After yesterday's funeral, one of the mourners discovered she had lost her poppy and began to search for it.  Whilst I thought this was a bit excessive, it clearly mattered to her, and I was pleased when she found it.  She explained that each year she kept her poppy to put on the Christmas tree, recalling a young man from our village (to whom she was, presumably, related) who died in Iraq nearly three years ago: this year there would be three poppies.

A powerful, but quiet remembering.  Not overwrought or mawkish, just a red flower nestling amidst tinsel and fairylights as a relative remembers.  I was reminded of the words in Matthew's gospel as Mary received a gift of myrrh: 'a sword will pierce your heart also.' I imagined a shudder running through her young woman's body as new life and hope were already tinged with death and fear.

I am sure that the woman who rescued her lost poppy, and carefully smoothed its battered petals, will enjoy her Christmas celebrations; I am struck by the simple symbols of remembering that will prevent it being a denial of the realities of the broken world into which a Saviour is born.