When my first son was a toddler, he was always hungry. I have photos of him snacking everywhere. At the bus stop. In the park. In the line at the post office. Sitting on the steps of the primary school, waiting for his sister to emerge.
Whenever we left the house, I always made sure I brought food for my hungry little guy. He would watch me carefully as I packed our bag, insisting that I didn’t just bring one apple along. It always had to be two. One might feel like enough, but two was better. Because, as he would solemnly remind me, when you have two, then you can share.
Now Son Number Two is at the same stage—hungry, growing and wearing his big brother’s hand-me-downs. I pull bobbled sweaters down over his yellow head and fold up the cuffs on his jeans, finding myself forgetting and remembering all at once. So many moments to hold onto.
It is New Year’s now and we’ve just passed through the season of abundance. Despite the full-to-the-brim hand-me-down box, there seem to be so many new things for the children to wear, along with new piles of books to read, new games, new toys. We had to move furniture on Christmas Eve to make space for the youngest’s new play kitchen. The house feels full, and so do I. Contentedly so. It has been a happy season full of memory-making in our new house, jumbling new traditions and old patterns together. We counted our way towards Christmas with an Advent wreath on the table in the kitchen. We baked gingerbread, stollen and shortbread and delivered them round to the new neighbours, then baked more for ourselves.
I cooked a turkey for the first time. My parents spent Christmas with us, so we also had the full, exhausting and happy experience of three generations sharing the holidays together. My daughter, nine years old and singing in the choir. My father so proud, so delighted.
But the New Year brings, as it always must, a return to routine. Auld claes and porridge, as my Scottish mum would tell you, and that’s frugal January. My son asked why we tell the story of the wise men in January. I couldn’t give him a good answer without bending historical fact in favour of a nicely crowded manger scene, but when it comes to narrative sweep, I do like the timing. It fits. The last of the Christmas stories ends with gifts given and then a return home.
With the wise men, we begin to travel back to normal. But it isn’t quite normal, is it? Because at the far end of their road, they came face-to-face not with the king they sought but with God incarnate in the Christ-child, surprising, confronting, inviting. The promise of salvation, born of the seed of David.
“When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.”
Startled by God’s own abundance, they opened their treasure chests to celebrate the unexpected gift of the Christ-child among us. Then, wisely and warned, they chose to travel home by another road, avoiding Herod’s human trickery. I imagine them packing up their camel-saddlebags, their loads now lightened as their gifts had been given. What else might they carry home now? New maps to old places. Courage, I hope, because they might need it on that darkening road. Compassion, too, found at the sight of the vulnerable child and in the humble eyes of his mother Mary. And faith. I hope that these pilgrim princes would hold fast to a new sense of faith on their long journey into a new sense of normal.
This new year brings a different kind of new normal for me with this new column space. I’ve perched on these pages before with material from my weekly Record blog, the Messy Table, but I think this regular column is going to be a little different. On the Messy Table, I write about the practice of reading the lectionary and the messiness of faithful family living, with a few seasonal recipes and craft ideas thrown in from time to time. Here, I want to focus on stories. I want to write about the intersections between our ancient stories of faith and our daily lives today. I want this to be a place to share those stories—comforting, challenging, surprising. And I also want to share the small details of my life that have been illuminated by the stories of scripture. All these stories might be like apples, small, portable, with seeds hidden inside. And, as my son reminded me, very good for sharing.
