Ad hoc

On the top of the bag was a pink quilt for a little girl.

Of course Alice wanted it. I explained that it was for another little girl, someone who needed it to keep her warm at night. 'What's her name?' Alice wanted to know. 'I don't know, but Jesus knows her name,' I replied, then said a quick prayer for the child who would receive it, there in the hallway as I dragged the bag in.

There are a couple of dog-eared children's bibles in our house, from when Harry was reading them every night with enthusiasm. (We've let it slide a bit since moving a sleeping sister in there.)  Not so with Alice. She's too tired and then there's her love of being contrary. If its something we want her to do, then she doesn't want to do it. It gets to me sometimes, that I struggle to have that quiet teaching time with her. But then I know she loves to do things for effect, like the 'I don't love you' game. (Her game, not mine.) She's even been saying it to Olaf the stuffed-toy- snowman to see if she can make him cry. So if she shouts through my prayers its not the end of the world, right?

Alice was my little pal on the latest refugee appeal. One day she came in the car with me to pick up some clothes, and chatted away. What was the name of the lady we were going to see and what were her children called? I don't know, I replied. 'Jesus knows their names', she said.

I got lost in the one way system in Limehouse. I always do. The satnav was not helping. 'I'll say a prayer for you, mummy.'

She loved asking me, ' what will the refugees say when they get the clothes?' 'Well, they'll say now we can stay warm. And they'll know someone was thinking about them and caring for them.'

'Yes. Jesus.'

She didn't miss a beat.

Lurking in the fruit aisle

I should be packing banana boxes. Or sleeping.

I'm going to get a reputation for lurking around the fruit and veg sections of supermarkets and hounding unsuspecting employees.* I saw a man carrying 4 banana boxes out of the shop and I nearly accosted him to find out what he was doing with those boxes and how he got that not-very-helpful supermarket to give him any and how come his boxes were so nice.** I had banana-box envy. Just call me the crazy banana box lady.

This week has been a bit overwhelming but in a good way. I've met so many strangers who turn up with clothes that they've carefully sorted, washed and packed, and they are so glad to have something practical to do. I had an email today from a man who wanted to donate £400-worth of nappies. I suggested perhaps half of that and a donation towards shipping. He agreed. I was at once astounded and encouraged by his generosity and a bit terrified about what £200-worth of nappies is going to look like. I'm guessing he doesn't just want to give money, although that is desperately needed. He wants to buy tons of nappies and drive them to my house.

And I'm glad. Because part of Samara's aim is to send practical aid that is also a message of love and support. I can feel it as I unpack and sort the donations. There is something very moving for me when I look at the photos of the banana boxes being taken to the people that need them. Will that box of clothes mean they are fed or find work tomorrow,  or next week or next month? No. But it does mean that in a world where people hate and rape and drive out and kill, others knit and shop and pack and drive and pray.


*Actually they are usually happy to help, and I am learning the names of all the staff in the local tesco.
**I wish I had spoken to him because he was very likely doing what I'm doing and if so I'm very glad.

www.samarasaidappeal.org