Immanuel

There's a family that I can't get out of my mind. A Yazidi refugee family who have taken refuge in an unfinished building in Iraq. Nine children including a baby. Bare floors and brick walls. Windows missing. I just can't imagine.

At the weekend, we decorated our Christmas tree, got out the nativity set and the Christmas story books. As I sat down to read with the children, I read 'Joseph made a warm place for Mary to rest' and I found myself saying 'I hope she was warm, her and the baby'. 

The truth is, the first Christmas looked more like a refugee camp than a cosy lit-up front room. It looked like masses of people on the move, with nowhere to stay. It looked like fleeing for your life when Herod sent out his murderous troops. 

I am not saying anything new or surprising, or anything that hasn't been written countless times since the refugee crisis. But I find that this truth does not get old, does not get stale. I need to hear it. I need to feel it.