I know it is the day we remember to remember St. Stephen, the first Christian martyr (after Jesus and a million others of course) but we do as the liturgical calendar indicates. All I think of when I think of St. Stephen is the phrase about the newly fallen snow— “deep and crisp and even,” or even-Steven, from the carol “Good King Wenceslas”. The 1853 lyric was written by Anglican cleric and hymnwriter, John Mason Neale, who was interested in restoring Catholic saints’ days. And so he did. Later critics called his work “ponderous moral dogma.” Still, combined with the lively thirteenth century dance carol, the legend and Neale’s doggerel lasted. Here is how good this legendary King Wenceslas was to poor Otto who survived the cold by following in the king’s footsteps—literally:
"My liege," he said, "I cannot go on. The wind freezes my very blood. Pray you, let us return."
"Seems it so much?" asked the King. "Was not His journey from Heaven a wearier and a colder way than this ?"
Otto answered not.
"Follow me on still," said S. Wenceslaus. "Only tread in my footsteps, and you will proceed more easily."
The servant knew that his master spoke not at random. He carefully looked for the footsteps of the King: he set his own feet in the print of his lord's feet.
* * * *
BUT . . . I am not in a martyring saintly mood. And our New England snow-dusting is shallow, soggy and splotchy, unlike Wenceslas’s snow. I’m still wholeheartedly wrapped up in Christmas with all of its intrigue and Mystery and melody. I wanted to find an iconic animal for Christmas as the bunny is for Easter. My dear husband grinned and said, “The cattle are lowing.” The image of a mooing cow didn’t quite do it for me. I mean I spent many summers on a dairy farm and used to watch milking and udders. Cattle, my ass, I whispered to myself.
I sought something with more continuity, even doggedness, like a faithful companion for life, something more romantic but not gooey romantic or sentimentally sloppy. I thought of my beloved merry husband, but, you know how corny that is.
What? Wait, wait, don’t tell me. Yes! Cattle, my ass. That’s it!—my inspiration, hidden in my whispered sarcasm.
Here is an image of a faithful ass, a small donkey, well noted in the Christmas story and the Easter story. In ancient times, the ass was a cadillac. Who was it that hovered near the edge of the wee manger crib, making sure that the babe was safe from harm? And who was it that, coaxed along by Joseph with his walking stick, hauled the pregnant mother Mary over lonely sand dunes to escape from the cruel terrorism of King Herod’s antisemitism? And who again was it that offered his worn old dull dun shaggy coat to carry the adult Jesus into Jerusalem to face unjust accusers and eventually death by crucifixion?
It was the beloved ass who made the whole story portable, possible, and indelible. Why? Because I’ve been there. I’ve seen those sandy roads and hills. And because that’s what I try to do, too.
©LynBrakeman, 2021
