An Inclusive Nativity

This is my dream

Angels with Asperger’s flap their hands

The audience hang on the words of stammering staccato narrators

Gabriel’s port-wine stained face is radiant with joy

The troublesome Holy Couple lay their babe tenderly in the straw

And we feel As One.

nativity

I know I’m not going to be alone in the community of special needs parents who feel a little heartbroken during these last weeks of term.  The empty school tray at Christmas Post collection time.  The Christmas cards that perhaps can’t be written independently.

I can’t help but feel that the nativity play could be such an opportunity to model to our children than no-one needs to be marginalised.  After all, isn’t that what the humility of the stable points to?  Kings and shepherds, Gold and sheep.  All are welcome.

I’m writing while it’s still raw.  I left the school hall having watched my last ever nativity play tonight. Only that wasn’t the reason for the tears.

Little One was a sheep, slender bare feet peeping out from her black leggings.  They’d lost her sheep headband that she had made at school.  She hadn’t been able to tell us that we were supposed to make her another one at home.

She is positioned by the door, TA close to hand.  We strain to see her enjoying the songs she’s been singing in random lines over the dinner table or in the car.  Her moment… up onto the stage, we try to catch her eye.  The Year 1 sheep come to the front for a song, but the Year 2 sheep don’t join them.  She sits beautifully, arms crossed, back upright.  Glancing up at the stars above her, awaiting the cue.  She has a chance to ‘baa’, sitting dutifully with her shepherds.  Time for the next number, she leaves the stage.

There are parents of other sheep out there tonight.  Little One wasn’t the only sheep singled out to miss an opportunity to sing or dance on stage.  But in this last year she’s learned so much and is able to be part of a performance, to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with other children, to remember a few of the words.

It would have been so precious to us if she had been given the chance to “access the curriculum” in this – an area where she has strengths and abilities.  Love of music, intrinsic rhythm and the biggest smile you have ever seen on a sheep.

I’m keeping my dream.

 

 

 

 

 

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Patience, darling

If you’ve been journeying with me for a while, you may remember that one of my hopes for the gap year was to decorate the girls’ bedrooms

Wow, that was almost two years ago.  That’s the thing.  Sometimes you have to have a lot of patience to realise your hopes and dreams.  Guess what?  During March my consultancy work enabled me to pay a decorator to bring Eldest’s Ravenclaw themed bedroom to life (I really didn’t have the skills for a dark blue feature wall!)  Eldest and I sat at the kitchen table in April and made a decopatch Harry Potter lampshade inspired by this one from Sunshine Sings on Etsy.  She loved choosing her favourite quotes from the old copy which was falling apart, and it turned out pretty beautifully!

Harry potter lamp

Today I’ve been listening to Noah and the Whale in Little One’s room.  Sugar soap and sponge in hand, sandpaper for the woodwork.  I’m finally doing it!  I’m enjoying the metaphor of cleaning, smoothing down rough edges, creating a little friction in order for the new and the pretty to emerge.  She’s chosen a lollipop pink to go with her 1970’s inspired IKEA duvet cover which has brown, orange, yellow and pink birds and flowers. It’s going to be gorgeous and funky, just like her.

I’ll leave you with some thought-provoking lyrics from Noah and the Whale’s Life is Life

Well he used to be somebody
And now he’s someone else
Took apart his old life
Left it on the shelf
Sick of being someone
He did not admire
Took up all his old things
Set em all on fire

He’s gonna change
Gonna change his ways
Gonna change
Gonna change his ways

And it feels like his new life can start
And it feels like heaven

Left his house at midnight
Resolute and young
In search of something greater
Than the person he’d become
Threw his bags on to the back
Of his run down eighties car
Headed out to god knows where
The distance is too far

He’s gonna change
Gonna change his ways
Gonna change
Gonna change his ways

And it feels like his new life can start
And it feels like heaven
And it feels like his new life can start
And it feels like heaven

And it feels like his new life can start
And it feels like heaven
And it feels like his new life can start
And it feels like heaven

Dreams resurrected

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen.  For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

2 Corinthians 4:18

Yesterday I signed a form to become an employee of the NHS for the first time in 19 years. At the age of 23, my dreams were in tatters as I quit my job as a Speech & Language Therapist.  My mental health had deteriorated so badly that I had been off sick for two months and I knew I couldn’t go back.  I had only lasted nine months after qualification. All that work for my degree, all the striving towards the four A grades at A-level to get into Newcastle University – it felt utterly wasted.

During my time off sick, I took a retreat to Parcevall Hall in the Yorkshire Dales.  It was early Spring and the gentleness of nature soothed my soul.  I vented to God – this didn’t make sense.  What on earth was I going to do with my future?  I have the carefully scripted pages of my retreat journal in front of me today. It’s a plain red exercise book with lined pages faded to yellow, but it is one of my most treasured possessions.  During the retreat I kept coming back to the book With Open Hands by Henri Nouwen.  I began to realise that letting go of my career was an important step.  It was going to require radical trust.  I believe God spoke during that retreat and here is what I heard:

Allow me to meet your needs

Love, security, value, purpose, worth, significance, dependence

Nothing else will satisfy your longings – allow me, precious one

Allow me, dear child

snowdrop

As I drove away from the interview yesterday having been offered my bank post as a Peer Trainer, it felt like my dream of working to support people in their recovery is slowly coming back to life.  Like a snowdrop emerging from its dormancy, heralding the hope of Spring.

I didn’t know at 23 that I would go on to struggle with my mental health for another twenty years (and will probably continue to struggle).  I didn’t know that my dream of motherhood would be tested to its absolute limits through the haze of psychosis and the dark, relentless agony of depression.  I still don’t understand this path, but I know there is the capacity for immense beauty in it.  My daughters are pure joy in human form!  My husband has been utterly faithful to his vow to love me “in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health”.

I feel like I am allowed to dream again.  I am still learning to be dependent on God, but I get this feeling that he is smiling too at the beauty of a snowdrop.