[For Simon Roper and Suzanne Ford, for their support].
This is my house; our house.
You see the guitar, thrown down on the arm-chair? We have that guitar because my mum bought it for my son. My son has autism. He plays random notes and sings nonsense songs on his guitar after school. He won’t learn chords because he hasn’t made them up and they don’t fit his rules.
In a way, I would love beautiful chords and folk songs to greet me in the sitting room after tea. But what I get, instead, are songs about the mountains in Snowdonia that he would like to walk on, and dragons who live in Charfield – all out of tune and noisy and I love it!
You see that underwear drying carousel? It sticks out of wherever you hang it and we walk into it. My mum bought it for us,as she worries about our late-developing domestic skills. It has an octopus’ head and we named it after her. In a way, I wish she didn’t bring her own cleaning products when she visits my house, or tell me to ‘buck up’ when I feel ill. I wish my family would remember that I am 44, not 14, and laugh when I drop stuff, break stuff, or get things wrong. But more than that, I love that I still have my mum. My small, smiley, always-seeing-the-best-in-things mum. I was totally in the front of the queue on that one, and I chose her and her octopus hanger.
You see that coffee-pot persistently taking up space on the sideboard? That’s mine, and only mine.
I used to go to therapy about my addiction to caffeine. For years I blamed it on why I woke up tired, and why I can’t seem to get my son to school on time. I blamed it for afflicting me with an addiction to be ashamed of; believing with all of my heart that I had some family genetic passed on from my wonderful, funny but addict of a Dad.
See those cereal boxes on the table? I didn’t have time to clear them away. They are still there, because it was never the coffee that was the problem. It was the brain fog from my chronic metabolic disorder. Last night, after a day of making crafts with the kids in a cold church room, driving about on December postal missions, and attending a meeting with other tired parents about my son’s school trip – last night, I dared to eat a takeaway on the way home with my son. We ate like pigs and I woke up with brain fog, late and disorganised, but it was delicious and I am thankful. For the food and for the warming coffee; for the domestic rituals of making, eating, clearing and setting the 35-year-old pine table, I am thankful.
You see those tomatoes still in their packet on the windowsill? My husband put them there. He commutes for an hour in the dark to get home from work, and when I am low on vegetables, he goes out of his way to buy them and bring them home, so that I can eat my weird diet for another 5 days.
He never takes the cellophane off the tomatoes, which makes them sweat. This is because he puts them there at 8.30 at night when he hasn’t yet had his tea. We send each other one-word texts throughout the day, not having time to be polite. “Tesco, yes.” “Out of School club, booked.” “Phone off, team meeting.”
Some Saturdays, we get to have a meal together after my son is in bed. If we have the energy, we talk about something other than the weeks’ plans, and we giggle. I feel a warm, golden thread of understanding and affection running between us and connecting us deep in the earth. We are passers-by for much of our lives, but our anchor runs deep, and I am thankful.
You see that bike taking up most of the hallway? I bought that bike for £45 and it’s a folding bike. When I was young, I would cycle for 10-15 miles on adventures in the lanes, or chasing boys. I have bought the bike so that I can drive it to the flat lanes of Berkeley Vale, and relive the freedom of whizzing along, peering into hedges, turning down unknown roads, and stopping at churches or shops. I bought it 6 months ago and I have used it 3 times. I am thankful for what it represents; a freedom from the car and the chance to demand some slow time. Time for me and for noticing my place on the earth. I am thankful that I am so busy being a parent that I don’t have time to use it.
You see that big Lego advent calendar, taking up space on the dresser? That is my son’s. He is singing all kinds of beautiful Christian carols this month, walking through the bare trees, stark playground, and housing estate lane with his head full of tales of a Saviour, born on a cold winter’s day. Yaweh of Nazareth was never born in the Winter. He was an August baby, by historical accounts, but I do not care. I am thankful for the sense of peace and presence that this time of year brings me. I am thankful for the garish gifts, the clumsy statements of community, and familial love.
I am thankful that behind the rush, the buying, the singing, and the obligations are the real moments of pause. I am thankful that we can stop in our households, look each other in the eye and be in the bright, sparkly moment, wrapped in the blanket of grey and wet of our modern Winters.
I am thankful that the wild and releasing narrative of the Celtic church has reached me. Where miracles did happen, and a carpenter’s son was born to us, with a message that we do not need to look for God, as he is here. He is the washing hanger gift, the tomato buying act, and the out of tune song of love, wrapped in our hearts and souls at Christmas.
For my family, my home, my community, my health workers, and my faith, I am thankful this Christmas.