Thursday, December 4, 2014

York, 1947 A Bad Christmas

Christmas 1947 in York was one of my less enjoyable events.
From my earliest memories ( all 8 years of them) I had been a follower of Santa Claus.
He was the one who came down the chimney with his toy sack and, to stop him being scorched, my dad ceremoniously put out the fire the evening of his arrival. Also Santa was left his cookie and glass of milk which he always appreciated during his busy night shift.
He was the one who left gifts by our two feet tall imitation tree.
It was all so wonderful; that is until Pat Pitchfork, the precocious kid from Shirley Avenue, blew Santa's cover.
I recall the scorn in her voice when she said: " You don't really believe in Santa Claus do you?"
Well of course I did. Who else drank the milk and ate the cookie?
Without mercy she replied "That's just your Dad fooling you. There is no Santa Claus."
Ah, the brutal honesty of children. My new football boots that year helped me get over the trauma, but a lesson had been learned.
It was this. There is a difference between the verifiable and the believable.
Years later, when I placed my whole confidence in Jesus Christ, it was through BELIEVING  His written statements in the Bible. Fifty years of answered prayers and daily walking with Him have added VERIFICATION to that first step of faith.
Come and join me on the journey.

Merry Christmas.

Ian

Monday, December 1, 2014

Christmas 1945



Christmas1945. We were still on rationing after WW2.
Santa's sack was not as full in those days immediately after the war.
My mother, resourceful soul that she was, kept hens at the bottom of our garden, in the village of Acomb, near York.
These hens provided eggs and, as Christmas approached, were being fattened for the special day.
It was going to be a difficult moment when dad pulled their necks.
Mother had developed a relationship with the two chosen for our dinner table. She called them by name and reserved the best scraps for them. They responded by following mother in the garden and by putting on weight; lots of it.
On the Sunday before Christmas our family parlour time was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps on the path outside.
The moment passed but next morning the ghastly truth was revealed. Mother's hens had been stolen.
My mother was a good, church going lady, but this abduction took her beyond the limits of her grace. She took off round the neighbourhood following a scanty trail of feathers and breathing unchristian threats against the kidnapper of "Speckles" and    "Beauty". Fortunately for him he was never discovered.
A local farmer, hearing of the wicked deed provided a goose by way of replacement.
We all ate well that year, but for the subsequent ten years the fate of "Speckles" and " Beauty" was never a subject to be broached at our Christmas gathering.

Jubilate.

Ian