And their words unto the end of the world. (Handel's Messiah)
In 1997 Radio New Zealand invited writers to send short stories based on the text of G.F. Handel's Messiah. Both Bart and I had often sung the choruses as members of Dunedin's Schola Cantorum (now City Choir Dunedin) and I submitted a story with the title of 'Their sound is gone out into all lands and their words unto the end of the world.' This was aired on Boxing Day 1997, and beautifully read by Kate Harcourt.
The story is about a Dutch woman (Juulke) who decides to visit her dying mother in Holland, and the extended stay waiting for the quiet ending of life. Flying back to New Zealand Juulke thinks about her mother's life, about the village where she was born with its legends, its history and the lonely graveside she has left behind. She remembers her own experiences as a young immigrant.
The story is probably too long to put out as a blog but I have thought a lot about the above words of the chorus and about the words we use when we face new challenges. Sometimes we are fortunate to share our fears with friends, sometimes we have to dig deep to rely on our own strength so that we can cope again, to find meaningful living at our own end of the world. Here is an excerpt from this story:
"She
thinks back to a Christmas story her mother told her years ago.
She thinks about the legend and its tale of love. Her stay in the
area of her birth has made this story alive again.
Think
back child, her mother had said when she sat on Juulke’s bed on a
cold Christmas Eve, telling her the story from the past about a girl
named Stella. Think back to the days when there was no electricity,
no running water, only wild morasses and forests around the small
huts in which people lived. There were the landlords but they were
a law unto their own, they had servants to do the work.
But there
was one family who were set as an example for the other villagers.
The father and mother went to church, the children attended school
and did their tasks in the house. Then one day the mother died and
however hard the father tried to keep his family together, he found
himself wanting. There was the washing, the scrubbing and the
cleaning, how could he do it all and work so hard on the land as
well? He found a woman to marry him who turned out to be a bad
stepmother for the children.
On Christmas Eve one of the
daughters escaped from her stepmother after she finished her duties
in the house. Stella had polished the furniture, washed the floors
and peeled the potatoes for the evening meal. She wandered over the
fields, far, far away, all the time dreaming about her real mother,
talking to her in the cool frosty air, her breath showing from her
mouth.
As she approached a mound in the clearing of the forest, she
heard the sound of Christmas bells ringing beneath the piece of
elevated soil covered with small bushes and trees. Stella could
hear her heart beating, when she heard a voice saying:
“Move on Stella, do not be afraid, we bring peace.”
Slowly
she moved forward until she stood in front of the mound.
Oh, but
then, she saw something she could not have imagined in her dreams.
Through the wide open door she saw a long table, decked with a
white damask cloth on which stood tall silver candelabras, their
candles flickering softly, gently in the quiet winter air.
Around the tables women danced, floating in white robes, a
pure and heavenly radiance around them.
With
their hands they invited her to enter and together they sat at the table with its pure white tablecloth and ate the most beautiful
meal she had ever tasted. There was tender white roasted pork, its
crackling glistening in the candlelight, there were the freshest of
green vegetables on gold dishes, the juiciest of bright orange
carrots, roasted chestnuts. They laughed together, the air was cold
outside but inside the mound it was warm, cheerful and merry.
When
it was time to go, the women gave her a silver candelabra with three
candles to light her on the way home. Stella walked carefully,
clutching the precious silver in her hands and hardly dared to
breathe for fear the flame would be extinguished. As she walked she
remembered the words of the women in white : you will find peace.
As
the plane moves through the still night, close to the silver stars,
close to the white moon, Juulke remembers her mother’s voice, all
those years ago when she was a child listening to the words of the
Christmas story. Even now her mother’s words are with her, unto
another end of the world.
She
thinks of the warm summer Christmas she will have. There will be
enough food on the table, the wonderful spring lamb with its mint
sauce, a decadent dessert. The Dutch Christmas cake with its golden
pastry and rich filling of ground almonds. She thinks of the
story she will tell her grandchildren at Christmas, a story from the
other end of the world about a girl finding silver and gold beneath a
plain looking mound and taking the treasure home.
Their sound is gone out into all lands and their
words unto the ends of the world.
She
thinks about the riches her mother gave her, the wealth of silver and
gold stored within her which she will take to her new home to
treasure and nourish. This will be a wealth created from inner
richness found in the darkness of death and loss, in the shadows and
in the light of Christmas."
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| Rowan berries, Autumn 2011 |
Warm wishes to you all for a blessed New Year.
