Postcards from Herr Klaus, The Songs of the PúttØrevolk
- Timothy P. Spradlin
- Jul 16
- 3 min read
Greetings from the Hidden Glade
My Dear Friend,
This afternoon I made my annual journey to the hidden glades of the PúttØrevolk.
Few have ever seen their woodland halls.
Fewer still have heard them sing.
Their homes are not built to conquer the forest, but to dwell gently within it. Great beeches and ancient oaks form living pillars above them, while soft moss carpets the earth beneath their feet. Crystal springs wind quietly among the roots, and every breeze seems to carry whispers of songs long remembered.
It is one of the most peaceful places I have ever known.
Each summer, before the leaves begin their slow journey toward autumn, the PúttØrevolk gather for a purpose unlike any other.
They begin preparing their Christmas song.
When I arrived, I found them seated in a great circle beneath an ancient oak whose branches had sheltered generations beyond counting.
No instruments could be seen.
No parchment.
No ink.
Only silence.
At length I asked the eldest among them,
"Have you begun writing this year's Christmas song?"
He smiled kindly.
"Oh no, Herr Klaus."
"We are not writing."
"We are listening."
I confess I did not immediately understand.
"Listening? To what?"
The old elf motioned for me to remain quiet.
So, I did.
For several moments no one spoke.
The forest breathed.
A breeze stirred the pine needles high above.
Somewhere nearby a brook laughed softly over smooth stones.
A thrush sang from the upper branches.
Far overhead, Aufpassnir circled lazily in the blue summer sky.
The eldest opened his eyes.
"Do you hear it?"
At first, I heard only the forest.
Then, little by little, I realized the forest itself was praising its Creator.
The wind.
The birds.
The flowing water.
Even the silence between their voices.
All of it proclaimed the glory of The Lord.
The eldest smiled again.
"Every Christmas we simply try to join the song creation has already been singing."
Those words have remained with me ever since. How often we imagine that worship begins with us.
Yet the mountains praised God long before mankind climbed them.
The rivers sang His goodness before we learned to build bridges.
The stars declared His glory before anyone gave them names.
Christmas itself did not begin in Bethlehem.
It began in the heart of God before the foundations of the world were laid.
Perhaps that is why the PúttØrevolk begin preparing their Christmas songs during summer.
The heart should be listening long before Christmas arrives.
As evening settled upon the glade, the eldest quietly stood.
No one was instructed.
No signal was given.
One by one the PúttØrevolk rose to their feet.
Then they began to sing.
The Song of the PúttØrevolk
The stars foretold His holy birth,
The angels filled the sky;
The Shepherd came to seek the lost,
So, no none should ever die.
Rejoice, rejoice!
Lift every voice!
The Prince of Peace has come!
Let every hill,
Let every rill,
Proclaim God's Holy Son!
The stars proclaimed the Savior's birth,
Before the world could see;
The Father's love came down to earth,
To set the captive free.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Lift every voice!
The Prince of Peace has come!
Let every hill,
Let every rill,
Proclaim God's Holy Son!
The forests bow,
The mountains sing,
The river's praises flow;
For Christ has come,
The Father's Lamb,
His saving grace to bestow.
Rejoice, rejoice!
Lift every voice!
The Prince of Peace has come!
Let every heart receive His light!
Till every journey's home!
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Lift every voice!
The Prince of Peace has come!
Let every heart receive His light!
Until His Kingdom comes!
When the final note faded into the trees, no one moved.
Even Aufpassnir remained silent.
It seemed almost wrong to speak.
Finally, I asked the eldest,
"Why do you always prepare your Christmas songs so many months before Christmas?"
He looked toward the western sky where the sun was slowly sinking beyond the mountains.
Then he answered with words I hope I shall never forget.
"Because, dear friend, a heart that waits until Christmas to praise the Lord has already waited too long."
As I made my way home through the forest, I found myself humming their melody.
Before long, Donner lifted his head and began walking in rhythm.
Blitzen attempted to sing.
The result was enthusiastic, though not especially musical.
Ulvie laughed until he had tears in his eyes.
I suspect Heaven smiled as well.
Until my next postcard arrives, my dear friend, may you listen for the quiet song that God has woven throughout His creation.
The wind still sings.
The rivers still rejoice.
The stars still declare His glory.
May we simply learn to join them.
Your Friend,
Herr Klaus
The Hidden Glade
Thuringia Forest
Summer, 1103
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