From our bedroom window overlooking the backyard this morning, the old-timey lamppost by our pool house wears what looks like a two-foot cap of new snow, and I can imagine Mr. Tumnus leaning against it, arms crossed, gazing back at me.
I chuckle and head into the kitchen for some gingerbread-flavored coffee—I'll use the French press today—and Maverick City’s version of the African-American spiritual drifts through our home audio system:
Go, tell it on the mountain, Over the hills and everywhere
Go, tell it on the mountain, That Jesus Christ is born
It’s a joyful rendition, but the song’s origins, dating back to 1865 or so, were borne of pain. The musical gift, one of many contributions from an enslaved people, stops me in my tracks, and I go for its inspiration.
How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who brings good news, who publishes peace, who brings good news of happiness, who publishes salvation, who says to Zion, “Your God reigns.”
My heart sings with hope, and I wonder if I have pretty feet. I hope so—even though I haven’t had a pedicure in ages and in Minnesota they’re buried inside mukluks six months out of the year anyway. Thankfully, it’s not about their appearance but about where they’re going.
And I promise to keep mine moving.
Go, tell it on the mountain, Over the hills and everywhere
Go, tell it on the mountain, That Jesus Christ is born
