Faith Matters: As Winston Churchill once said, 'Don't let a good crisis go to waste'
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A COUPLE of days prior to these difficult times, I (as a redeemer of sad and broken statues) had been tasked to enhance and rehabilitate an entire nativity tableau.
Forward planning indeed, and meaningful occupation whilst the world is locked out of public buildings and I am redundant at home.
The characters in this narrative were discovered in the choir loft of Our Lady of Mount Carmel church, about to undergo major renovation in honour of its 150th anniversary. Although the eight figures had been cleverly stowed by loving hands, years of chilly annexation had not been kind.
My task was to rescue them, repair their wounds, learn their history and wait, as they say, for Christmas.
The Virgin Mary was first to be found, wrapped carefully in newspaper dated 1975, and stowed precariously on top of a sagging cardboard box.
Three more characters were excavated from the muddle of boxes in the wardrobe. These were extracted with great care - an old man with a tattered hat and humble gift; a wealthy character adorned with crown and golden belt, and a youthful shepherd cradling a sheep with no nose.
A pathway then had to be negotiated through the maze of organs, instruments and extra chairs, in order to reach the second of the two large wardrobes. Inside I found a veritable ark of plaster and fibreglass animals, including a damaged oxen, a donkey with neither ear nor tail, and five very grubby sheep.
On a shelf meant for hats, were three Infants of various sizes, in a box.
At the base of the first wardrobe was the bottom half of a box containing musty hymn books. Within, I discovered a small plastic bag containing the missing piece of the poor man’s hat and two pieces which made up the broken nose of the shepherd’s lamb.
The poor man’s thumb bears an ancient prosthetic joint made from bluetac, hardened by years of holding his gift.
My third visit had a specific purpose. To find Joseph. This, in fact, was the very feast day of St Joseph. It was also the day of our penultimate celebration, before the Bishops of Scotland declared no more public services until a safe way forward was found through the pandemic.
A historic occasion indeed.
Joseph appeared intact until his left hand fell off during the steep descent from the choir loft. He had been tucked under my arm. I was relieved of this burden by the parish priest, as in my other hand was a parcel of sheep, with the Angel Gabriel perched on top.
Back in my workshop I assess the damage and try to decide where to begin.
Remaining in the choir loft until my next visit are the donkey with no tail and the oxen. The probability of this being any time soon is not negotiable. I am with the majority - at home.
Then, as a nation we are officially locked in.
It was Winston Churchill who said we should never let a good crisis go to waste, and so, in anticipation of a long isolation, I begin in earnest to prepare for Christmas by repairing the nose of the lamb in the arms of the shepherd.
Time passed, through Easter, Pentecost and beyond. Several more characters, including the Herald Angel, have been unearthed, and are deposited, socially distanced, on my doorstep, by the parish priest.
I have no room left in my tiny house, and so these unexpected arrivals are arranged on the stairs.
They are damp, chipped, and adorned with poster and lead paint, over which there appears on some, to be a liberal coating of dark brown polyurethane varnish.
It would seem by their appearance, that the status of their tenancy in the choir loft may have become somewhat permanent, and leans heavily towards the current insecurity of our own fate.
Excavated with care, they have found sanctuary, not in a stable in occupied Bethlehem, but in my domestic workshop, where it is warm, bright, safe and affording no threat.
Underneath the cosmetic exterior, their history shows through as wounds and battle scars, not from their brief seasonal appearances round the crib, but rather more from years of movement and handling, storage and hasty repairs.
One less philosophical aspect of this idea is the fact that, whilst trying to replicate the existing colours, my hitherto well-stocked paint store is substantially insufficient for the eight figures awaiting cosmetic makeovers.
And so the dilemma. Relative luxuries such as decorating materials, are almost impossible to source in these troubled times, so decisions have to be made.
Live among your dreams for a while, a good friend once told me, and ideas will evolve.
And evolve they have, in all states of unpainting, repairing and regrouping around the Virgin and her missing Child.
And so their onward story continues.
In a local emporium in my small harbour town, I find paint. The only choice is white. So white will be my starting point.
Purity in texture, contour, shadow and shape.
The world continues to wonder where we will be at Christmas.
How old do you have to be before you can repair statues, the grandchildren ask. Why not get new ones. They sell them in the garden centre!
It’s a challenge, I tell them. Like reconstructive surgery. With these words in mind, I set to the task of making a small baby to complete the tableau, out of an altar candle.
This has been a nine-month nativity exercise. And as we move cautiously into Advent, the figures will return to the sanctuary in Sandyhill Road to make their debut.
- Tina Harris is with Our Lady of Mount Carmel, Banff.
