For those not Feeling It Yet, by Deborah Jenkins

Hands up if you are feeling a tiny bit overwhelmed. You know, by Christmas, and church stuff and job stuff and writing stuff and, well you know, LIFE?
If you haven't put your hand up (and there are years when I haven't. Well maybe one year a few decades ago when I was fourteen and had just been asked out by Andrew Weaver. Wonder what he's doing now...), then I am genuinely happy for you. Enjoy it while it lasts. It is God's gift to you. You don't need this post. Otherwise, read on...

I have been seeing a lot of posts recently about Advent light - the tiny flame of promise burning deep within the heart of the universe, bringing light into our darkness, joy into messy. And yes, of course, I know it's true. I believe it passionately with all my heart, and I know that light-promise will arise, like a shooting star, in places where I least expect it. It/He always does. But I want to be totally honest with you - I'm not feeling it right now. That starry eyed promise, that has filled me with joy and peace in past years has been partially eclipsed this year for a number of reasons. None of them life threatening, at least not imminently, but if I am not careful, they can combine to form an opaque sheet of gloom beyond which I cannot see. Even at Christmas.

So, to those of you who aren't feeling it either (the Advent joy thing) but know He is there and will rise like a star when you least expect it, this is for you. There will be glimpses in unexpected places. And in time the glimpses might melt together like one of those power-point effects where things wing around the screen a bit before settling into a clearer picture. I pray it's so, for us, dear writers and for all those we love this Christmas xx

Also, this poem by my old friend, Paul Harris, touches me every year and is somehow a light bringer, because of the honesty, the vulnerability, the sense of 'Come on Guys, at the end of the day, we're all in it together'...

Two adults and a dog put up Christmas Decorations

A step ladder dominates the room, legs splayed like a dancer,
a Singing Elf scares the dog
who growls at a hideous robin glued to a glittery log.
Chris is driving home for Christmas, Bing is dreaming, Aled flying.

Everything is here, treasure trove, rescued from the loft,
stowed, while it snowed in March and sweltered through June,
parental treasure, artefacts, ghosts of Christmas past.
Il Divo harmonize, Old Blue Eyes croons.

Childish gifts from sons and their kids a generation later;
garish cards, misshapen reindeer covered in crepe paper,
cotton wool on Santa’s face, all in their allotted place.
So this is Christmas, peace on earth, joy and mirth.

Everything is here, echoes of children flown the nest.
The dog watches quizzically as they hold each other tight,
tears flow, the annual bitter-sweet advent ritual,
It’ll be lonely this Christmas without you to hold

They laugh at themselves, wipe their eyes, don silly hats,
there will be stoic laughter and fun,
and rueful acceptance they are getting old.

PCH Bournemouth December 2016

With permission

Click on the link to see the novella on amazon
Deborah Jenkins is a freelance writer and school teacher, who has written articles, text books, devotional notes and short stories. She also writes regularly for the TES. She has completed a novella, The Evenness of Things, available as an Amazon e-book and is currently working on a full length novel. Deborah loves hats, trees and small children. After years overseas with her family, who are now grown up, she lives in East Sussex with her husband, a Baptist minister, and a cat called Oliver.