe coal 
possibly long tailed 
or even just great!"
Who knows?
I don't.

Fortunately, our bird count was undertaken by a much responsible and more ornithologically aware person than myself. Though I will be interested to see what this years statistics reveal.

In the soup

For ease of consumption
the spoon should enter the soup, 
but not become part of the soup.
The spoon should be a facilitator,
an enabler -
not undergoing the full immersion experience!

We are obviously not talking faith here,
otherwise, a full immersion experience
would be positively encouraged.

This was my tea.
My humble evening meal
Tomato Soup.
Not terribly exciting admittedly.

Normally my evening meal is a tad more interesting,
but we had been out
and I had eaten quiche and chips
earlier in a noisy cafe in Shropshire.

I wasn't feeling inspired,
so I opted for soup.
Tomato soup.
Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup.
Just one of 57 varieties from the stable of Heinz.

Then halfway through
without any warning,
my spoon slid gracefully in.
Silently submerged itself beneath the surface of bright orange gloop.
"How rude," I thought. "How very rude!"
I had to fetch another spoon.
"Next time," I admonished myself.
"Next time use a smaller bowl!"
Hindsight is such a wonderful thing.

Trollied

Sunday afternoon and the KHT requires cash back for the next week, so off we trog to the nearby supermarket to correct this omission, and pick up a few odds and ends.

Now the KHT is the local self-appointed trolly returner.

There are flats nearby. Several residents of these flats do not appear to have access to a car. Since Tesco have removed their trolley demobilisation device from the boundary of the grounds of their store. Some customers now use supermarket trolleys to transport their goods far beyond the car park, abandoning them on footpaths close to their homes.
This provides the KHT with an abundance of trolley returning opportunities.
In fact, no sooner had we walked around the corner from the adjacent road than she spied an abandoned trolley, like a damsel in distress, awaiting rescue.  The KHT leapt into action, delighted to accept her self-appointed commission.

However, we soon encountered another couple, which she naturally added to her load.
Managing three trolleys requires planning and strength, as they can have minds of their own.
There was one point, as she was crossing a brook, the camber was against her and I wondered if we were going to lose them all in the drink.
However, she realised what was happening and rescued the situation, by adding her weight to one side of the trolleys to counter the sideways drift.





Just as the supermarket came into sight she spotted yet another trolley, abandoned and alone.
She looked at it, longing to rescue it, but also realising that she was running out of energy.
"You can stop." I reassured her. "You don't have to take them all all the way back."
She looked so relieved. and happily let go.
Yes, I could have helped her push them, but sometimes we need encouragement to recognise our limits.
To know that it is OK to stop.
Sometimes taking part is all that is required of us and stopping is essential.
We have to listen to the spirit within us guiding us and watch out for those who are more vulnerable and may not be able to recognise the spirit's voice.
Look out for other people, and give them permission to look after themselves.

We completed our shopping.
The KHT got her cash back.
We left the store.
The trolleys were still where we left them
"Pushing them didn't half make me wheeze!" said the KHT, "How do I get fit?"
"Exercise regularly, but gently."
She paused.
"What is going to happen to them?"
"Mr Tesco can come and collect them."
She was happy to trust the trolleys to Mr Tesco. Let us hope he lives up to her expectation.

The Perfect Procrastinator

I am the very model of a perfect procrastinator.
My motto each time is that I will get round to it later.
Until a deadline hoves into sight,
then I moan and fuss with all my might,
flounce and stomp, and have a grump
anything but what I should have done.


I am a very model of a perfect procrastinator
and always think that next time I will manage things much better.
File papers neatly in the right place
not in a heap - a right disgrace
Losing things all over the place
Then realising they were always there!



I am a very model of a perfect procrastinator
organisation and tidiness are words that often I ignore
I have no-one but myself to blame
I know it will always end the same
Tying up loose ends drives me insane
And next year I will repeat all this!

I am a very model of a perfect procrastinator
Without a clue how I can finish with verse four!
Perhaps I will just leave this here
hope the rest will somehow appear
"Not likely!" my enemies do jeer
And yet another day has slipped away.

Gone for a Burton

The Satnav was set to our destination and we  headed off into the unknown.
What will we discover in today's town of choice - a place neither of us had visited previously?
All that we knew was that it was famous for beer!

We are not great watchers of TV. and lived in our current house for a year before we got the aerial sorted for the TV - it still isn't quite right for BBC1, but it will do... I tend to do most of my viewing on my laptop,  after everyone has gone to bed and therefore won't moan about my choice of viewing!
At the moment I am working my way through several years worth of episodes of Chanel Four's Eight Out Of Ten Cats Plays Countdown, as it appeals to my sense of humour. This programme is sponsored by Coors Light, so I was quite pleased to see a large chimney adjacent to the town centre parking bearing the name of this beverage. Alas, there were no mic dropping comediennes or denim-clad snow sledgers waiting to entertain us.

One of the first shops I noticed was a Bird's Bakery. I had never heard of this chain before this week, when I read an article about them bringing back old recipes. Now here was a shop right before my very eyes!

We found ourselves in the charity shop part of town, so popped in to see what was on sale and made a couple of minor purchases, before heading off in pursuit of Tourist Information, to find out more about this unfamiliar town.

The signs may still exist, but Tourist Information has long gone. The library was located in a building that looked like a factory unit. Inside, however, it was light bright and welcoming. One of the librarians directed us towards their information section, but most of the brochures were for tourist attractions across East Midlands and povided no further information about the town itself.

A party of school children arrived, so we moved on to admire the River Trent and the reflections of the parish church of St Modwen's. That would make a good name for a construction company...

Through the trees, we could see the church at Stapenhill. Later we saw the raised walkway from Stapenhill across the flood plain and into the town centre and thought that would make a pleasant walk on another occasion.


A couple of cafes that tempted us, but it was Helen's in the Market Place got our custom. It was a good choice. I could have had home made sausage roll, or quiche, but opted for cheese on toast.
"White or granary bread?" asked the assistant
"Oh, one of each!" I replied.

Later I could hear the bemused chef checking that was order was correct.
I didn't think it was that radical!
The food did not disappoint and was modestly priced.
As we left I purchased a coffee cake, reduced to £1. Bargain.

We investigated the Market Hall, which was a beautiful Victorian building.  The closed-in stalls had been removed, giving it a light and airy feel, but on a January Monday some of the stalls were closed. Despite this, it was still a popular place to eat.









On the corner of a street we spotted a large sculpture of a shovel, with a bottle shaped hole, large enough for people to walk through, which they did without a second glance.
Bizarre!















Why did we go?
We had never been. It came up in conversation that neither of us had visited Burton on Trent, even though it is not far from us, or other places we have visited, and as we had a free day we decided to go and explore.

What did we expect?
A post-industrial town centre.

What did we find?
A town transitioning, but the brewing industry was more evident than I anticipated.
It is nice to see that the town centre has not just been obliterated in the name of progress.
Yes, there are shopping arcades and supermarkets, but also plenty of small businesses.
I remember from my childhood holidays to Southwold, another brewing town, the overpowering smell of brewing that pervaded the town. Filtration techniques have improved, and the wind may have been in the wrong direction, but I didn't detect the same powerful pong in Burton. From the large silo structures and chimneys we saw, I assume beer is still manufacturered in the town.

Would we return?
Yes. Possibly in the autumn, though. There is undoubtedly more we haven't explored, particularly in a town so seeped in brewing.

Plough and Cyclamen Sunday

A beautiful sunny Sunday afternoon and I am tempted out into the garden. Despite the fact that it is still early January it is warm enough to dispense with a coat, which is a very pleasant surprise.
As there is a breeze, I hang the towels out on the line to dry.

Five plants with inside out flowers require planting - cyclamen! That is their name! The white blooms will fill the gaps left when the last of the lobelia were removed. I had spotted them outside a greengrocers and thought they will be perfect for embellishing the tables at the Afternoon Tea Service, and then they could supplement the existing plants at the front of the house. The Tea Service was Thursday, so having done their duty gracing the tea table with their floral finery, they could relocate to their retirement pads, delightfully situated adjacent to the boundary of our property. Planting this quintet was all I intended to do...

However, the yellow daisies in the planters required cutting down, as the tops have died back. If the winter is not too severe they should send forth fresh shoots. If not I will replant in the spring.

The pots at the front were very dry, as we haven't had any significant rain in weeks. They are also close to the house, so what rain we have had has made little impact on them. I enlisted the help of the KHT to water and replenish the reservoirs at the base of each pot.

The iris are shooting, so I lug the heavy pot round from behind the shed. There had been a gorgeous double blue-purple primula in there as well. Sadly I didn't remember to water it often enough so it became a casualty of the previous hot summer.  I filled the space vacated by the demise of the aforementioned primula with hyacinths, dug out of the bed we plan to replant in the spring.

Then I decided to tidy the raised bed, trimming straggly aubretia and removing any oak leaves which may have provided cover for the dreaded slugs.

By now the clean trousers I put on this morning were looking decidedly grubby...

The KHT  is now watering the entire garden, having removed leaves that were blocking the flow of water.  I try to get her to water in one place, so I can take some photographs, but she is not keen to co-operate.
I am interupting her important watering for the frivolous pursuit of photography and she is not impressed.

DH returned from his allotment, where he has been digging over some of the beds. It is Plough Sunday, so that seems strangely fitting.

The wind increases in tempo. I rescue the towels as it is starting to get dark.
"Hadn't you better rescue those plants off the table as well, it is getting rather windy?" enquires DH
"They are fine," I assure him.
"Oh, you mean they are in the ground?"
"No."
"Where are they then?
"In the pots."
"Well, that's the ground, isn't it...?"
We watch as the light fades,
through the wintery hues of pink,
red
and purple.













The streetlight and moon fight valiantly
as gradually the darkness
wins
once
again.

Who is the grown up?

I suppose it is inevitable
but sometimes I am surprised
by the behaviour of other people.

They do not react as I expect,
and I can take that as a criticism of myself,
which,
if I am honest,
I probably deserve!

However,
just supposing that the problem was not me?

I had assumed that they were a mature,
as in grown up,
type person,
who had their life all sorted -
knew who they were,
what they hoped to achieve
were at peace with themselves
had a clear vision for their life
and were certain of what they believed

However, what if they were not really coping with life at all?
Fully preoccupied
by frantically trying to pedal themselves,
away from some catastrophe?
If, just coping with life,
required all their energy
so that anyone else
was just an anonymous shadow
on the periphery of their existence.
There,
but not there.

Never assume that it is all about ourselves.
It usually isn't.
It often isn't.
It really isn't.
Instead, it is about co-existing
within relationships that are both tangible and tenuous.

Smile,
enjoy the moment.
Have no expectations
and beautiful moments will happen when you least expect them.
Treasure that joy
forgive
even when no wrong has occurred.
Then peace,
real peace,
genuine peace,
not mithering,
will follow.

Recent Vintage Saves the Day

I love a good wedding, even though it is hard work for everyone, including us servants,
but it is such a special occasion.
A celebration to remember.
"More wine?"
"More wine coming up..."
Except there isn't.
All the wine they could afford, has been drunk.
This will be so embarrassing for the family

and will cast a cloud over the entire celebration and marriage.
It will never be forgotten or forgiven.
"We have run out!" I whisper, miserably.
"You are joking!"
"Nope. I wish I was, except I wouldn't joke about running out of wine at a wedding. 
That is the stuff of nightmares!"
We stand there stunned, unable to think of a solution,

powerless to prevent the disaster that is about to unfold before our very eyes.

"What are we going to do?"

"I have absolutely no idea! I wish I did!

"Does the boss know?"

"No, and I am not volunteering to be the one who spoils his big day."

As we mutter between us, one of the guests overhears our conversation,
observes the agitation we are doing our best to hide,
and goes and speaks quietly to a member of her family.
"Oh dear, that guest heard us! She has only gone and told her son... Soon everyone will start leaving, and there will be much wailing and accusations, recriminations and tears..."
"Maybe they have some wine they can lend us?"
"No, he is shaking his head. No rescue plan there, then."

The woman comes over to us, she has a calm expression on her face.
It is alright for her. It isn't her household that is about to become the talk of the town!
"Just do whatever he tells you," she says kindly, but cryptically.
I felt my voice rising, as the enormity of the problem began to sink in.
"What's he going to do?  Tell us not to panic? Break into the neighbour's store and 'borrow 'some wine?"
"Shh! The son, Jesus, I think his name is, is heading this way..."
Jesus doesn't say much, just tells us to fill the purification jars with water.
Then stands to one side, watching.

"What is the point? 
They are going to start weeping and wailing in a moment and we will have all the water we need to fill the jars!"
"Just do what he says."
"Why?" I replied, petulantly, wanting to burst into tears, but afraid to, knowing the tsunami of events I would trigger if I did.
"Because nothing will happen if we don't, but something might if we do!"
"Maybe they will all keep chatting and dancing and forget they have nothing to drink."
"Look, if we are filling the jars, they can't ask us for a drink. It will buy us a bit of time.."
I cannot fault this logic.

We fill the jars, Jesus, stands watching, looking pensive, as if he is having a conversation in his head. He doesn't speak until we have finished.
"Draw some from the stone jars, and take it to the Master of the Feast."
Jesus' face is calmly resolute.
We do not have the courage to remind him that it is just water

The Master of the Feast seizes the drink off us, like a man who has worked under the midday sun all day and is desperate to quench his thirst.
We dare not breathe,
waiting for the look of shock and subsequent splutterings and rantings
when he realises that we have handed him some water.
I was fully expecting him to spit it back in my face.
It doesn't happen.
Instead, he pauses,
a huge smile erupts across his face,
and his eyes take on a dreamy look.
"WoWWWW!" he declares finally, "Where have you been hiding THAT!?"
"Oh, it was just out the back, waiting for the right moment..."
"What vintage is it?"
"Quite a recent one..."  I assure him, hoping to avoid further awkward questions.

More than satisfied with his drink, the Master of the Feast went to remonstrate with the unsuspecting Bridegroom
"Most people start with the best wine and wait until everyone is sufficiently merry before they serve the cheaper stuff. You, however,  have saved the best until now. 
Most unusual, but I will drink to that, and to a long and happy marriage!"
The Bridegroom had no idea what the Master of the Feast was talking about
and blamed the Master of the Feast's confusion on the drink.
He had no idea how right he was.

"How did it happen? How did water become wine?"
"I don't know, but it saved the day. If anyone asks, we will just say it was a miracle."

Meanwhile, Mary watched on and smiled, and treasured all this in her heart."

The Mysteries of Coleslaw

Due to his irritations (other than me),
all sorts of food DH has enjoyed eating,
are now off limits.

Over Christmas, a wide variety of seasonal provisions were purchased
and that which had not been consumed
was left languishing in the larder.

DH embarked on a mission to purge the fridge
and remove temptation.

"Are you going to eat this coleslaw?"

I look at him. 

I have NEVER eaten coleslaw.
It went in the bin.
Sorted.

Over twenty-nine years of marriage and my husband still has the ability to amaze me...

Meanwhile, the KHT had gone off on an adventure.
I was sent a picture of her lunch - an impressive Ploughman's.
She does enjoy her cheese and pickled onions and has recently discovered Branston.
However, note what is between the cheese and the bread - COLESLAW!!!
Next, I received a text advising me that she had not been tempted by the greens, but had devoured half of that white gloopy messy mass aka coleslaw - a first for her!


Perhaps we were a bit hasty in disposing of that tub that was lurking in the fridge.
Oh, the mysteries of coleslaw - like Marmite, you either love it,
or you just don't!
I just don't
but it looks like the KHT has changed her mind.

What is it with that family and Angels?

Reflection by a family member or close friend of Elizabeth/Mary

Here we are, nearly at the end of another year.  

I don’t remember when so much happened in so short a time.

You’ve heard about Mary and Joseph’s baby - such a cutie…

But that wasn’t the beginning. 

Truth be told, the story began long before then…

Us Jew’s have been longing for someone to come and free us from this oppressive Roman regime. 

They restrict what laws we pass, 

appoint corrupt tax collectors to hold us to ransom, 

which makes it harder to spare money to pay for the running of the temple. 

I mean, is this any way for God’s people to live? 

Is it really giving glory to God, when we are subject to foreign military might and control? 

Our ancestors should be turning on their graves. 

It is like Babylon all over again, but without the travel. 

We ARE God’s chosen people, but He is strangely silent.

Our theological scholars like to keep track of these things 

and the rumblings in the temple say that is it 400 years since God last spoke. Anyone would think that we had done something wrong? 

Well if we have, I wish he would send someone to tell us. 

We’d listen…well, I think we would…

Thinking about it things started to change with that funny business with Zechariah when it was his turn to go into the Holy of Holies. 

He came out unable to say a word and had to write everything down. 

Elizabeth was so impatient, wanting to know what had happened.  

When he explained she quite understood why he didn’t believe the angel. 

I mean a baby in your 50’s a miracle, and they were much older than that.

If he hadn’t been struck dumb, we would have all thought that he fell asleep in there and dreamt it all.

So Zech’s lips were zipped. 

To everyone’s surprise a baby did follow soon after.

Zechariah Junior? 

Nope, according to the angel, God said he was to be called John.

An angel…

Then Elizabeth’s cousin, young sweet innocent Mary, 

who is no more than a child, 

announces that she too is in the family way.

Talk about the talk of the town

No-one believed it at first. 

She was the LAST person you would expect to pre-empt her betrothal vows.

The gossips believed it, said they could see it in her face

Mary and Joe came up with some story about angels - what is it with that family and angels? 

They claimed that the baby was the Son of God, 

conceived by the Holy Spirit, no less.

Then the Romans decided to do a census, 

which took everyone’s mind off everyone else’s business for a while, 

while they sorted out their own…

Joe’s family hail from Bethlehem, so off Mary and Joseph went went off 

to the city of David to be counted by the interfering invaders. 

Not exactly the best of timing as Mary was almost due by then…or was it?

When Mary and Joseph returned, their baby had been born and they were glowing - like they had undergone some amazing experience. 

I know we were delighted when our children were born, 

but this was something else. 

The baby looks fit and healthy and is positively thriving. 

However folks haven’t forgotten the mystery of how he came into being 

and I reckon that will follow him all his life..

Jesus, they called him, apparently he was given his name by an angel -

what is it with that family and angels?

Well, baby Jesus has the most amazing eyes. 

Most babies are either sleeping, or fractious, demanding to be fed. 

This one looks at you with these deep brown eyes, 

like he has seen it all before. 

It is as if he can see into the very depths of your soul. 

Mind you, I am not the only one who has noticed him. 

You should have seen the reception he got when they took him to the temple to be dedicated. 

Proud parents, Mary and Joseph walked in with such confidence. 

It was not the furtive, tentative arrival of a couple unsure of their welcome. Instead, it was as if the child they carried had every right to be there, as if he belonged.

Mary’s eyes were alert, as if she wanted to be able to remember every small detail that day.

As for Simeon and Anna, it was as if this was they day they had been waiting for. They were so full of joy, it was almost as if they worshipped that child.