Christmas Choreography
I love Christmas. That’s not news to anyone who knows me, but it bears repeating each year. This year though I’ve been musing on just how much I love the two different bits of Christmas.
I’m not sure whether this is true for the rest of you, but for us Christmas falls into two distinct parts.
Firstly there’s the choreographed bit. It usually covers the time-period between Christmas Eve and the day after Boxing Day, and it’s the bit of the season which is most delicately and strategically planned. We know who will be around (more or less 
), we know what we will do, what we will eat, how we will fit everything in. It’s not quite a military operation … it’s just well-thought-through and carefully organised to make the most of everything Christmas should consist of.
This year, the choreographed bit was particularly lovely. We had two lots of parents visiting (beloved and most beloved fellow house-dwellers’), not to mention a goodly supply of truly wonderful friends in the mix.
On Christmas Eve we headed out to Canterbury’s Community Carol-singing event (which features the Salvation Army band and the Archbishop). We sang endless reams of carols, including the truly clunky Christmas song about Canterbury, to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells’. Scan it does not! But we redeemed our poetic sensibilities by watching the Muppets’ Christmas Carol, which is sublime, and a key part of just about any Christmas, in my view.
Christmas day was a happy and hectic whirl of food, church, presents, TV and chatter. We had 12 to lunch, with more arriving later on. The company was delightful, and so was the food … and what more can you wish for, I say!
Boxing Day was quieter, what with walking the dogs, eating turkey curry and catching up on some of the not-very-plentiful good Christmas TV we’d missed from the day before.
And after all that, we move on to the unchoreographed bit of the festive season. It’s just as good, yet completely different. It’s the bit where you have no idea what each day will hold, and what you will do with the hours stretching ahead. It’s the time when you don’t know when you’ll get up, or what you’ll eat, or where you’ll go. A day can begin with nothing, and end up full of all sorts of delights, or it can begin with a spectacular array of good intentions, and end up being wiled away on the sofa in front of the TV.
For most-beloved fellow house-dweller and I, the unchoreographed part of Christmas has largely been about doing jobs around the house … those little things which aren’t priority enough to get done while normal busyness ensues. I, for instance, have sorted, washed and folded all of our linen (towels, bedding etc), much of which I haven’t laid hands on since before we moved nearly 3 years ago. What with our newly-completed box room, we now have enough storage to put it all in one place, rather than leaving the bedding wrapped around the pictures we packed up all those years ago when we moved!
I have also tidied the attic, labelled CDs and DVDs in braille, cleared out the glory-hole which is our utility room, and generally laboured to bring order out of chaos … that being my favourite activity in the world.
Most beloved fellow house-dweller, on the other hand, has painted, sawed, nailed, drilled, sanded and grouted … all in the interests of making the big house less of a work in progress and more of a work completed
Oh, there has been family visiting too – swapping presents and sitting for long hours on sofas eating mince pies. That’s all part of the glory of it, isn’t it!
Today is New Year’s Day, and traditionally it is the last part of the wonderfully unchoreographed bit. This year it involved the glories of the Wallace and Grommet board game, a crazy, brain-frying word game, the final throes of David Tenant’s life as the Doctor, and a good deal of laughter, tea and mince pies. It was largely unplanned and wholly unpredictable, but it was the most fun Ive had in ages!
And that’s why I love unchoreographed Christmas.
Would I have it all that way? No, not for a minute! The ‘freeform’ part is indeed one of my most restful times of the year, and I love it for that, but the intricately planned choreography of the first few days, whilst it requires more energy, is also ply rewarding. People get stressed about the pressure of ‘making Christmas nice’. For me, that’s not a stress, it’s a joy. The season signifies something truly special – that reminder of hope breaking into the world – and if I can spend some effort and energy helping other people enjoy the season, then I’m well up for that.
So, drawn from both the choreography and the freestyle, here are my 10 favourite things about this Christmas:
1. Having beloved fellow house-dweller here for the whole of the choreographed bit.
2. Having two sets of parents present … both of which are endlessly patient with the relative chaos of the big house.
3. Crying with laughter at the church New Year party (the ambiguity is intentional ).
4. Eating the nicest Christmas pudding I’ve had in a long time.
5. Reorganising my possessions whilst listening to vast quantities of Archers episodes.
6. Chatting over spicy potato soup at Eat on a chilly afternoon.
7. Putting finishing touches to our newly-decorated spare room (believe me, finishing touches are a rarity in this house!).
8. Welcoming my grandmother to our big house for the first time.
9. Playing the X Factor game with my 8 and 5 year old nephews
10. Winning the Wallace and Grommet sheep-rustling game by 1 point!
Aaaaaah …. can’t wait to do it all again this year!
On school reunions …
I’ve never been to one before – my old school friends being principally the type who don’t go in for such nostalgic moments – so I was most excited to get the email from my erstwhile French and German teacher, Mr Roberts, telling me I was invited to the 20-year reunion of our exchange programme with the blind school in Marburg, Germany. Would I like to attend? You bet I would! Nostalgia is always a winner with me!
I set off early – very early – and traveled half-way up the country to Worcester, where I spent the last 4 years of my schooling. I managed to stumble (not literally) across about four other people all going to the same event, and we arrived in style, 5 of us and 2 guide dogs, all packed into one black cab. The driver was more than a little perturbed as we bundled in, but we did that classic blind trick of pretending to be deaf as well, so we couldn’t hear him protesting that it was too many!
Arriving was weird. They have changed the place around a little since we left, so we spent the first 5 minutes wandering around trying to work out quite where we had been dropped off. But we found the familiar old places in the end, not to mention a few slightly bewildered members of staff trying to get everyone into the right place – not an easy feat when people are sneaking off to visit their old haunts!
My observations were random, but here they are for your delectation:
Everything seemed smaller. That’s the old cliché isn’t it, but it was true. The Leisure Block, which I remember as a big barn of a place with a huge dining hall, was not much bigger than the ground floor of my own house! The odd thing about it though is that I left there at the age of 17. Were I to return to the school I attended when I was 7, I could understand everything being smaller than I remember. But I haven’t grown since I was 17 (well, not upwards anyway), so why the change of perspective? Do I just feel more in control of my world, and therefore less dominated by physical spaces? Or maybe I just lived in a smaller house at the time
Also, it was curious being back in a context where blindness is the norm, not the exception. That was always one of the things which I most appreciated about being educated in a “special school” – it gave me the opportunity to grow and learn and mature in a context where I was not the odd-one-out, where my disability was normalised against everyone else having the same disability. I could work in the medium which worked best for me (namely braille), and everything about my physical environment was designed to accommodate blindness. Yes, of course it was poor preparation for the “real” world in one way, but in another it was the very best preparation. I grew up with an absolute confidence that I could “do” life. Instead of spending the 13 years of my statutary education battling with differentness, special provisions, accessability … the whole business of making a sighted world doable for me as a blind person, I was able to spend those 13 years becoming the best I could be at anything and everything. And by the time I did have to find my way in a sighted environment (university), I was well and truly ready to take it on.
Anyhow I digress …
Since I left school, I have pretty much always been the odd one out. That’s not a pity statement, it’s just true. I am rarely in a place where there are more blind people than me. And so I get used to how the world works when you’re one of a kind. People help you … well they have to, because the environment around you is designed for them not you. People make allowances, for much the same reason. People have expectations of what you can and can’t do. Basically, most groups of people I find myself in tend to mould themselves to accommodate my needs. Yes, it’s a somewhat self-centred business, when you think about it. Though most of us would give anything for it not to have to be that way!
So returning to school was heartening and salutory all at once. There were no ratios – they hadn’t tried to make sure there was a sighted guide for every 2 blind people or anything. We just all pitched in. There was no plan for how umpteen of us were going to get our food from the buffet table. We just all got on with it. Oh, there were sighted people around of course, but no-one was trying to strategise it, or work out how to “manage” us. The staff at the school are just used to letting blind people do stuff their way. They don’t stress or even “accommodate”. They just expect us to work it out, and to ask if we need help. Mighty refreshing!
I probably need to add a caveat here though. The “let them grope for cake!” approach only works in a blind-majority environment. In most of the situations in which I find myself, were people just to leave me to it I would be really stuck, precisely because those environments make no concessions to blindness. So, were I to have to fend for myself in the work canteen for instance, I’d struggle. In that environment, I am reliant on those around me going out of their way to accommodate me. There is no other way of getting by in the world.
And that, my friends, is precisely why the odd day or so in a blind-majority environment is so amazing. Just for a while, all the layers of fitting and connecting across the disability gap are stripped away, and independence (the ability to function practically without needing the aid of others) is a reality, rather than just an acolade the more confident of us disabled folk congratulate ourselves with.
My other conclusion was sadder. You see, I couldn’t find that same confidence in the staff or pupils of my old school that I had when I was there. A number of us remarked on it. It was as though we were fluorescent, up against pastel shades. We were loud and raucous and suitably disrespectful of the pillars of society who had so conscientiously invested in our modern language education, while all around us was subdued and a bit low-key. I found myself wondering how they ever coped with us!
Here I stray into unknown territory, because I have no idea what the school has really been through since we left. It’s 18 years now since I laid down my Head Girl hat (metaphorically, you understand) and went out into the big wide world. I know there have been some difficult years, and special education is a much trickier business than it used to be. But I found myself saddened by what felt like low morale and a subdued atmosphere in the place. Mind you, I was heartened by my conversation with the current German exchange students who had come over for their week of “English school life”. They struck me as a likely bunch for making a splash in the world.
Of course, school always feels more subdued when you go back, because the current pupils stay beneath the radar (Who are all these weirdo former pupils anyway?), and because the staff are all a bit phased at seeing you 18 years older! But I just wanted to get the whole lot up on their feet to cheer themselves. New College Worcester has been a tour de force in my life. That place, that environment, those very teachers … they were what enabled me to set out on what has been a truly adventurous and fulfilling life out here in the big wide world. Oh, I’m not downplaying God or the parents, by the way, but it was school (where I spent most of my life) which did most of the work in equipping me, intellectually and practically, for life as a blind person in a sighted world.
So, New College Worcester, whatever the years since my departure have brought, take a moment to be proud of yourselves. What you do may feel like a drop in the ocean, but to me it made the ocean a doable thing.
from
A Day of Heroes
This week I have been mostly making history. For starters, I am one of the first non-officer guests to stay at The Salvation Army’s International College
of Officers in London. What’s more, I am currently attending the first ever International Prayer Leaders Conference in The Salvation Army. Eight years
ago I pitched up at the SA Mission Team office in Morden as the first ever Salvation Army Prayer Co-ordinator in the world, and now I am here with my counterparts
from 22 other territories. That’s progress!
All quite amazing and quite momentous!
The week has been everything I could have wished. It’s been inspirational hearing how TSA is developing its prayer and spirituality in cultures as diverse
as Canada and Ghana. It’s been heartening to find that I’m not alone in the struggles I have and the breakthroughs I rejoice in. It’s been almost spooky
to note the synchronicity of what God is doing across this vast global movement. And it’s been a lot of fun too.
Our days have, up to now, been full of lectures, story-telling and prayer, but today we broke the pattern a bit and took in some real history.
After a hasty breakfast, we piled into vans and headed for Wesley’s Chapel, near London’s financial district. Despite all my time working in London and
my appreciation of Wesley’s remarkable life, I’ve never been there before, so it was fascinating.
(And were I one of my ever-photographing Indian colleagues, I’d be able to show you some pictoral tasters … but there you go!)
We started in the chapel itself, and marvelled at the idea of a pulpit which put Wesley at eye-level with the people in the balcony. You really would have
to get all your vertigo demons dispatched before venturing into that kind of preaching.
(NB. Just in case you are reading this and are fundamentally insecure … no, I do not believe that having vertigo denotes demonic activity in your life
)
Then we went to look around Wesley’s house. My first observation was how remarkably like our house it is (minus the gigantic extension), but then I remembered
that it was built only 17 years before ours, so maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised! My second observation was that it was dusty and a bit musty-smelling,
but then such is the effect of preserving history I guess. He had the most enormous tea-pot too …
Just off John’s bedroom is his prayer room, and like the self-respecting prayer leaders we are, we of course huddled in there to pray. It’s a tiny room,
but the experience of being there was quite remarkable. To think he got up at 4am each morning and headed straight in there for time with his Heavenly
Father, before settling down to write another of his umpteen thousand sermons, or setting off on his horse to preach to the masses … And to think that
I was standing there, more than 200 years on, a direct beneficiary of all that he did, now doing my bit to keep the faith … All pretty sobering and yet
inspiring.
We finished with a visit to the museum, and Croft and I duly took our place in the pulpit he had used for 14 years. The photographic evidence resides in
the Indian cameras!
Then, after an afternoon of lectures and story-telling, we settled down this evening to watch a film about the lives of William and Catherine Booth …
and again I am confronted with heroes. Of course, I’ve spent most of my life hearing stories about early Salvation Army exploits, but to see the story
laid out in front of me, with all its joys and struggles, was humbling to say the least.
I come away from the film being sure that both of them were extreme fanatics, but also being sure that it would have been difficult to significantly impact
that climate of appalling deprivation and exploitation without being something of a lunatic. They needed the kind of blind passion that would drive them
through every kind of opposition, from being physically abused in the streets to being charged in the courts with pimping. They needed the kind of determination
that would take one look at the hundreds of thousands in abject misery and still not give up and go home.
I come away also being sure that they weren’t pastored or mentored in the way all of us need to be. There seem to have been few fathers and mothers of
the faith cheering them on or slowing them down, and perhaps that’s why Catherine died comparatively young, and why their family life was less than straightforward.
I come away being sure we have lessons to learn from that. As we pray for the kind of passion that drove the Booths to such great achievements, let’s also
pray for the kind of church that works together, as the body should, to support, advise and release its fanatics as wisely as it can.
John Wesley and William Booth both lived into their 80s. They both impacted the lives of hundreds of thousands of people. They both travelled the globe
and they were both at the heart of significant social transformation. Yet perhaps most importantly for me, the humble prayer co-ordinator, they both had
a deep heart-connection with the Jesus they preached, and they never let the size of the task or the fame of succeeding draw them away from that central
cord of love.
‘You give and take away’
It was the day after Jo’s second aneurysm, and 3 days before she died. I was on the phone to a friend, when my phone suddenly started beeping in the way it does when someone else is trying to get through to me. Ever conscious of the need to be alert for news on Jo, I asked my friend if she’d mind me checking who it was.
And it was something of a pleasant surprise. It was one of those excellent people from the Guide Dogs for the Blind Association, phoning to tell me she might well have found a new guide dog for me.
I say it was a pleasant surprise because I’d been on the waiting list for 18 months, and had got used to the very polite ‘we havent’ found you a dog yet’ letters dropping regularly into my inbox – so much so that I’d begun to stop thinking about when Hugo’s replacement would be along. Oh, I’d had the odd moments of worry, and of hounding Heaven for some kind of proof that there would be a replacement before Hugo got too old to work, but of late I’d worked out that said hounding was causing me more stress than it was Heaven. Heaven seemed pretty clear on its side of the bargain – that I would have all my needs met, according to the riches that are available in Christ Jesus. Heaven had confidently assured me that, though new guide dogs are not specifically mentioned in Scripture, they would certainly be factored in in my case.
So I had become peaceful about it… and what’s more, I was rather taken up with shock and grief at the illness of my dear friend and colleague. But isn’t it ever the way? Just when your back is turned, so to speak, Heaven delivers.
I told my Most Beloved Fellow House-dweller (AKA husband) about this strange feat of timing later in the day, and his response was typically whimsical and depressing (:)):
“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away.”
I pointed out at the time that this was a little heartless, given the fact that I was trying desperately hard not to face the prospect of my friend being taken away, but as it happened he was about right.
If you’re hoping for deep wisdom on how a new guide dog might be some kind of recompense for Jo’s death, then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. It isn’t. It isn’t by a long chalk. But the timing did remind me of how utterly in control God is.
So, after 2 weeks of Disney mayhem (of which more soon), I went into training with my new black lab cross retriever guide dog called Croft. After a rocky couple of weeks transitioning from one stage of training to the next, he has been shaping up very nicely indeed.
Croft, the new guide dog
For those of us lucky enough to train with the Maidstone Team, training usually happens at the Hilton Hotel in Maidstone itself. We are graciously granted a few rooms at the end of a corridor, with our own lounge, and a firedoor out to what are euphemistically known as the ’spending runs’ (places where dogs do their business) and a grooming shed. It truly is quite a home from home.
And it’s also nigh-on 2 weeks of full-board hotel food … so I’m now home to start the diet!
Training also means spending 10 days or so with a couple of other trainee-guide-dog-owners … 3 of them in my case. It is relatively rare in my life, and a great privilege, to spend that much time with people ‘like me’. I thoroughly enjoyed swapping ‘dodgy things my last dog got up to’ stories with them, and terrifying the ‘new boy’ (the one who had never had a dog before) with stories of what can happen to you when you are left to navigate the world alone with nothing but a small, domesticated animal.
And what of the newbie? Well, he is black (as I may have mentioned), and his name is Croft … which is not a bad name, given some that guide dog owners have to put up with His physical appearance is definitely marked by his half-retriever nature. He has a long neck and long legs, and the longest ears I think I’ve ever seen on a dog of his type. He makes Hugo look positively stumpy! However, he doesn’t have the fluffy malt-a-lot retriever coat, for which I am heartily grateful! For those of you who are devotees of Darby, and who have always seen Hugo as something of an impostor, I can tell you that he is, in looks and mannerisms, more like Darby than Hugo … but he’s black.
Croft's long retriever nose
He is settling in pretty well, if you overlook the incidents of pooing in the lounge, vomiting in the parlour and sneakily lying on the sofa(!!!). But then he is only 20 months old, so I suppose allowances have to be made. He is slowly getting to grips with the rigours of Canterbury – which is no mean feat – and he is growing in confidence all the time.
I took him to his first church service this morning – the first of many, I imagine! – and he coped extremely well. He was fast asleep in the sermon, mildly interested by the worship band, but thoroughly astonished by the organ. As the first swelling notes burst forth, his head shot up, his ears went sky-high and he stared in the direction of the sound, as though Armageddon were approaching!
For those of you who are worrying, let me reassure you that we have not dispatched Hugo to the municipal tip. He is still with us, leading a sedate retired guide dog life. He seems to quite like the new arrival, though is less keen on being jumped from around corners. He has been known to ascert his position with a grumpy growl when the young upstart has tried to nick his toy, but otherwise he seems happy to let Croft Harrass him with impunity.
Croft and Hugo
As for me? Well, I’m in that least-favourite phase of coping with the machinations of a new puppy who hasn’t settled yet. Most specifically, he is not at all keen to ’spend’ in my garden, which is not a good thing. But I’m reminded that both my other guide dogs had their teething troubles, and both shaped up to be pretty decent sorts in the end. Croft definitely has promise. Somewhere beneath the wobbly confidence there’s a feisty, determined retriever just waiting to burst out and fight its way through the London rushhour.
It will take a fair amount of time before he is up to speed with my usually hectic lifestyle, so we’ll be playing it by ear for a while, but so far so good …
Another birthday, another bonanza!
When a beloved friend prepares a lovely birthday surprise, there comes a time when you just gotta return that favour with all the creative zeal you can muster … which admittedly isn’t always that much in my case
So, last Thursday, the three of us intrepid birthday celebrators gathered in the hallowed hallway of the falling-down house to begin another string of birthday jollities.
First up, a cup of tea. Where else do all good birthdays begin?
Then off down our local for a very delicious meal. Good food and good company … though not necessarily in that order.
After dinner, just when all normal people would be winding down with a hot milky drink ready for a middle-aged kind of turning in, we youngsters were only just beginning! The doorbell rang … the guests arrived … the minging gingerbread roibos was brewed, and multitudinous cards were unveiled. Ah how we laughed!
Friday morning found us at one of Canterbury’s top cooked breakfast haunts (Cafe Venezia on Palace Street, for those of you local enough to try it). They do a very scrummy full English.
From thence, we sallied forth to the shops, and perused a lot of jewellery. For the most part we were all unenamoured of the big chunky ‘you could ‘ave someone’s eye out with that’ stuff on offer, but the hunting was fun.
Lunch was cake at Starbucks (what else?), and eventually we made it to the final surprise element of the day … a good old Canterbury boat tour!
I have blogged about this all-surpassingly glorious tourist experience before in these twists and turns of mine (here), so I won’t bore you with it all again, save to say this time we had the pleasure of Tom’s bottom instead of George’s
The boys, I’m sure, both have equally fine posteriors!
So then we headed for the station, since ongoing life was calling, but we did manage to stop in at the Goods Shed (Canterbury’s farmers’ market) to pick up some … well … goodies (not farmers!) to take on the train with us.
I am truly blessed with some very wonderful friends. Occasions like these are the reminder that, no matter how complicated life (and even friendship) becomes, we have been given something very precious in the people God has put around us, and we should stop and enjoy them from time to time.
Order out of Chaos
With things progressing so well in the big old house, we have reached another milestone (or perhaps it’s prophetic that I just typed ‘millstone’ by mistake ). We are clearing out our middle room. This may sound inane to you, but to us it is full of meaning. The ‘middle room’ is the smelly, dusty glory hole in which all the boxes we haven’t unpacked since we arrived two years ago have been languishing. But now, what with the hall, stairs and landings about to be carpeted, it’s time to shift the dusty lot into its new home in the attic.
So, for several weeks now, every spare moment of life (or so it seems) has been spent opening boxes, moving boxes, unpacking boxes, repacking boxes, destroying boxes and storing boxes. One of my beloved fellow house-dwellers congratulated me this evening on how far I have got with it all as “it would all just make me want to scream”. But for me, this activity is probably closest to the essence of who I am than almost anything else.
I love order. I love tidiness. I love a place for everything and everything in its place. Where there is mess, Lord, let me bring your order … that is my prayer.
Makes me sound dull, I know, but truly I’m not You see, to like bringing order you’ve gotta be up for diving into a bit of mess first.
Well, if I’m one for tidiness, I’m also one for believing that life isn’t a set of separate distinct compartments, but one glorious tapestry that all connects together in the weirdest and most wonderful ways. And this week, my box bonanza has taken on new meaning.
On Tuesday evening I received a text saying that my work colleague Jo had been rushed into hospital with what later turned out to be a severe aneurysm. No warning … no prior illness … we’d spent a very cheerful and hard-working weekend together just a couple of days before. And suddenly she was in a coma in intensive care. How does that happen!
To say Jo is my colleague is to sell her way short. I’m a firm believer that Jesus still sends his disciples out in twos, and it was very definitely Jo he sent me out with all those years ago when I first started my job with The Salvation Army. I have many wonderful friends an colleagues through that work, but Jo has been there as my ‘two-by-two’ from the very first day. So it’s been a painful week one way and another.
By Thursday a whole bunch of us had agreed to spend the day fasting, and due to some convenient work cancellations I was able to do my fasting at home. The only question really was, which room to use? Usually my prayer room would be the attic, but as I may already have mentioned once or twice, the attic is full of boxes!
However, the attic does also contain my key ability to listen to music, and that’s important to me when I pray, so I decided to endeavour to turn my back on the boxes for a few hours, and get before God in serious prayer.
And that’s when the next problem arose. I realised that, undisciplined though it may make me, I simply can’t ignore things that need sorting, tidying and ordering. So instead of ignoring the boxes, I kept finding myself elbow-deep in them.
For a few minutes it occurred to me that I could condemn myself for this, but then I remembered that self-condemnation is frowned upon in the good book, so I decided to make the most of it, rather than making the least of me.
And it turned out to be one of the best days of prayer I’ve ever had … more focused, more prayerful, more meaningful than many others I’ve done. As I waded through the chaos, seeking to bring some semblance of spacial peace and order, I found my prayers resonating all the way. God, this is a mess! God how did we get here! God it all feels so huge and tough and hopeless, but God you don’t give up. You press on and you stick at it and you bring us through. Your Spirit brought order out of chaos at creation, and you can do it again today in Jo’s brain.
I sang into the boxes. I cried into the boxes. I prayed into the boxes. And at the end of it all I had that amazing feeling you sometimes get when you’ve wrestled in prayer … that feeling that you’ve managed to tune into the cause of Heaven for a while.
At time of writing, Jo is doing well. But there is a way to go yet, and for me there are still boxes to sort, so the journey together goes on.
Carpets, multi-foil and crushed almonds
I’m walking on carpet, woooo-oooh!
It’s high time for a house rennovation update, I think.
