LOVE YOUR PELVIC FLOOR????
Just been. To. St. Mary. Barnes. Dementia. Friendly. Carol Service. Staccato punctuation, because it's worth emphasis.
Cute kids, sheets and (tons of) tinsel? There's always a place for that. But ordinary becoming extraordinary's more my bag.
By the way; no-one drooled. Even if they had, who cares? Babeeee Jeeeesus wasn't toilet trained at birth; though sanitised femfresh faith, would have us think otherwise.
This was quite the opposite. Whole person, faith. Whole lives, including tears and fears, welcome. Smiling, WAS allowed, though. And there was plenty of it. "Brexit", wasn't mentioned once.
SHOCK REST ROOM REVELATION!
And guess WHAT? Many of the people I met, some of whom had dementia/alzheimers, could GO TO THE GENTS/LADIES BY THEMSELVES!
St Mary's church, Barnes, hosted. Supported by the lovely Dover House Singers (in appropriate Christmas jumpers); conducted by musical maestro, Carl Speck. Anyone who can corall a choir, a mixed ability congregation ( I refer to my own screeching/singing here), a rogue toddler, into some semblance of a Christmas celebration, deserves Lloyd Webber's Knighthood.
Bleak? No. Groundbreaking, yes.
My Mum had Parkinsons, and could still recognise 'In the Bleak Midwinter', (which we sang with tenderness), even in the illness's later stages. She liked the first and last verse:
"What can I give him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb. If I were a wise man, I would do my part, Yet what can I give him: give my heart."
Dementia or no, that's more than enough for the Godself, don't you think?