O come all ye exhausted,

I’m tired of perfection. Christmas presents with rosemary sprigs under the tree, renovations finished, and recipes followed to the tea. I quite enjoyed Meghan, the “not a princess” ‘s holiday special, but I won’t be drying sliced oranges any time soon. 

As we sing carols and remember the presents forgotten, one of the simplest acts of hospitality is to be present to those who gather around our table. Present to imperfection. Present to humanity.

To the uncle who drinks too much.

To the friend who forgets to acknowledge.

To the housemate who leaves towels on the bathroom floor.

A deep breath, acknowledgment of the ache, but a compassionate release will change the shadows of the Christmas tree this year.

My Mum has a tradition of making everyday gifts and putting them in a basket so people can choose something they love: crocheted cloths, soap, lip balms and biscuits. There is something about this basket that always makes me slow down at Christmas. More doesn’t equal better. The simplest things as I grow older become those things I cherish dearly.

This week I finished working for an organisation I love dearly. I knew it was time for something different. I really felt called to show up more in story circles, coaching and to serve those who want to write their story. As I finished on Wednesday, I was excited to spend time with my husband as the crays run after the last full moon of the year, but I ended up in the hospital.

“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me” 2 Cor 12:9

As I came out of the anaesthetic, I could hear myself sobbing. I just wanted my husband, and the thought of recovery across these weeks that mark the end of the year felt brutal. I tried to tie up the season of working with a beautiful velvet bow and step into my new era of business with a lightness of load.

But here I am today, with stitches, a visiting nurse each day and a major vulnerability hangover.

O come all ye exhausted, cynical and those who have failed.

I completed a Journal Therapy Coaching accreditation, and it is powerful what happens when we sit present in the stories full of tension in our lives, when we are honest. When we tell the truth. When we sit with these stories and allow them to reflect the insight only darkness can show.

Christmas is never perfect, and culturally today we seem to sanitise the beauty of what it means to be human. The loss of love is only counted when we have experienced what it is like to be loved. The frustration of pain can only be counterbalanced by what it means to be made whole. As we write our chapters, it is easy to forget that the tension in the messy middle is where deep marks of faithfulness are truly forged.

December 8th, for the last four years, has brought with it a deep longing for grief. It is the day I found my husband home early from work, and he whispered to me that his father had passed away. Knee deep in the confusion of the COVID pandemic, my husband left us in Australia to fly to New Zealand. The lingering insecurity of that season still brings with it an anxious sigh.

How have the last few years treated you?
Is cynicism sitting present in your throat as the carols in the shopping centre wane?

The thing I have found about my friend Jesus is that he sits with us in those places of confusion and the miry clay. In Psalm 40:2, David writes: “He brought me up also out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings”—this metaphor is my favourite when we think of the goings. He directs our comings and our goings. It emphasises the complete rescue and stability God provides.

Psalm 69:2 uses similar imagery: “I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me.” Again, it represents overwhelming distress and helplessness.

Symbolically, miry clay represents:

*Sin or circumstances that entangle and immobilise us

*Situations where you’re trapped and can’t escape by your own strength

*Spiritual or emotional distress that pulls you down

*The instability and danger of life apart from God’s intervention.

Often, life at this time of the year can feel like sinking clay—a never-ending stream of complex challenges and no-win situations. As we slow down and surrender the comings and goings to a God who cares, something profound happens as our perspective shifts. We hold onto things lighter, like the basket of simple everyday presents made from my mum’s heart and we move into a place of gratitude for very ordinary things.

Over the weekend, as I lay in the hospital, I was so grateful for the medical system in Australia. The simple things like being able to hold my husband’s hand when I was in pain, and friends who prayed for me as I underwent surgery.

This Christmas, I will be walking slowly, healing and remembering that Christ came to very simple circumstances to be present with us in the miry clay.

Please take 15 mins, grab a notebook and write. I believe healing lies within the in-between, thought and ink.

Question 1. The Gift of Imperfection

This Christmas, who in your life needs your presence more than your perfection? Write about someone you’ve been holding to unrealistic standards—perhaps yourself.

What would it look like to offer them (or yourself) a “compassionate release” instead?

Question 2. Your Miry Clay Moment

Reflect on a time this year when you felt stuck in the “miry clay”—trapped, overwhelmed, or unable to escape by your own strength. What were the circumstances?

Looking back now, can you see any moments where your feet were set on firmer ground, even if you didn’t recognise it at the time?

Question 3. The Basket of Simple Things

If you were to create your own version of my mum’s basket—filled with simple, everyday gifts that reflect what you truly cherish—what would be in it?

Write about the ordinary things that have brought you unexpected gratitude this year. Why do these simple things matter more as you grow older?

I’d love to help you learn to write your story with confidence, come and join me this January, it’s not too late.