Repeat the Sounding Joy
by Tessa Meyer Santiago
The truth around which all songs have been written, the chorus for which this earth was made, the joy that echoes across the centuries: I know that my Redeemer lives.
Last Monday evening I sat in the Provo Tabernacle watching a miracle unfold: there on the stand, stood my five year old, along with 35 other five year olds. They looked almost angelic–one of those few times when the Hallmark version that runs idealistically in my brain matches real life: red velvet sailor dresses with white bobby socks and black Shirley temple shoes. Before them stood what I am sure is a heavenly import, an angel lent to earth for just this purpose: to teach, every Tuesday afternoon in the old Priesthood room of the Chillon reception center in Spanish Fork, my daughter Julia how to raise her voice in songs of praise.
In her real life, this angel’s name is Sueanne, but every Tuesday afternoon in the downstairs room of this old Mormon church converted into a wedding reception center, on little wooden benches, she teaches five year old children how to stand, to hold their breaths, to sign “Peace, peace, peace everlasting” and, most especially according to Julia, how to pronounce the “H” in the beginning of Hallelujah.
After weeks of practice, and a two hour rehearsal on Saturday morning, the moment has arrived. The angel raises her hands, at least sixty eyes are glued on her (the other ten are trying to find their families, watching their hands pull up their stockings, or just staring at the thousands of eyes that are staring back at them), and the music begins:
Have you heard the story of the baby boy, baby boy, baby boy?
Have you heard the story of the baby boy born in Bethlehem?
I see my child singing truths I have not taught her, and I am sure that if Julia could see me in the crowd she would see on my face a look I have seen so many times on my mother’s: a ramrod straight back as she tries to see me over the man in front of her, her chin and shoulders raised as if she has just taken a deep breath and will not breathe again until my song is over, and that smile–a combination of unearthly love shining from my mother’s eyes and a mouth that is both smiling and pursed in fear and joy for her child.
I used to watch for the moment when my mother would start crying. Sometimes, it was a slow leak from the very beginning, just seeing four of her children in the Primary program, with a fifth, barely teenaged daughter, leading the very small Primary choir in song. At other times, it would be a sudden flooding that turned her eyes very sparkly in the distance from the choir seats to the back row. (Normally, “Mother I love you, Mother I do, Father in Heaven has sent me to you-who” was a sure thing to get the floodgates going.) Tonight, in this pioneer Tabernacle, I watch my child sing of the manger and the cattle lowing, I hear her voice and see her hands wish me “love, love, love never ending and pure” and I delight and wonder at her earnestness. Then I hear her, and two hundred other children from this valley, rejoice, at the top of their voices (the concert choir blending the fervour of the Stars and CTRs):
Hallelujah: for the Lord God Omnipotent Reigneth
The Kingdom of this world
is become the kingdom of our Lord
and of his Christ;
And he shall reign for ever and ever.
King of Kings, and Lord of lords
Hallelujah
I burst– with pride, with joy, with overwhelming gratefulness that in my daughter’s mind and heart are these words of praise and rejoicing. I thrill that Julia, though only 5 little years old, knows a song that she can sing at the top of her voice at those moments when she feels the grace of God burst into her life: those moments of birth and discovery, of repentance and relief, those inexplicable moments of beauty and grace that surprise us like a hidden valley coming into view as we crest the hill. I thank God for angel women who teach other people’s children with love and joy holy strains of praise; I thank God for George Handel who defied convention, left the Old Testament, and wrote the Messiah, setting to music the central tenets of my Christian faith. I thank God for King George who stood on first hearing the Hallelujah chorus, moved, I would like to think, to rejoicing in the reign of the true King of kings. Because he stood, I too may stand and pay tribute with my whole body and soul to the Christ the Lord, the newborn King.
My soul is filled also with longing as I hear these sacred words. I want to be part of that joyful noise. I want to sing, no, to shout, surrounded by the armies of heaven “Glory to God, glory to God, Glory to God in the highest.” I think of Alma, who in the throes of repentance, was blessed with a vision of the glory of God. He wrote: “I saw God sitting upon his throne, surrounded with numberless concourses of angels, in the attitude of singing and praising their God; yea, and my soul did long to be there” (Alma 36:22).
I stood there in my silent, tear-filled, longing in that Tabernacle, and was filled suddenly with the sense of belonging. I realized, that although 2700 years separate us, I stand side by side with George Handel and Isaiah as we sing “For unto us a child is born, unto us a Son is given . . . and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.” Father Joseph and my soul stand together outside that small Swiss church on Christmas Eve. We hear “Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht,”echo for the first time through the air–words he had written for that particular Swiss night to remember a particular Bethlehem night. I sing with St. Francis of Assisi, and all his creatures, who, though six centuries gone from this earth, invites me: “lift up your voice and with us sing Alleluia . . . Oh praise him, Alleluia.”
I know my husband Kevin is inextricably bound to the Prophet Joseph in Liberty Jail. All I need do is look at his face as he tries to sing:
I had not pow’r to ask his name,
Where-to he went or whence he came;
Yet, there was something in his eye
That won my love; I knew not why.
. . .
Then in a moment to my view
The stranger started from disguise.
The tokens in his hands I knew;
The Saviour stood before my eyes. (Hymn #29)
As I see Kevin’s struggle to mouth these holy words, I know my husband’s soul has been irrevocably repositioned to stand beside the Prophet Joseph. I know Kevin knows. He and Joseph stand sentinels to the restored gospel: Joseph because he knelt in a grove of trees and heard the voice of God say “This is my Beloved Son.”; Kevin, because as a 19-year old, homesick and 1500 miles from Provo, he knelt in a pin-striped suit from Mr Mac in a corner of Carthage Jail and cried “Oh God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place” (D&C 121:1-2). He heard in reply, a message of mercy and of light, ” Fear not . . .I am Christ the Lord. Glad tidings of great joy I bring to you and all mankind.” So, these two men, although never having walked this earth together, stand shoulder to shoulder, defenders of this faith. And they will, I believe, hear the Saviour say, “Of me thou has not been ashamed. These deeds shall thy memorial be. Fear not, thou dids’t them unto me.”
I don’t believe though that this song belongs only to Kevin and Joseph. It belongs to all of us who have knelt in our own Liberty Jails and wondered where God was. I only thank James Montgomery for giving form to the universal longings of all our hearts. I give thanks to Parley Pratt, to Eliza R. Snow, to William Clayton–our special, Mormon songwriters who tell the story of the restored gospel. I give thanks to Bernard of Clairvaux, to Martin Luther, to Isaac Watts, and to Anonymous–fellow Christians and believers who left me words in which to clothe my longings, my sorrows and my joys. And I cast grateful glances to the pews, the pulpits and the walls of holy places who have listened to these words through the years, given them shelter and a steeple from which to ascend to heaven.
What could the Provo tabernacle walls tell us of praises sung to a Redeemer–through drought, through war, through depression, through blizzards and Indian skirmishes, or, and this may be the cruelest trial of all, through a sweltering July Stake conference in black crinoline from head to toe with three petticoats, whalebone corsets and a bonnet to boot. What echoes of faith in the face of injustice lie buried in the walls of Liberty Jail? Perhaps the walls of Julia’s practice room in that old church once absorbed the rumbling bass that comes only from behind the closed doors of the High Priest Group. Old, faithful, reverberating 1910 voices gruffly proclaiming:
O Babylon, O Babylon, we bid thee farewell
We’re going to the mountains of Ephraim to dwell (Hymn # 319).
Perhaps they remember all to vividly what it meant to bid farewell to Babylon, and gather to the mountains of the Salt Lake Valley. And a few voices fall silent, struggling to voice the words even as their spirit fills with the memory of death and the goodness of God. What could the waters of the Sweetwater in western Wyoming offer as testimony of faithful suffering as thirteen-year old Mary Goble buried her six-week old sister, who had been born on the trail and died “for want of nourishment.” On the banks of the last crossing of the Sweetwater, Mary sang:
And should we die before our journey’s through.
Happy day, all is well.
We then are free from toil and sorry too.
With the just we shall dwell.
But if our lives are spared again
To see the Saints their rest obtain,
Oh how we’ll make this chorus swell,
All is well, all is well. (Hymn #30)
I recently stood in a nondescript, orange-carpeted chapel somewhere in South Orem, clutching Sister Hortense Robinson’s white handkerchief as I sang “The Spirit of God like a fire is burning.” I am sure if somebody stood over the valley that Monday afternoon, they would have heard from every corner and clime–particularly one city block in American Fork–voices rejoicing “The visions and blessings of old are returning and angels are coming to visit the earth.” And if they stood far enough away and cocked their head just right, they would have heard from across the years, my 18-year old voice whispering those very words in the Sydney, Australia temple, and underneath us all, a descant 1846 melody as the Nauvoo pioneers offered to their God on the banks of the Mississippi River a temple they knew they would have to leave. My thirty-year old married with two children, “am-I-really-a-married with children?” voice joins with my teen voice of awakening wondering awe, and together with the pioneers and the armies of heaven, we shout “Hosanna, hosanna to God and the Lamb.”
We are not alone in our exultation. I am daily surrounded by nature’s carols to her king. Every field, flood, rock , rill and plain “tell the wonders of [their] eternal King” (D&C 128:23). When I look out my summer windows at double peonies, Oriental poppies, and scarlet Hawthorne trees, or lie in bed bathed in the midnight reflection of moonlight on snow, I know there is a God and a creator who loves. In the brilliant face of Sister Donna Petersen’s red hot pokers by the southwest corner of her house, I see a God of beauty and grace who wills that we should come to him. And in the gracious lines of Sister Allen’s impatiens and Jeanette Woolf’s willow tree, I hear a lullaby to the inhabitants of this earth from a loving parent who comforts us “Fear not, little flock . . . Be still and know that I am God.”
In addition to these constant choirs, this earth has sung special songs for an audience of one: Jesus Christ, her creator. She heralded his birth with the brilliance of new star; she mourned his death in a funeral dirge of pain, groaning from her bowels at the death of her creator–a song of darkness and sorrow. And she will sing a song of triumph when the great architect returns again to restore this earth to her former glory. Then “will the mountains shout for joy, and all the valleys cry aloud; and all the seas and dry lands tell the wonders of [their] Eternal king! And [the] rivers and brooks, and rills flow down with gladness. Let the woods and all the trees of the field praise the Lord; and ye solid rocks weep for joy! And let the sun, moon and stars sing together . . . [to] declare his name forever and ever” (D&C 128:23).
In the face of nature’s devotion, I examine my soul. What songs have I sung for my Saviour, for the sheer goodness and glory of his life? I would like to think that I was one of those angelic voices, the hosts of heaven, who filled the heavens above Bethlehem that holy night. (The timing’s right.) I know my voice couldn’t ever hope to match the brilliance of the “little stranger.” But I think, if there is such a thing as a heavenly ward choir, there would have been no auditions for that so important of all performances. All singers, trained voices or not, would have been welcome to sing at the top of their joy, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men” (Luke 2:14). And much like a Russian convert listening to a halting, but fervent testimony straight from Panguitch, UT, the shepherds in the fields were afraid. Not because they heard stories of a Joseph Smith, or voices from heaven, but because they were moved to fear and joy by the meaning of what they heard: “Joy to the world the Lord is come; Let earth receive her king! . . . No more will sin and sorrow grow, nor thorns infest the ground. He’ll come and make the blessings flow far as the curse was found”. Even though I probably stood at the back, along with every other member of my not-very-in-tune but oh so enthusiastic family, I know I would have sung with all my heart in that choir on that night above David’s city.
I hope also that I will sing in an angelic choir of triumph when Christ returns again to this earth, this time crowned the King, the immortal Messiah, the ruler of heaven and earth. In John’s vision of the last days, he sees Christ, surrounded by the elders and thousands and thousands of angels. As Christ takes the book from which we are all judged, those elders and angels, “ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands and thousands” (Rev.5:11), break into song, “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory and blessing . . . Blessing and honor, and glory and power, be unto him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb forever and ever.” Yes, I would like to be part of that angelic chorus, singing praises to the Lamb, for his goodness and mercy, for his kindness and love.
For now though, I am learning to sing a quieter song. A simple song, written just for me and engraved on the once-dark corners of my soul. I suppose others have their own songs with a peculiar melody only they can recognize; I have no way of knowing. I only know that I almost know the words to the song of redeeming love. I didn’t learn them in a choir, I don’t think there is a group practice session for this particular song. I did take courage once from Robert Keen who wrote “Fear not I am with thee, oh be not dismayed, For I am thy god and will still give thee aid “. But mostly, I practice on my own: believing, hoping, repenting. I raise a trembling voice in desperate pleas. And like a piano teacher who always plays the most difficult parts of a duet, the Saviour teaches me his melody of redeeming love.
The last lines to Silent Night, Holy Night go something like this: “Son of God loves pure light; Radiant beams from thy holy face, with the dawn of redeeming grace, Jesus Lord at thy birth, Jesus, Lord at thy birth.” And I respond: Yea, Lord I will greet thee, born this happy morning. I will raise my voice to greet your birth; I will mourn thy death; I will shout with glory when the trumpet sounds on that morn. But for now and always, I stand speechless, at thy resurrection. I am aghast at your agony in Gethsemane. Yet, in that silence, in that eternal silence of suffering and love, I sense the sublime: The truth around which all songs have been written, the chorus for which this earth was made, the joy that echoes across the centuries:
He lives all glory to his name,
He lives, my Saviour still the same,
Oh sweet the joy this sentence gives,
I know that my Redeemer lives.
2001 Meridian Magazine. All Rights Reserved.
