Fantasy versus reality

Working from home certainly has its perks. One of the greatest, in my opinion, is the option to watch cheesy Christmas films as I tap away on my laptop. Needless to say, Christmas 24 has been on every day for the last month or so in the Tibbs household; I just can’t get enough of it.

Having watched most of the films now (some of them twice), I’m beginning to notice a certain pattern. At the start, a child is let down by his or her parents and/or Santa and grows up to be a grumpy, workaholic scrooge. He or she has no time for love or adventure and very often neglects his/her own kids as a result.

But just when you’re starting to give up all hope, some magical intervention occurs, Santa is proven to be real (as if we ever doubted it) and, more often than not, a happy-ever-after love story ensues.

I’m not knocking this formula; it works a treat. In fact, I can almost predict to the minute when I will be reduced to tears, the moments where I will have to watch through my fingers because the cringe factor is so high, and the moment when I will need to clear my throat for the final carol-singing scene.

But in many ways, this repeated narrative reflects real life. Many children are scarred by the actions of a parent or someone in authority who has hurt them or let them down. They carry this pain through their lives and into new relationships, eventually passing it onto their children.

Others embrace the idea of God during childhood, seeing Him as a magical, Santa-like being who gives us all the things we want and meets all of our needs. But by the time we reach double figures we have rejected Him because – like Santa – we feel we have outgrown Him… and that He isn’t all He’s cracked up to be anyway.

As we approach Christmas, I hope we’re all excited about the parties, presents and delicious food. But I also hope it’s a time where we can rebuild relationships that have broken down and spend quality time with the people we love.

My greatest hope, though, is that we can focus on the relationship we have with God. At this time of year we remember that He sent His only Son to earth to live among us, and ultimately to die in order to bring us back into relationship with Him. 

Unlike Santa, who only pops up once a year, God will walk with us every day of our lives if we are just prepared to take the first step. And, unlike Santa, if you ask Him to prove that He’s real, He’ll actually do it. 

He is the very epitome of happily ever after love without the Hollywood cheese factor.

Anyway, it’s almost time for Annie Claus is Coming to Town, so I’ll bid you adieu. Or perhaps Merry Christmas would be more appropriate!

Read more from Joy in the next issue of Liberti magazine - out soon!

Christmas on a camel

So Christmas in Egypt was a pretty strange experience.

The hotel was absolutely dripping in neon lights; it looked like we’d accidentally ended up in Vegas. Everywhere we turned there were Christmas trees or Santa in his sleigh, and banners wishing us Happy Christmas.

Don’t get me wrong, it was awesome waking up to beautiful sunshine every day and having zero washing up to do. There was even a special gala dinner held in a stunning marquee with enough food to feed an army.

But it still wasn’t Christmas – the 25^th could have been any other day of the year. I really missed going to church with my family, opening presents together, sitting down for a traditional dinner and falling asleep on the couch watching Christmas films.

But despite all this, something really great came out of my time in Egypt – I met a little boy who totally changed my life. I’m ashamed to admit this, but when I first saw the group he was with, I found them loud, brash and objectionable.

From the travelling community, I resented the way the children were left to run wild in dirty clothes while the parents got hammered. I even found myself tutting at the kids for their bad behaviour.

It wasn’t until I actually talked to this young chap that my eyes were opened. This five-year-old became my best friend in just a few days. He followed me everywhere, drew me countless pictures and, according to his mum, talked about me non-stop when I wasn’t there.

He was a clever, generous, curious little boy who simply longed for attention. We played cards, we learnt to count together and we talked for hours. I found myself looking for him wherever we went and I have missed him terribly since I got back.

But what surprised me the most was that this child’s mother turned out to be a born-again Christian. I had simply written off the whole group without noticing how different she was from the others. Rather than getting drunk with the adults, she spent most of her time sitting alone, struggling to keep an eye on her three kids.

And she was the one who brought up faith. She asked me what I was reading and if I had ever read the Bible. She then asked me some pretty challenging questions and asked me to pray with her and my new buddy by the pool.

This was a woman who has suffered years of domestic abuse. She clearly loves her children but just isn’t getting the support she needs. She seemed so grateful to have someone to talk to and to take an interest in her little boy.

She aroused in me a sense of righteous indignation: at the people in her life who were letting her down, and at myself for being such a snob. Most of all though, I felt grateful that, in the heart of a Muslim country, God had reached out to me through this woman and her son; that He had both challenged and blessed me at the same time.

I’m going to stay in touch with these two precious people and I hope that next time I’ll be slower to judge and quicker to show God’s love wherever I go and whoever I meet.

Happy New Year folks!