Pop 89: Sore Afraid
By Madonna Hamel
Leaning against a display case of Christmas cakes in the frozen foods section of the Medicine Hat Superstore last week, I sighed and wept. Was it the voice of Bing Crosby promising he’ll be home for Christmas? Was it the thought of my brother struggling through the winter season alone? Was it the exhaustion of trying to be a solution to a problem that is beyond me? Was it the cake itself?
The more seasons we cycle through, the more memories and stories we gather in our heads and hearts. I am one of the fortunate ones; I have more wondrous tales than horror stories. Not that I haven’t suffered my share of shocks, accidents and indignities, but as a writer, I know that everything is fodder for the story mill. I’ve had enough examples of fortitude and lifelong learning in my life, enough seekers and survivors among friends and relations to glean that it is always better to turn crappy into happy than to dally in the dung.
But, whoah, has this year been tough. My brother’s stroke has stretched our faith to its limits. It has forced us to reassess our own lives. As sisters we ran to his side, then spelled each other off as he slowly grew into accepting the reality of his situation. I had just returned from my watch on his magical remote island when Bing Crosby broke my heart in the grocery store. And I wondered: how long do we all have? Where did the time go? And what a blow it is when the last vestiges of denial slip away, and there’s no more avoiding the truth: we’ve less time ahead of us than behind us.
Pulling into my drive as the snow begins to fall, I feel my shoulders drop. I have re-entered the Twinkle Zone that is the prairie at dusk. A peace surpassing my limited understanding overtakes me, and I gladly yield to it my fears.
After unpacking the last of my duffel bag, I pull out my Nativity scene which includes a hanging star with a wee disco motor inside that scatters stardust around the room and into the night. I light all the candles in the room, then play my mother’s favourite Christmas CDs: among them the standards that made up the Hamel Family Choir Christmas Songbook: Ding Dong Merrily on High, The Coventry Carol, The Huron Carol, Carol of the Bells, The Holly and the Ivy.
We were a singing family. Some of you may remember The Rhythm Pals from the Tommy Hunter Show; well, I liked to joke that we were The Rhythm Method Pals - a Catholic family big enough to form a choir. I also referred to us as The Big Trap Family, playing on the name of the famous Von Trapps.
Every Christmas we sang at midnight mass, conducted by our mother, Aurore. We performed at other occasions as well - funerals and weddings - but Christmas was the most wondrous, less a performance than an expression of bubbling joy. Standing at the front of a chapel crowded with families in boots and mitts and overcoats, huddled against the freezing Northern winds outside, eager to get home to a reveillon and presents, we sang our hearts out in three-part harmony.
At one point, mom would sing the words of Luke as put to music by Handel in The Messiah - her voice high and sweet and pure: “And lo, the Angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid.”
Usually, I wait for the first day of Advent to put my Messiah CD on perpetual play, but the growing dark and the family’s troubles calls for it now. The Messiah was never even meant for Christmas. An Enlightenment creation alluding to the passion of Jesus Christ - it debuted in Dublin in the mid-1700s. Handel developed a whole new approach to the oratorio genre by writing it in English and shifting the plot from the typical courtly and romantic scenarios of opera to deeper concerns. As Jonathan Keats writes in his book on the composition, The Messiah gave the chorus a voice that represented the “wider community” and sang “sacred narratives” wherein lay “the deeper question of how a community stands in relation to God.”
When I was a teen, mom would tune into the Singalong Messiah broadcast live every Christmas season from the Met in New York City. I recall one season singing with her, standing in front of the TV, the dog yapping in the kitchen at my brother and his friends, who were frying eggs in the kitchen after a football game in the snow. She cajoled them into joining in on the Hallelujah chorus. She had sheet music for everyone.
I’ve been to a few live Messiah’s over the years. And every year, according to tradition, we rise and sing that Hallelujah Chorus because, apparently, when George II first heard it, he was so moved he leapt to his feet, necessitating a standing ovation and affording full audience participation with the chorus. Now, alone in my room, I rise from my couch and bellow along.
I am one who rankles at the use of the Hallelujah chorus in tv ads, rendering Black Friday and Boxing Day sales holy events, sucking the mystery and reverence out of a piece of sacred music meant for rejoicing redemption after a long dark night of body and soul. The word “hallelujah” means praise be. It matters greatly to me where I direct praise and worship. And it ain’t at 60% off sales.
Somewhere, I have a copy of The Hamel Choir singing at midnight mass, recorded on a little cassette recorder by the church accompanist. Despite being “sore afraid” of becoming inconsolable upon listening to my mother sing, “fear not, I bring you tidings of great joy,” this year, I’ll dig it out and start singing along with her again.