$*&%@?#!!! whispered Allie as she sank down on to the floor. ‘What a mess. Oh Lord, what a complete and utter mess.’

It was Christmas Eve, and a sudden dip in temperature had brought the snow, longed for by some, dreaded by Allie. Not that she wasn’t a romantic at heart – snowy landscapes, trees with heavy-laden boughs were fine for Christmas cards, and to be viewed from the comfort of a warm and cosy living room.

The reality was snow turned to dirty brown mush, and a pair of old boots with holes in the heels. The reality was trudging home from the supermarket on Christmas Eve with more than one sideways glance at shoppers piling their goodies into car boots as she began the long walk home.

Reality was Derek back in the workshop on Boxing Day, and not home now at six pm...not expected for at least another two hours. Derek swimming against the tide of mass production, trying to keep his carpentry business afloat, and here she was – sat amidst the fruits of his labour on the kitchen floor.

Allie stood up slowly, picking a pattern of jam and eggshell from her duffel coat. As she shrugged it off, she looked down at her swollen belly, cupping it in her hands, caressing the new life that stirred within. ‘Oh Junior’, she sighed, so convinced that her child was a boy. ‘What a silly sausage of a Mum you’ve got!’

Two hours, one clean floor and a crackling fire later, Allie was in the kitchen again, preparing for the next day’s festive dinner. Chicken had always been Derek’s favourite, and this one was free-range, corn-fed – a golden yellow. As she inhaled the scent of sage and onion, she thought of Derek, still in his workshop. Closing her eyes, she could see him lovingly caressing the reclaimed oak, watching it shape into a beautifully crafted table – a specially commissioned piece, with intricately carved vines leaves winding around the legs. She could smell the wood shavings, the paraffin from Nan’s old oil heater, the cloying yet comforting scent of linseed oil and varnish. She sighed as she covered the prepared bird with foil. One specially commissioned piece would not keep the soon-to-be-three of them for long, and she thanked God for the multitude of less artistic repairs which Derek laboured over.

Allie began to speak, this time not to her un-born child, but to her Heavenly Father. ‘Oh Lord...today’s been so...so stressful! I know Derek has to work late, but I wish he was here. I know You’re here, but I feel so lonely sometimes.’ Her hands stilled, and she gazed out of the kitchen window at the unusually bright star which lit up the dark. ‘It’s almost the end of the year Lord...I wonder what the next one will bring. More struggle? More penny-pinching? Oh Father, you know I want to grow closer to You, to trust You more...I just feel constantly blown here and there by the wind of life, and sometimes it’s so...so cold!’

Tomorrow’s dinner prepared, tonight’s supper laid out and ready to eat, Allie went into the living room and sat by the coal fire, in the comfy, rather shabby brown arm chair – Nan’s chair – propping her feet up on the warm hearth. The glow from two candles on the sideboard illuminated a wooden Nativity scene. Mary, Joseph, wise men and shepherds, and a touchingly detailed Jesus, cradled in a tiny manger. Derek had worked on it in secret that first December of their marriage, four years ago – had laid it out on the same sideboard on Christmas Eve as she enjoyed a hot bath and a glass of spiced wine. She remembered the joy she felt as she came down and saw the Holy Family in miniature. The looks of surprise etched in wood on the faces of the shepherds a contrast to the solemn expressions of the wise men. The strong, protective Joseph, his arm around Mary’s shoulder, such a look of love captured in Mary’s smile, and the perfect and precious baby, placed just so, His eyes fixed on His Mother’s face. She remembered Derek’s arm softly rested on her shoulder in a mirroring of the scene, and the un-spoken-of, longed-for baby of the future.

‘I bet Mary didn’t drop the eggs and say $*&%@?#!!!’ mused Allie as she sat by the fire waiting for Derek to come home. ‘I bet she didn’t do half the things I do.’ She cradled her belly again. ‘Silly Allie,’ she murmured, ‘silly sausage of a Mummy’ and anticipating Derek’s key in the lock, she poured two glasses of spiced wine.

Allie woke early on Christmas morning. The air was still, the sky outside still dark. Allie pulled back the quilt, her feet groping the floor for her slippers, her arm reaching for her dressing gown. ‘You okay?’ Derek murmured, half asleep. ‘It’s not the baby, is it?’ ‘No, shhh,’ whispered Allie. ‘You go back to sleep.’ Quietly, Allie walked downstairs, opening the door to the living room. A few dying embers still glowed in the grate, and she added more kindling, then moving over to the sideboard to light the two candles, now almost burnt away.

As the candles began to first flicker, and hen glow, she looked again at the Holy family, her fingers touching the manger, tracing the delicate outline of the baby, the calm serenity of Mary, the...’What!’ she said aloud...’What’s happened to your nose!’ Picking up Mary, she saw that her nose had chipped away at the end, the flaw standing out in the shadows cast by the candles. Allie bent forward, and looked closer...Joseph had a finger missing, and this wise man...his crown was broken...and this, this shepherd’s crook...and, and a sheep with one ear! Only the infant Jesus, only the Lord Jesus remained perfect, the only perfect babe, cradled in a manger.

‘Oh Lord!’ Allie laughed, ‘this is not the perfect Holy Family. This is a flawed, human family, just like us. Poor, scared, no where to go but a stable. A family not only overwhelmed by the gift of a new life, but with the knowledge that their baby was really a King. The Son of God. As Allie caressed the baby’s smooth, wooden cheek, she knew that although she was weak, He was strong, and her...their future was in His hands. As she bent down to blow out the candles, she felt a sharp pain in her lower belly, and a warm wetness on her inner thigh, and knew that the gift of new life – another life, had come.

Story by Cath E. Vyse