Jesus our brother, kind and good
was humbly born in a stable rude
and the friendly beasts around Him stood.
Jesus our brother, kind and good.
I, said the donkey, all shaggy and brown
I carried His mother uphill and down.
I carried His mother to Bethlehem town.
I, said the donkey, all shaggy and brown.
I, said the cow, all white and red
I gave Him my manger for his bed.
I gave Him my hay to pillow his head.
I, said the cow, all white and red.
I, said the sheep with the curly horn
I gave Him my wool for a blanket warm.
He wore my coat on Christmas morn -
I, said the sheep with the curly horn.
I, said the dove, in the rafters high
I cooed Him to sleep, that He might not cry.
We sang Him to sleep, my mate and I
I, said the dove, in the rafters high.
Thus every beast, by some good spell
In the stable rude was glad to tell
Of the gift he gave Emmanuel -
the gift he gave Emmanuel.
--- The Friendly Beasts, 12th century traditional French/English Christmas carol
Thanksgiving Day is my family's big reunion holiday now, and I am having a subdued, understated, rather uninspired Christmas. Several people have told me they feel the same way - that they have had a hard time getting into the spirit of the season, or that this was the least Christmas-y they have ever felt, or that they are concentrating on making it meaningful for their children. Schapelle Corby is spending her fifth Christmas in a foreign jail cell for a crime she did not commit and says the day means little to her any more - she just wants to be home. With her whole life ( and her family's ) under the microscope of a sensationalist press, it is this sort of refreshing honesty that both shows her strength and continues to endear her to her supporters. From the beginning of her ordeal she has refused to be put on a pedestal or a poster and has defiantly been herself - when she feels frightened, or feels bitter, or feels nothing, she says so. With all the carols I've heard this year I recall one in particular, one I first associated with Schapelle in Christmas 2005 and which has haunted me off and on ever since. Lyrics above - sorry no audio link - I like Peter Paul and Mary's version so much better than any I could find on youtube that I prefer not to post an inferior recording - but other versions are available on YT if you do not know the tune. The song to me has a melancholy air that was likely not intended by the original writer, who probably considered it reverent or restful. Its twin themes - that the proper spirit of giving considers all our gifts to others as offered unto the Lord, and that God accepts the gifts we are able uniquely to give, however humble - match the true meaning of Christmas and resonate with many other carols. I do remember the song vaguely from my own 12th century childhood, though exactly why I came to associate it with Schapelle, and with the joys and frustrations common to her supporters, I am not sure.
I, said the donkey all shaggy and brown / I carried his mother uphill and down... I have more admiration for Schapelle's mother Rosleigh, and Alan Hodgson's ( he is imprisoned in Ghana on a charge equally as ridiculous) mother Shirley, than for anyone else involved in either story. I cannot begin to imagine what it is like for them , any more than I can grasp how Mary felt at the first Christmas. Imagine being told the most incredible news, by an angel no less, and then getting an arbitrary notice from a bureaucratic government ( plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose) informing you that you are herewith ordered to report to your hometown for a census ( all the better to tax you with, my dear) and that transport and accomodations are your own problem. We understand now the divine humility in the circumstances of Christ's birth, but it cannot have made much sense to the people involved at the time. Almost the first thing the holy family had to do after arriving at Bethlehem was run away to Egypt, to avoid King Herod's no child left behind initiative. Rosleigh Rose has had to sit through numerous court appearances in which the judges ignored real evidence such as fingerprints and DNA testing for the origin of the drugs, and concentrated on side issues and gibberish. She has had to watch as her daughter was manhandled by the guards and mobbed by the press, and to have her own life invaded and investigated ad nauseum by journalists with their own agenda, who look into Schapelle's eyes and see dollar signs. She has kept an amazing dignity throughout, exhibiting what Chesterton called "the maternal watch which is as old as the world" and defiantly trumpeting Schapelle's obvious innocence to anyone who will listen. The most famous and touching photograph in the entire Corby saga shows Schapelle and Rosleigh cheek to cheek, shot right after the first verdict when Schapelle tried to comfort her mother as her own world fell apart, telling her everything was ok when so clearly it was not. We follow Schapelle's lead in thinking of her mother first, and all our efforts are offered to her.
I, said the cow all white and red/ I gave him my hay to pillow His head.... One of the worst aspects of Schapelle's ordeal has been trying to sleep in a cell with as many as 12 other women, amid the noise and the smells and the temperatures routinely over 100 degrees F. For a long time she was allowed no mattress and slept on a mat, reading her letters late into the night and dozing fitfully, clutching a battery powered fan. More recently she has become acclimated to the heat and ( as senior prisoner in her cell - which leads to another level of bitterness about the arbitrary nature of "justice" over there, but never mind) she was given the corner bed, and she has trained herself to sleep 9 hours a night when she wants to. Meanwhile her indifferent nation sleeps just fine, reclining on its overstuffed couch in front of "reality tv" while openly and derisively wondering "Why are there still articles about Schapelle? Why don't we hear more about [ celebrity-airhead-of-the-month] instead?"
I, said the sheep with the curly horn / I gave Him my wool to keep Him warm/ He wore my coat on Christmas morn... In the Shawshank Redemption, Red recalls that Andy Defresne strolled around the prison yard like a man in a park, "as if he had on an invisible coat that could shield him from this place" - we who love Schapelle have wished that for her from the beginning, trying to weave her such a coat with our love and our letters, our parcels and prayers. I remember a strange headline some time ago in the sensationalist press saying "Schapelle wants to be a mummy" - my American bias led me at first to a different interpretation than that intended by the genius who wrote it, who meant that she wanted to be a mother someday. In our colonial version of English we say mom, not mum, for mother and only children under six say mommy. In Americanese a mummy is something wrapped in bandages in an Egyptian tomb - and if Schapelle wanted to be one it must mean she wanted an insulating layer between her and her surroundings, wanted to simply hibernate until the nightmare is over. She cannot do that of course, nor can we - it is a constant uphill struggle, as if we were wandering through an overcast and trackless desert. The landscape is illuminated occasionally by the appearance of wonderful new supporters, seemingly out of nowhere - but there are no landmarks and no way to see the end of the journey. One of our most dedicated supporters said his Christmas wish this year was for three wise men - one each in Bali, Jakarta and Canberra [ the Australian capital ]. There is no way to know when this wish will be granted, but we keep on because Schapelle's stated greatest fear is that she might be forgotten, and each of us purposes quietly in his own heart that that will never happen, not on my watch.
I, said the dove in the rafters high / I cooed Him to sleep, that He might not cry... This is probably the line that for me connected the song to Schapelle. We supporters have spent countless lonely hours praying for her and crying for her, as if we could stop her tears with our own. In her book she tells the touching story of her earliest days in the holding cell at Polda, when other inmates in cells across the hall would hear her crying at night and sing to her to comfort her. More recently Tara Hack's song and video for Schapelle, beautiful in its simplicity, has brought tears and inspiration to her supporters like nothing else. "Welcome to Indonesia, where they're always glad to see ya, / and they show their appreciation / by giving you a permanent vacation / just ask Schapelle" ... that sort of blunt sarcasm sums it up nicely for her supporters, and Schapelle herself would not mind, as she was famously quoted in a moment of desperate humor as saying "this is the WORST vacation I have ever had!" She is less bitter than you would believe possible, saying merely that she loves her family, still loves Bali and its people, and prays for her fellow prisoners and guards.
was humbly born in a stable rude
and the friendly beasts around Him stood.
Jesus our brother, kind and good.
I, said the donkey, all shaggy and brown
I carried His mother uphill and down.
I carried His mother to Bethlehem town.
I, said the donkey, all shaggy and brown.
I, said the cow, all white and red
I gave Him my manger for his bed.
I gave Him my hay to pillow his head.
I, said the cow, all white and red.
I, said the sheep with the curly horn
I gave Him my wool for a blanket warm.
He wore my coat on Christmas morn -
I, said the sheep with the curly horn.
I, said the dove, in the rafters high
I cooed Him to sleep, that He might not cry.
We sang Him to sleep, my mate and I
I, said the dove, in the rafters high.
Thus every beast, by some good spell
In the stable rude was glad to tell
Of the gift he gave Emmanuel -
the gift he gave Emmanuel.
--- The Friendly Beasts, 12th century traditional French/English Christmas carol
Thanksgiving Day is my family's big reunion holiday now, and I am having a subdued, understated, rather uninspired Christmas. Several people have told me they feel the same way - that they have had a hard time getting into the spirit of the season, or that this was the least Christmas-y they have ever felt, or that they are concentrating on making it meaningful for their children. Schapelle Corby is spending her fifth Christmas in a foreign jail cell for a crime she did not commit and says the day means little to her any more - she just wants to be home. With her whole life ( and her family's ) under the microscope of a sensationalist press, it is this sort of refreshing honesty that both shows her strength and continues to endear her to her supporters. From the beginning of her ordeal she has refused to be put on a pedestal or a poster and has defiantly been herself - when she feels frightened, or feels bitter, or feels nothing, she says so. With all the carols I've heard this year I recall one in particular, one I first associated with Schapelle in Christmas 2005 and which has haunted me off and on ever since. Lyrics above - sorry no audio link - I like Peter Paul and Mary's version so much better than any I could find on youtube that I prefer not to post an inferior recording - but other versions are available on YT if you do not know the tune. The song to me has a melancholy air that was likely not intended by the original writer, who probably considered it reverent or restful. Its twin themes - that the proper spirit of giving considers all our gifts to others as offered unto the Lord, and that God accepts the gifts we are able uniquely to give, however humble - match the true meaning of Christmas and resonate with many other carols. I do remember the song vaguely from my own 12th century childhood, though exactly why I came to associate it with Schapelle, and with the joys and frustrations common to her supporters, I am not sure.
I, said the donkey all shaggy and brown / I carried his mother uphill and down... I have more admiration for Schapelle's mother Rosleigh, and Alan Hodgson's ( he is imprisoned in Ghana on a charge equally as ridiculous) mother Shirley, than for anyone else involved in either story. I cannot begin to imagine what it is like for them , any more than I can grasp how Mary felt at the first Christmas. Imagine being told the most incredible news, by an angel no less, and then getting an arbitrary notice from a bureaucratic government ( plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose) informing you that you are herewith ordered to report to your hometown for a census ( all the better to tax you with, my dear) and that transport and accomodations are your own problem. We understand now the divine humility in the circumstances of Christ's birth, but it cannot have made much sense to the people involved at the time. Almost the first thing the holy family had to do after arriving at Bethlehem was run away to Egypt, to avoid King Herod's no child left behind initiative. Rosleigh Rose has had to sit through numerous court appearances in which the judges ignored real evidence such as fingerprints and DNA testing for the origin of the drugs, and concentrated on side issues and gibberish. She has had to watch as her daughter was manhandled by the guards and mobbed by the press, and to have her own life invaded and investigated ad nauseum by journalists with their own agenda, who look into Schapelle's eyes and see dollar signs. She has kept an amazing dignity throughout, exhibiting what Chesterton called "the maternal watch which is as old as the world" and defiantly trumpeting Schapelle's obvious innocence to anyone who will listen. The most famous and touching photograph in the entire Corby saga shows Schapelle and Rosleigh cheek to cheek, shot right after the first verdict when Schapelle tried to comfort her mother as her own world fell apart, telling her everything was ok when so clearly it was not. We follow Schapelle's lead in thinking of her mother first, and all our efforts are offered to her.
I, said the cow all white and red/ I gave him my hay to pillow His head.... One of the worst aspects of Schapelle's ordeal has been trying to sleep in a cell with as many as 12 other women, amid the noise and the smells and the temperatures routinely over 100 degrees F. For a long time she was allowed no mattress and slept on a mat, reading her letters late into the night and dozing fitfully, clutching a battery powered fan. More recently she has become acclimated to the heat and ( as senior prisoner in her cell - which leads to another level of bitterness about the arbitrary nature of "justice" over there, but never mind) she was given the corner bed, and she has trained herself to sleep 9 hours a night when she wants to. Meanwhile her indifferent nation sleeps just fine, reclining on its overstuffed couch in front of "reality tv" while openly and derisively wondering "Why are there still articles about Schapelle? Why don't we hear more about [ celebrity-airhead-of-the-month] instead?"
I, said the sheep with the curly horn / I gave Him my wool to keep Him warm/ He wore my coat on Christmas morn... In the Shawshank Redemption, Red recalls that Andy Defresne strolled around the prison yard like a man in a park, "as if he had on an invisible coat that could shield him from this place" - we who love Schapelle have wished that for her from the beginning, trying to weave her such a coat with our love and our letters, our parcels and prayers. I remember a strange headline some time ago in the sensationalist press saying "Schapelle wants to be a mummy" - my American bias led me at first to a different interpretation than that intended by the genius who wrote it, who meant that she wanted to be a mother someday. In our colonial version of English we say mom, not mum, for mother and only children under six say mommy. In Americanese a mummy is something wrapped in bandages in an Egyptian tomb - and if Schapelle wanted to be one it must mean she wanted an insulating layer between her and her surroundings, wanted to simply hibernate until the nightmare is over. She cannot do that of course, nor can we - it is a constant uphill struggle, as if we were wandering through an overcast and trackless desert. The landscape is illuminated occasionally by the appearance of wonderful new supporters, seemingly out of nowhere - but there are no landmarks and no way to see the end of the journey. One of our most dedicated supporters said his Christmas wish this year was for three wise men - one each in Bali, Jakarta and Canberra [ the Australian capital ]. There is no way to know when this wish will be granted, but we keep on because Schapelle's stated greatest fear is that she might be forgotten, and each of us purposes quietly in his own heart that that will never happen, not on my watch.
I, said the dove in the rafters high / I cooed Him to sleep, that He might not cry... This is probably the line that for me connected the song to Schapelle. We supporters have spent countless lonely hours praying for her and crying for her, as if we could stop her tears with our own. In her book she tells the touching story of her earliest days in the holding cell at Polda, when other inmates in cells across the hall would hear her crying at night and sing to her to comfort her. More recently Tara Hack's song and video for Schapelle, beautiful in its simplicity, has brought tears and inspiration to her supporters like nothing else. "Welcome to Indonesia, where they're always glad to see ya, / and they show their appreciation / by giving you a permanent vacation / just ask Schapelle" ... that sort of blunt sarcasm sums it up nicely for her supporters, and Schapelle herself would not mind, as she was famously quoted in a moment of desperate humor as saying "this is the WORST vacation I have ever had!" She is less bitter than you would believe possible, saying merely that she loves her family, still loves Bali and its people, and prays for her fellow prisoners and guards.
in the stable dark was glad to tell / of the gift he gave Emmanuel... Emmanuel - God with us. The God Who is There, as Francis Schaeffer called Him, and who has never left Schapelle, no matter how many opportunistic, shallow, fly-by-night supporters have done so. The God who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think, ( Eph. 3:20) who can replace the bitterness in my own heart about all this with heaven's peace. Meanwhile we supporters are stuck shouting into the wind, to a media that won't print our letters and a public that won't look past the end of their pointed little noses, repeating the same dull unvarnished truth while her detractors are free to invent the most extravagant lies. But I am not in despair, because the truth cannot remain hidden forever. The case against Schapelle DOES NOT MAKE SENSE and never has done, and no amount of under-carpet-sweeping by a pusillanimous government and lapdog media can long hide the sun.
Miss Schapelle, may the God of all comfort lead you out of the dark oppressive night you are in and into Bethlehem's sunrise, this coming year. "Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon you " ( Isa. 60:1) Legend has it that the teenaged St. Patrick, captured and enslaved as a child by the Irish he would later evangelize, spent years in desperate prayer and hope, then suddenly one night was told by God in a dream "arise, your ship is waiting" - and walked across Ireland unmolested until he reached the boat that would carry him home. I believe it will happen that fast for you also, and we'll be here until then. See you in the morning.
Miss Schapelle, may the God of all comfort lead you out of the dark oppressive night you are in and into Bethlehem's sunrise, this coming year. "Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon you " ( Isa. 60:1) Legend has it that the teenaged St. Patrick, captured and enslaved as a child by the Irish he would later evangelize, spent years in desperate prayer and hope, then suddenly one night was told by God in a dream "arise, your ship is waiting" - and walked across Ireland unmolested until he reached the boat that would carry him home. I believe it will happen that fast for you also, and we'll be here until then. See you in the morning.
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