Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gath’ring winter fuel
“Hither, page, and stand by me
If thou know’st it, telling
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?”
“Sire, he lives a good league hence
Underneath the mountain
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes’ fountain.”
“Bring me flesh and bring me wine
Bring me pine logs hither
Thou and I will see him dine
When we bear him thither.”
Page and monarch forth they went
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind’s wild lament
And the bitter weather….
I hope that all who
celebrate it passed a happy Christmas holiday yesterday. For some, the holiday
goes on, for today is Boxing Day. Falling on December 26, Boxing Day, also
called St. Stephens’s Day, is mostly a Commonwealth holiday. I became familiar
with it via my British Virgin Islands in-laws. On this day, it is said, the
poor received the contents of church poor boxes, collections for the poor, and
the servants of great houses, who often had to work on Christmas day, received
gift boxes from their masters.
While Christmas Day
is a solemn time for many, Boxing Day is often more raucously festive, filled
with home visiting, parties, horse races and other sporting events. My fondest
memory of Boxing Day was on a hot, sunny day in 2006 in Tortola, British Virgin
Islands when my family and I gathered at the home of my late beloved
father-in-law, Ta. When we arrived, inside the small house where Ta had been
born early in the last century were several members of his church who had come
to visit, laugh and pray with him. As his parlor was small, we stayed out on
the porch, overlooking the seemingly endless bay.
To accompany the talk
and prayers inside, we began singing Christmas carols and hymns. Some of the
church people inside joined in, their voices merging with ours through the
open, unscreened door that led from the porch to the darkened, windowless front
room where Ta sat, his face etched with joy. He spoke but little that day,
uncharacteristic for him. Ta, like Stephen for whom this day is also named, was
a man with an active tongue and wit.
Also like Stephen, Ta
was a man of grace, wisdom, courage, intelligence, and perhaps above all,
justice. Over his long and blessed life, Ta told many stories and jokes, and in
the jokes lay the truth, sometimes told straight, sometimes told sideways until
it could be told straight. Ta was a lion, of the breed about which abolitionist
Wendell Phillips wrote in a now famous letter to Frederick Douglass: “You remember the old fable of 'The Man and the Lion,' where the lion
complained that he should not be so misrepresented 'when the lions wrote
history.' I am glad the time has come when the 'lions write history.'”
The wind blew gently
and strongly that Boxing Day, and we sang on. From time to time we looked out
at the vast ocean beyond the bay, dreaming of truth, dreaming of history, and the dream was life
and life was the dream.
Happy
Boxing Day to one and all! Dream well.
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