To Cyclezine and Jesus

Paddy is driving us to my parents’ house where we’ll join our Christmas bubble for Christmas dinner, and every so often the sound effects of a Minecraft sword come drifting in, or ‘swooshing’ in from the backseat where Reuben is dressed as a red Ninja. Paddy’s offensively red jumper clashes with his strawberry-blonde-but-still-definitely-ginger hair and I have a heat pack positioned between my shoulder blades where I did something bizarre in my sleep, thanks to my friend the ‘relaxin hormone’, which is currently cursing through my pregnant body. Every other year I’ve done this drive by myself and while those years were no less joyful, I’m whispering a little thanks to the Lord. Not because I don’t have to drive, but because Paddy Smyth is my husband.  

Don’t be fooled by this super festive picture, however. Please know that I spent this week crying in Tescos (and being told off by Paddy for swearing too many times), listening to 3 different women in 3 different homes grieving their husbands on their 2nd, 3rd, and 12th Christmases alone, listening to others in retirement housing who won’t have visitors and are feeling lonelier than ever. Oh, and hitting a big old wall of sickness, pain, and exhaustion. You know when your eyes are burning, your words aren’t coming out in the right order and you can sleep sitting up straight? Yep, that’s the one. Despite everything basically being cancelled this year, somehow our family has still been frazzled by the festivities, which climaxed in the biggest bedtime squabble last night. I did NOT spend this week creating Christmas Magic. 

And yet, today has given me every little bit of hope that I need. Not because this morning has been perfect  - I ruined all chance of that when I produced the tripod for a family photo. But because this hope runs deeper than Christmas magic ever could. 

The little wriggles in my belly mean there is still new life in 2020. My first Christmas Eve where I wasn’t alone for present duty means the story is still being written. The sound of Reuben calling ‘daddy’ through the new walkie talkies means there is joy after pain. The fact that the baby in a manger is now seated on His throne means I have the life-changing, world-changing, eternity-changing hope that God keeps his promises. He came for the frazzled, the squabblers, the hurting, the lost. He came for the ‘picture perfect Christmas’ kind of family and He came for the ‘is this day over yet?’ kind of family. And He promises to come again. In the second coming, the hurtful holidays will be made whole. 

So here’s to Jesus, to a more emotionally stable week ahead, to my boys and baby, to cyclezine (if you know you know), and to cheese on everything. 

Reb x