Inside the Mystery of America's First Mystics
Prologue
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Sunday, December 24, 1815
From: Christina Warmer Wüster, Germantown, Pennsylvania
To: Lydia Bielen, Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
My Dearest
Lydia,
My eyes are filled
with tears this Christmas Eve, but not with tears of sadness, my darling.
The tears come from a heart that is filled—over-filled perhaps I
should say, since I have had more than my fill in life—of the blessings
and the great trials of Life that the Lord puts upon us to help perfect
us in His own way.
The things in this
box are more than just presents for Christmas. I hope they will remind
you of me and of the happy moments we have been allowed to share—for
Christmases to come when I won’t be with you any more.
I know that these
things some may consider trifles. I give them to you not because of their
worldly value, but because I know that you, dear, of all my family, with
your sweet soul, might cherish them as I have done.
Die Steppdecke—that
old tattered quilt—I know it won’t warm your body, but I am
giving it to you so that one day it may help to warm your heart. Its colors
are so faded, but once they were bright. Meine Großmutter,
your great-great-grandmother, told me it was made in the Old World and
has a blessing sewn into its stitches—what few there are left! I
can remember so many Christmas Eves being wrapped up in it. But I give
it to you now so that you may have something by which to remember your
Großtantchen, your Great Aunt, and perhaps be blessed by
the Old World woman who made it, too
Inside the envelope
is a little gold charm, with a six-sided star like the ones that are worn
sometimes by the Jews. It is real gold, my dear, and so please treasure
it and keep it safe! I don’t know from whence it came, with its
strange design and magical symbols. Perhaps your father can take it to
someone who can make it into a necklace for you. If you wear it to bed
some night, maybe you can discover its hidden secret in a dream.
Lastly, my darling,
wrapped in the quilt you will find a tattered old hymnal. This sad-looking
book, with its torn cover, is the greatest treasure of all if your soul
is pure and stalwart enough to delve into its mystery.
I know very little
of the life of the one who composed these verses, but of his soul I could
write volumes. Therein was a deep sadness that was not really a sadness
at all, but water from the very same fountain that rises in my heart tonight.
To drink from that fountain is the reward of Life, with its dazzling wonder
of Love between the Creator and His Creation. The composer’s name
was Johannes Kelpius and he came from far away, a long time ago. His life
is a mystery, but this much I know—once he came to stay in the house
of my grandmother.
She was about the
age you are, my dear Lydia, my Großmutter, Christiana,
and it was near the time of Heiliger Abend, Christmas Eve. Herr
Kelpius had come across the sea to live in the woods in the Wissahickon
Valley, along the ridge above the creek. In the dark of night he was brought
to our home—sick from a terrible cold. Großmutter Christiana
said that she worried for the life of this young man, a friend to her
father and to all in Germantown, including the children with whom he shared
the blessings of his noble birth and education.
On another Christmas Eve, very distant from this one, she was kneeling
beside her bed, praying for their visitor, when she noticed a light coming
from the small room beside her own, where lay Johannes Kelpius. When she
crept in to look, she saw a woman beside his bed, clothed in shimmering
robes.
The Angel turned
and smiled at my poor, trembling Großmutter before she
vanished. It was from this, meine Englein, my dear little angel Lydia,
that my own grandmother’s soul was spiritualized. She spent the
rest of her life devoted to following in the footsteps of Christ—a
life that was indeed sanctified by her transformation. She told no one
about this but me, and dearest Lydia, I tell you now only because her
spirit bids me to share her most cherished secret.
I do not know what
power brought Johannes Kelpius to Pennsylvania, or why he came so far
from his home, or what tragedies befell his young life. All I know is
that while he was a guest in her home, my grandmother’s mother copied
his hymns (I almost wrote poems!) into this little volume from Herr Kelpius’
own manuscripts.
I hope that you
will read and re-read these hymns, and that they will bring to you the
same kind of solace and exultation that I have found in them. In my life
they have transformed me, in much the same way as the glance of the Angel
transformed my grandmother—in the same way I hope they may transform
you, dearest.
Take them to yourself
and hold them gently, as you must needs be gentle with the old book—as
if you held a gentle and innocent dove in your hands—in the way
I hold you, my dearest Lydia, in my heart this Christmas Eve.
In love eternal,
Tantchen Christina
