Brothers of St Alcuins getting bewildered about nativity sets

 I met Maria here on Kindred of the Quiet Way. I find it so interesting to watch the delicate (but strong) mycelium of interaction that has grown across the spaces that divide us — the connective gift of the world wide web.

Maria lives in Russia and I live in England, but unexpectedly here she was in my life. And now we are friends. It's the same as me and the community at St Alcuins: I just materialised in their life, and they in mine.

And today Maria sent her greetings to me and to all of us here, for the Christmas season. She said: I would like to wish the brothers of the monastery and everyone here a Merry Christmas. I hope they are celebrating it cheerfully and that they have a creche. That they have learnt and sung many Christmas hymns I do not doubt at all. And that Conradus has made them lots of goodies too. 

So rejoice, and I'll remember reading the first chapter standing at a bus stop in the morning exactly one year ago. It was snowing and it was uncomfortable to read, but little things like that don't stop me :)

So I am passing that on to you, but of course I also took it to show Abbot John in the abbey of St Alcuins. He was in his atelier when I showed up, sitting talking with Father William. Brother Thomas was sweeping the room; it gets more dusty at this time of year, because ash drifts from the hearth. 

I thought I might be interrupting, but all three of them seemed pleased to see me. I took Maria’s message, and Abbot John read it out. When he’d finished reading it to us, he paused. He read it through just silently to himself again. He looked puzzled. 

The others wait for the abbot to speak, you know, in such circumstances. They were watching him, Brother Thomas standing leaning on the broom, and Father William kind of draped in the chair, in that kind of informal and graceful way that belongs to him. After a moment Abbot John looks at me.

“Please do thank her,” he says. “We certainly have sung a lot this last month. It’s been beautiful of course but somewhat . . . well . . . to say relentless might be ungracious. Let’s just stick with beautiful. And yes, Conradus has elevated our kitchens into a blur of activity, generating gingerbread and mulled ale and roast birds and I don’t know what else. We have not been hungry. 

“The feast of the Incarnation is special to us. It’s a hearth of hope where we gather and renew our vision and our sense of purpose. Yes, she’s absolutely right; it’s cheerful, and we feel that. It draws us together. But what . . . little Ghost, do you know why . . . can you illuminate . . . I mean . . . look — here — she says she hopes we have a crèche. Er . . . for . . . ? I mean, she knows this is a monastery, right?”

Now, Father William doesn’t often laugh outright, but he did then. “Oh, God, John,” he says then. “She’s not hoping we have a nursery set up for our numerous offspring — she means a manger — a crib for the bambino, the Christ child. Is that right, little Ghost? Is that what they have in your time, in how the world is for you? That thing Francis had here in our stable, a depiction of the coming of Jesus — like that, yes? Or a depiction of the nativity maybe — the holy family — carved figures like they have in Italy?”

Brother Thomas resumes his sweeping, mainly to disguise to some extent that he also finds this funny but he’s seen that his abbot now feels embarrassed. And Father John says, “Oh. Oh, I see. A crèche — yes of course. No, we don’t. Is that what you have, little Ghost?”

I tell them that I don’t personally have one, because I try not to own too many things — where would I keep them? My room is small. But I do have a figurine of Mother Mary holding the baby Jesus, and in our family room we have an icon of the Nativity that our Hebe made. 

And yes, in our church there is a crèche — a set of nativity figures in a stable. More than one, in fact.

Father William is oddly skilled at helping his abbot restore a sense of dignity on those occasions when his superior thinks he’s been unwontedly stupid. I enjoy watching William redirect the conversation, asking me if we have had snow yet (no, we haven’t), and if we have a special Christmas meal in our household. I explain that no we don’t — we used to, but none of us likes making big feasts and there’s not a lot of storage space, so we just keep things simple and normal, and make it special by spending time together, and going to church.

And today, I tell them, we have swapped out our icon of King Edward the Confessor  that our Alice made, for the one (also made by Alice) of St Thomas Becket, because it is his feast today — December 29th. I promise I will try to bring it to show them. 

“Thank you,” says Abbot John. “Look — little Ghost — please just tell your friend Maria that although we don’t have a  . . . er . . . a crèche . . . here . . . I think it is a lovely idea, and maybe we will one day.”

“My lord abbot,” says Father William: “may I add . . .?”

“Yes, of course,” says John: “whatever you like.”

“Well, will you tell Maria,” says William, “that she is in my prayers. I think she does not always find life easy. Just say . . . I have prayed for her.”