Lessons and Carols 2.

So many services of Lessons and Carols. Last Saturday we sang in the Lutheran Church in Arnhem, an inner city church where quite a lot is done for the homeless, for refugees and for drug addicts. It is a big church and it was freezing cold inside, at least in the room where we had to robe, and in the corridors. The church wasn’t too bad, and they tried to warm us with hot coffee, nice rolls and fruit. The church is unusual with choir stalls in a semicircle against the back of the church. However, because there was a rather ugly stable in the process of construction, waiting for the ox and ass, Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus, the stalls were obscured and couldn’t be used, so we sat rather exposed on chairs in front of the congregation. There is a new organ, placed in the nave in front of the old organ which is still up on the gallery, lurking in the dark shadows. It looked a bit odd to me. Is it too expensive to remove the old organ? 

Arnhem, The new organ. You can just get a glimpse of the old one up on the gallery

Rheden last night was totally different. We sang in the old village church, warm and friendly. Our choir was only small, but we and the congregation really enjoyed the singing and the service. When I drove to Rheden, the moon rose above the horizon, a big, full moon, orange, as if there was a light shining inside, or a fire burning. At first I thought it was a hot air balloon as it was so large! It looked rather magical, especially over the river IJssel. After the service, later in the evening, the moon was higher in the sky and therefore smaller and no longer coloured orange, but exactly over the attractive church tower which was bathing in warm flood light. 

Above: the village church of Rheden, exterior and interior, and the nice organ front.

CAROL SERVICE, RHEDEN, 18^TH DECEMBER 2013, 8 P.M.

*          Once in Royal David's City             

            verse 1 solo, verse 2, 3, 4, 6 (descant)                                                

Bidding Prayer 

*          Adam lay ybounden – Howard Skempton (choir, CfCV 2)

*          Ding dong merrily        GCB 28 

First Lesson

*          Remember, O thou man – Thomas Ravenscroft (choir, AfC 170)

*          God rest you merry, gentlemen            GCB 29 + descant

            1 all, 2 choir, 3 men, 4 ladies, 5 all 

Second Lesson

*          Creator of the Stars of Night – Malcolm Archer (choir, AfC56) 

Third Lesson

*          O little town of Bethlehem       GCB 92 + descant Hopper 10 

Fourth lesson

*          There is no rose – Howard Skempton (choir, CfCV 192) 

Fifth Lesson

*          NEH 10 – Long ago, prophets knew             

*          Small wonder the star – Paul Edwards (choir) 

Sixth Lesson

*          See amid the winter’s snow     CfCV 150

            3 choir, 4 men, 5 ladies

*          My Lord has come – Will Todd (choir, CfCV 105) 

Seventh Lesson

*          The First Nowell          GCB 126 + descant, vs 1, 2, 3, 5, 6

*          In the bleak mid-winter – Harold Darke (choir) 

Eighth Lesson

*          We three kings                  

*          New Year Carol – John Rutter (CfCV 108) 

Ninth Lesson

*          O come all ye faithful              GCB 88 + descant Hopper 11

            vs 1, 2, 6 + descant, 7 + descant 

Prayers

Blessing 

*          Hark the Herald Angels sing    GCB 39 + Ledger descant

Butterfly

Lessons and Carols. A church overflowing with people, flowers and burning candles. A dark light. The choir robed and singing. All of a sudden there is this butterfly, dancing, pirouetting, distracting the clergy. It swings through the choir, the warmest and brightest part of the church, restless. All of a sudden it lands on my music which I am singing from. Snow in Winter.. covering the words. It spreads its beautiful wings. A peacock, I now see. Perfectly still it sits there through part of our anthem completely covering my music. Fortunately I know it quite well. But I can hardly sing. It seems such a miracle. Is it a sign from above or has it just been disturbed in its hibernation by the temperature in the church and the music? After some minutes it takes off, continuing its circular dance. It doesn’t land anywhere else, and I am sad to see it go. 

Assen and the Dead Sea Scrolls

In between all the singing, concerts and Advent services I took the train to Assen in Drenthe to see an exhibition of and about the Dead Sea Scrolls. It was a cold morning, with a freezing fog, which gradually dissolved into a slight haze, the sun trying hard to break through. At first the fields and rooftops of the houses we passed, were covered with a fine layer of hoar frost, which gave everything a wintery but also festive appearance. At this time of year the sun throws long and elongated shadows across the land, like caricatures. This morning the shadows of poplars and willows lining the many ditches and separate fields were not black or dark as usual, but white silhouettes painted on the green fields which had already been warmed by the sun.  It looked very peaceful and Christmassy.

Nowadays there is a direct train connection to Assen, which took me there in just under 2.5 hours. The train traverses the Flevopolder which is littered with rows and rows of modern windmills, today standing motionless, their three wings waiting in vain for a slight breeze. There was no wind whatsoever all day long, so the only thing those mills achieved was ruining the view and spoiling the landscape. With their extended arms they looked like a corps de ballet, frozen in the same position waiting for the music to begin.

In another part of the Flevopolder, a large piece of land reclaimed from the former Zuiderzee, it was clear that the man-made nature reserve, the Oostvaardersplassen,  is vastly overpopulated. Trying to warm themselves in the early morning sun were large herds of horses and deer, and not just one or two herds, but quite a lot in a very bare landscape. It could have been Russia or the prairies we were passing through, except for the temperature. Why we ever introduced them there, I don’t understand. It was meant to be a bird sanctuary. And now those animals are protected and there are just far too many. The land can’t feed them all, and they have killed off the trees looking for food. It looked as if a battle had taken place, like the woods near our house when I was a child. During the war all the trees had been used for fuel, and the former woods were a total wilderness. But fortunately they were replanted and they aren’t vandalised by herds of animals which surely never lived at this former bottom of the sea.

The former chapel of the nuns which is now part of the Museum 

In Assen it was cold, just above zero, but the bright sunshine made the centre look very attractive. The Museum is housed in a former nunnery, which since long has had various functions. The interior is worth a visit. This was the first time that I used the entrance of the newly built and very modern extension, partly hidden underground with an amazing garden on top forming steep hills. The main expositions are now in this modern extension. This time a few pages or scraps of the Dead Sea Scrolls were on view. I admire the way the (art) historians and other experts had managed to make this a very interesting exhibition. There was a lot of information about the history of the Middle East and of Palestine and Qumran where the scrolls were found in the 20^th century, everything so intricately linked to the history of the Jewish people. Nowadays exhibitions can be extremely interesting with the use of modern techniques: video’s on the main walls, re-enactments of battles, a clear timeline and information about all the peoples and rulers who had lived in and/or conquered that corner of the world. It was too much to take in in one visit, so for once I made an exception to my own imposed rule and bought the catalogue. The texts on the scraps of parchment, papyrus and leather were translated into Dutch and English. It is amazing to me that scholars have been able to decipher those remnants of scrolls, and pieced them together.

The three religions which all recognise Abraham as their forefather, were also represented: the Jewish faith, the Islam and Christianity. Texts which are similar in the Holy books of those three religions were quoted and juxtaposed. And there were interviews – on video – with modern believers of each of those three religions, all of them women representing three different stages in life. They explained what their faith meant to them in their daily lives.

There was another room where the techniques of writing were explained, of making vellum and parchment and papyrus, and even of making a copper scroll! Amazing that some of the texts on the pieces of scroll were still so clear that it seemed they were written only yesterday. Other letters had almost completely faded, apparently depending mainly on the type of ink used.

 The beautifully decorated entrance hall of the old part of the museum

 

A hall in the museum which was once used by the governors of Drenthe

Assen’s town centre was buzzing as people were shopping for December 5^th, St. Nicolas, the traditional day in Holland for giving presents. But after the sun set colouring the sky a deep red, it quickly grew dark and cold, so time to take the train back home.

Talking about meetings. Here too, and not only when travelling abroad, I had an interesting meeting. Two women whom I thought were about my age were sitting in the same compartment. During their conversation it became clear that they had both been students at Leiden University, the woman opposite having read the same subject as I had! She was also a member of one of the choirs of my organist friend and former organ teacher, wrote children’s stories which she said might be too naive for this day and age and modern children, and she hated golf! There was a rapport, although she thought I was at least 10 years younger than she was. Which wasn’t the case. Sometimes it is nice to be flattered. Time passes quickly when meeting interesting people. And so we were back at our destination before realising it. A day well-spent, topped up by “The Painted Veil”, for once a very interesting film on the TV. 

The first Sunday of Advent

The first Sunday of Advent, always a Sunday full of joy and expectation. I lit the first candle on my Advent wreath, bought at the Christmas Fair yesterday in our church. A Fair full of interesting things, crafts of a very high standard, homemade cakes and everything with cranberry: cranberry chutneys, cranberry jelly, cranberry granola etc. All beautifully packed in cute glass jars, very festive indeed. I couldn’t stay long for I had the privilege to be invited to sing at a very special service in The Hague of the Order of St. Lazarus. Which was a joy and a unique experience indeed. An investiture service, which was most interesting.

The Advent Procession with Lessons and Carols was inspiring and meaningful, as every year. I am a guest singer in that particular choir, so always a bit nervous as I do not attend the rehearsals on a regular basis.  But it is great to be included in this worship, even although I do not like processing into a dark church with a lit candle. There is the possibility of setting someone’s hair on fire or a choir robe, mundane thoughts during an Advent Carol Service. Once that part it over, I can give all of my attention to the music and the meaning of it all, the promise of the Christ child, a mystery.

Year after year we sing the same Introit, the Matin Responsory by Palestrina. And every time it moves me again. Standing at the back of the darkened church, hearing the cantor sing

 I look from afar and lo, I see the power of God coming, and a cloud covering the whole earth. Go ye out to meet Him and say

and the choir answering:

Tell us, art Thou he that should come to reign over Thy people Israel, ...

sends shivers down my spine. It has a beauty which is in such contrast with what we see around us at this time of year, materialism. As if Christmas is just a time for luxury, for presents, expensive and exotic food and party clothes. No, Christmas, the birth of this child, is a mystery, and it inspires us with hope. It gives meaning to our existence, and radiance.  That is particularly comforting at this dark time of year, when the nights are a lot longer than the hours of daylight. And so we light candles, to lighten not only our houses, but also to warm our hearts.

The Vesper Responsory almost at the end of the service never fails to move me either, both with its beautiful chant and its words:

Cantor:        Judah and Jerusalem, fear not, nor be dismayed

Choir:          Tomorrow go ye forth, and the Lord, He will be with you

Cantor:        Stand still and ye will see the salvation of the Lord

Here is our contribution to the service:

-Matin Responsory , followed by Come Thou Redeemer...

- Advent wreath prayer  

- O come, o come Emmanuel

- Advent Prose

- Remember, O Thou Man

Hymn NEH 15

- How lovely are the messengers  (Mendelssohn)

Hymn NEH 12

- There is no rose (Near)

Hymn NEH 7

- The Angel Gabriel

- Ave Maria - Archer

Hymn NEH 10

- Lo! He comes

- Creator of the stars of Night  

- Vesper Responsory

Hymn NEH 30 – O Come all ye faithful

Remembrance Day

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.

Remembrance Day and Remembrance Sunday.

Although yesterday in church we remembered the many men who died in the first and second World War, today it is really Remembrance Day, November 11^th.

In the small churchyard in our village there are just 17 war graves, of both Canadians, British soldiers and a Dutchman, a pilot, who had joined the RAF. Most of them were killed when their aircraft was shot down near the spot where they now lie buried. Although in the Netherlands we remember the dead on May 4^th, I am very glad that we also have a special ceremony in this 14^th century church and the surrounding churchyard near the graves of those young men. For young they were. For me it is always a very moving ceremony. The church organ is invariably played by the former mayor of this village, an amateur, whose performance touches me. A professional organist and choir master whom I know quite well, has written a special choral piece for the choir in this village to be sung on this occasion. They are getting better at it. The last post, flowers on the graves, and a salute by the veterans, fewer of those every year. It is emotional to see those veterans, who once were war heroes themselves and young. But they survived, unlike the young men buried here. They have grown old, and are leaning on canes, supported by friends or a family member, or sitting in a wheelchair or on a scooter. We do not recognize those heroes from times past. There is no glory for them. They have escaped the fate of those unfortunate pilots and fighters, but they have grown old, and age has indeed wearied them.

We put white flowers on the graves, and in the silence think of those and of all the others, of their sacrifice, the ultimate sacrifice.

It is also an emotional day for a private reason. My husband joined the RAF after the war, to work as an interpreter in Germany at the war tribunals. He interpreted from German into English and the other way round. Clever for one who had not been able to finish his highschool during the last two years of the war. Like many others in his position, he was given his diploma anyway. As he had listened in secret to the BBC during those war years, his English was quite good. And he must have had an ear for languages. Instead of having to go to Indonesia as a soldier, he served three years with the RAF in Germany. I found his RAF uniform and other paraphernalia in a wooden chest in the attic after his death, with lots of pictures of him in his uniform, a dashing figure driving an open jeep and riding a horse. He made many friends during his years of service, Irish, and British, whom he kept in contact with through the rest of his life. He would always, without exception, go to the Remembrance ceremony in this village. If I did not have to go to work, I would join him. The last time we went together, he was already very sick and drove his scooter into the church, which has a rather narrow passageway. He could no longer walk, nor drive a car as he had lost the use of his legs. Undaunted he just pushed on. I was very embarrassed when he couldn’t turn round in the church after the ceremony, and tried to manoeuvre this scooter backwards which was a disaster. Anyway, we got out. Before we went home he decided that he would chose the plot where he wanted to be laid to rest. There were a few empty plots available, and he sent me to find the caretaker so that he could make enquiries and if possible reserve a spot. An unusual request, as it could only be reserved after buying the rights to that plot. But my husband promised that he would pay on the first day of the new year, if he would still be among the living at that time, which he was determined to be. Tax wise it was more profitable to pay in the new year. The caretaker was a bit taken aback, but agreed and said he would reserve that plot for my husband. Around Christmas the caretaker phoned me and asked if the deal was still on, which I confirmed. But he did not have to wait till the new year. My husband died exactly on the last day of that same year. When I phoned the caretaker to tell him we needed that plot, he was upset and asked if my husband had deliberately died that day. A strange question, which shocked me. I paid in the new year!

Since that time I always go to this ceremony, to represent my husband who is no longer with us, and because my life too was saved by the Allies, the British and the Canadians. We - and I - owe them our freedom.

Today, Poppy Day, I stopped at this other grave, my husband’s. No poppies here, just brown and wet autumn leaves covering the grave and the name of his son who joined his father just two years later. My husband resting not far from those RAF members, no war hero but in a way strongly connected with the RAF which he had served as well as he could. And I was proud of him, of his fighting spirit, and sad because of all those things we could no longer share: the beauty of the changing seasons, the pleasures of exploring new countries, of travelling together. But thankful he had lived his life to the full, unlike those men we remembered today.

November 2nd, All Souls' Day

The day to remember the dead, those who have gone before us.

Today they remembered Prince Friso, the Dutch prince who died this summer after an accident 1,5 years earlier which left him in a coma. His funeral in August was a very quiet, private affair. But on this day the historic church in Delft where he also got married was packed with his friends, business friends and family. The beginning and the end of his married life in the same church, in the town where he went to university and where he lived for a few years. A perfect circle, although it feels that his death was terribly untimely, leaving a young family behind.

This evening I attended a special Requiem concert, in the church where my late husband and I were married. Although his remembrance service didn't take place in this church, he was buried in the small churchyard surrounding this 14^th century church, a church founded by Willibrord who landed in Katwijk, a fishing village on the North Sea coast, and walked along what used to be a branch of the river Rhine to our village where a church was built. That branch is now a canal. It is a historic spot, a place where generations have worshipped, had their new-born baptised, asked for a blessing on their marriage and buried their dead. (Interestingly this church which officially is called the Willibrord Church, is known as the Green Church due to the fact that at one time it was totally covered by ivy which has since been removed.)

This afternoon I removed the dead and soggy autumn leaves from my late husband's grave, a grave shared by his oldest son, so that their names were clearly visible again. It started raining, rain which only lasted as long as it took me to finish the job. In Italy relatives picnic on the graves of their dead on this particular day, but the weather here usually isn't appropriate for al fresco dining.

 Peter Sculthorpe, Requiem for Cello

The Requiem concert this evening was special. And very modern.

A Requiem for cello by Peter Sculthorpe was the framework, filled in by various pieces of requiem music, both old and modern. The cello parts were extremely difficult, and often very moving, but I did not know the piece and I think it takes time to appreciate Sculthorpe's  music, and to familiarise oneself with his compositions.

 Howells Requiem 2

The choir sang parts of Herbert Howells Requiem, as well as Versa est in luctum by Alonso Lobo, a 16^th century composer, followed by a very modern Miserere by Rudi Tas (*1957-), this last composition together with the cello.

Rudi Tas

The men sang a Gregorian lament, Libera me Domine, standing in a circle.

In spite of all this beautiful and clever music, I felt the strong urge to listen to some more traditional Requiem Masses, preferring Fauré and Dvorak. It is brave that this small choir dares to tackle this difficult and modern repertoire. But personally I found it hard to get into the mood of the evening, as I had to concentrate so much to understand the modern compositions.

It rained when I left the church. Symbolic for our tears, the tears we shed for the departed? If beloved relatives died years ago, is it really for them that we cry, or is it the awareness of our own mortality, of the near futility of our lives, the unimportance of our daily worries and struggles? We will be forgotten and who will remember us? But then there is the ethereal Lux Aeterna, the eternal light, which passes all understanding.

 Alonso Lobo, Versa est in Luctum

The Dutch Store, another meeting

I met him in the Dutch Store, which he founded when he came to Canada. It is a remarkable store, just an unattractive low building from the outside. It could be anything, a garage, a shed. Inside I find a Dutch world in miniature. In this part of Winnipeg where many Dutch immigrants live as well as Germans and Mennonites, this store is quite popular. To my surprise I see Dutch brands, "Bolletje beschuit", "ontbijtkoek", Dutch cheeses, and not only Gouda cheese which is exported to many countries, but also Dutch farm cheese, which is much nicer as far as taste and quality are concerned. There are chocolate letters which are given in December at St. Nicholas, unique for Holland, there are Delft blue products, tea towels, cheese slicers, Dutch coffee and cacao which is unsweetened, and much more.  The owner, Marten Posthumus, a Frisian from the Northern provinces of the Netherlands, has retired and his son, a true Canadian born in this country, has taken over the shop. I would like to meet his father, who has written a book about his youth in Friesland, as son of a poor labourer’s family. He has illustrated this with his own pen drawings, and that is the reason why I would like to meet him. I wonder if there are any similarities with my own father, who has also written a book about his youth as the son of a poor fisherman, an autobiography which he embellished with his own drawings and watercolours.

 pictures of a ghost town

 An abandoned old timer

The former general store

In the shop there is a marvellous book on display, the latest one by Marten Posthumus, a fat tome with drawings of ghost towns, barns, grain elevators and small towns in Manitoba and Saskatchewan, drawings of a past life that is quickly disappearing. In these black and white pen drawings he has captured this past, abandoned homesteads as in spite of hard labour the land did not yield enough to make a living. 

Badlands; Big Muddy River

I have just travelled with dear friends through this part of Saskatchewan and Manitoba, through the Badlands (556) and the wide open grasslands, where the winds blow freely across the treeless prairies. A land which seems too barren and wild to cultivate. A land with its own beauty of undulating grass in an ever changing pattern of pastel colours, with grasses turning orange in autumn.  When the sun slants through the grasslands, they look like burnished gold. In some places there is arable land, with ripe corn rippling in the wind.

Badlands

 Big Muddy River

 orange grasses and ranchland

Some of the old grain elevators are still in use, others abandoned like so many other buildings, the paint peeling, the place names fading. With the dismantling and disappearance of those old grain elevators, the small towns have vanished, the elevators being the heart of the towns, the reason for their existence. Grain is now stored in modern, much bigger and uglier elevators, and everything is done on a grander scale, so the towns are dying.

The book which is on display captures the sadness of lost dreams, mourning and honouring a vanishing past. It pays homage to the hardship of the settlers who tried to cultivate this land under difficult circumstances, battling with the forces of nature, the climate, the land, the barren winters and the heat and drought of summer, the wild animals. As everything was built of wood, in 50 years time there will be no trace left of those villages, as if they never were.

 Some old grain elevators

 an empty land

Part of the Dutch store has small tables and chairs and serves as a coffee shop and lunchroom. Apart from typically Dutch food, such as “kroketten” one can also buy soup, a BLT or a Rueben sandwich, which is American: pastrami and sauerkraut on bread. To my surprise the former owner of the shop, the author of the book on display, enters the shop. I am told he comes to the shop every day to meet people he has known for as long as his shop exists. We start talking and there is an immediate rapport. Posthumus reminds me so much of my father. He was widowed a few years ago but has this attitude which I recognize, thankfulness for every new day, a love of the natural world and an eye for beauty. He still draws and drives around to forgotten towns and homesteads with his sketchbook to record what he sees before it gets lost forever. Like my father, he admires the hand of the Creator in the wonders of nature. His background is Dutch Reformed, as is mine and my father’s. So there is this feeling of knowing each other, of finding a soul mate, in spite of the differences in age and living conditions. We talk about his book, and he tells me a book about Friesland is going to be published soon. He and his son have just come back from a visit to the Netherlands and Friesland, which he thinks it will be his last. I wonder how this shop will change after his death. His son was born in Canada, is Canadian. So as well as the homesteads, this remnant of a Dutch past, of the history of the Dutch immigrants and their culture, will also die.

I buy his book as a present for my friends, and he signs it for me. When I say goodbye to him, it is as if I say goodbye to my father.

It is one of the more memorable and meaningful meetings during this trip through Canada.

The Rocky Mountains from the air, and impressions from Vancouver

This September a dream came true, to cross the Rocky Mountains by train. I had travelled through that area two years earlier with dear friends, and the urge to see it from the train had become stronger than ever. My friends tried to convince me that I would see more from the road than from the train tracks, but I still wanted to experience how people travelled through that area in the 20^th century. There are not many passenger trains left, but instead there is the Rocky Mountaineer, a fancy tourist train which is of course more expensive than the usual train which still crosses the Rockies. But the tourist train only rides during the day and drops off its passengers in hotels for the night. So the most exciting and stunning parts of the mountains are seen in daylight.

 Just a view from the porthole window

 Above and below: Confluence of the Thomson and Fraser Rivers

 The Rocky Mountains seen just before landing in Vancouver

I flew to Vancouver, a city I had briefly seen earlier, and after a long flight still had a few hours left to do some sightseeing. Vancouver is beautifully situated on the water. It was a very warm and balmy day and evening, and although sleepwalking I enjoyed the view from the Vancouver lookout Tower and walking along the Waterfront. I had a meal there in an Irish pub cum restaurant, seeing the moon rise on the water like an enormous football. Then it was time to pick up some food before retiring to my luxury hotel, courtesy of the Rocky Mountaineer.

 Downtown Vancouver

 Two different views of the lookout Tower

Two views from the tower

Two views from the Waterfront

The moon rising over the Waterfront

Vancouver seemed like an Asian city, with more people from the Far East than Westerners. Also the majority of schoolchildren and students I saw seemed to be Asian. To my surprise the shops in the downtown area where I stayed carried expensive and exclusive fashion labels. But I was shocked to see so many beggars and homeless people in this seemingly affluent city. It seemed that two extremes exist side by side in this city.