There comes a point each year at Christmas when I realise I can’t do it all. At
no other time of the year would I consider it possible to cook the perfect
dinner, while attempting to place oranges in a tastefully artful way on my table
or create an extravaganza of a wreath to brighten up my door. But I usually
don't admit this until about the 19 of December when I’m screaming at my
teenagers, fighting with my husband and generally so exhausted that if
someone passed me a mince pie I would want to do unspeakable things to it.
It is ridiculous, and we don’t stop there do we, because not only do we load
ourselves down with all this, we try to do it better than others.
There is no such thing as the perfect Christmas whatever the adverts tell us,
our families may not see in the season in perfect harmony, we may not feel
great, let alone look gorgeous, and that is alright.
Mary was a young teenager who was expecting a baby, the town was
gossiping - did they really believe she had been visited by an angel? They
lived in a time of occupation, a violent time, crushed by the Romans, they
travelled miles on a donkey at nine months into her pregnancy to register in
Bethlehem and the baby started to come when they had no where to stay.
Jesus was born in the feeding trough. Christmas is not about perfection, it
never was.
“She gave birth to her firstborn son, wrapped him in strips of cloth and
laid him in a manger- there was no room for them to stay at the inn.”
Luke 2vs7
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