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.