The Heavenly Choir
The comrades.”
The very name struck terror in the hearts of the villagers . . . and in my heart too!
I was the school nurse at the Arthurseat Nazarene Bible College in the Eastern Transvaal, South Africa, just before the apartheid was abolished. I also visited surrounding villages and taught women how to care for their children, make gardens, strain water with a cloth to remove debris, and purify water by adding one drop of household bleach to every liter.
I loved my busy life. Until the comrades entered our world.
The comrades were young African men who likened themselves to communists. They would go through villages and steal whatever they wanted. They also burned down houses. Then they turned their sites on the old people. Minor infractions led them to accuse many elders of being witches. The old people who were labeled this way were then condemned to death by the terrible method of necklacing—car tires were put over their heads and set on fire. It was a horrible way to die!
Everyone was afraid of the comrades. Then they announced that they wanted to hold meetings in the big tabernacle on the mission station. The Bible college refused to give permission.
The male students became very worried and began to hold prayer meetings late into each night asking for protection and begging the Lord to keep them from being forced to help those who were necklacing.
During those dangerous times, the authorities told me to pack a suitcase and set it by my front door so I’d be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. I sent my clinic workers home, as I felt they’d be safer away from the mission station. Soon I was the only white person left on the grounds.
My house was built at the crest of a small hill on the station. Standing outside my front door, I could see a flood of refugees fleeing on the road below. People were carrying bundles and driving donkey carts and old trucks, or pushing wheelbarrows, or using whatever they could to carry their belongings and flee the violence.
I stared at my lovely garden, my chickens, and my dog, and became frightened. What would happen to them and to me if the comrades arrived?
“I know you are with me and will never leave me,” I told the Lord. “But I’m so afraid. I need something more than I’ve ever had before to cope.”
Dusk was approaching, so I went inside and shut and locked the door.
Soon, though, my dog began pacing the floor and growling at the door and window. I decided to play some of the good old hymns on my tape recorder. The music seemed to hit me on the head and relax every muscle in my exhausted body. I went to bed.
About three in the morning I vaguely heard my dog stir. Then he jumped up and sat up straight on my bed.
Ah. Here come the comrades, I thought. I need to put on my glasses so I can see what’s going on.
I heard a noise.
Whatever is that? Music? No, it can’t be. Maybe it’s coming from down on the road. A group making their way home after drinking beer.
Then I remembered. Terrified people don’t sing. They move as quickly and quietly as possible. The music got louder. I couldn’t understand the words, so I knew the language wasn’t Shangaan, Zulu, or Sotho.
Oh. Maybe the Venda student is teaching everyone a song in his language. Or the male students had such a good prayer meeting they are going to tell the girls about it.
I quickly realized this would not be happening at three in the morning. So I went to my big office window and stared at the beautiful full moon shining over the landscape. Every leaf on the banana and avocado trees shimmered in the moonlight. It was so bright you could have read a newspaper outside. I couldn’t see a soul.
All the time, the sound of the music came closer and closer. It was a magnificent choir of African male voices, the rich basses, baritones, and tenors singing what felt like a song of praise in a language I didn’t know. I didn’t understand where the music was coming from.
I searched the area outside my window. No shadows darkened the path outside. No footprints marred the sand that had been blown clean by the wind earlier in the evening. No one in sight.
Finally, the music moved away over the hill. I slipped back into bed and slept more deeply than I had for many nights. The next morning I was up early and went to check on my neighbors down the road. The two toddlers were sitting in their high chairs having breakfast. I asked Sunny if she had slept well.
“Oh, I was so afraid because everyone said the comrades were coming last night. But then I heard the singing, so I wasn’t afraid any more.”
“Sunny, you could not have heard the music. It was up by my house.”
“I don’t care what you heard,” she said. “I heard the music outside my bedroom.”
“In what language were the songs being sung?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Sunny.
“But you know five African languages.”
She replied, “All I know is, something was special about that language.”
“Well, the Lord sent it to encourage us, don’t you think?”
She nodded her head. “Yes, that’s what it was.”
I went to check on a student whose husband was away on business and who had a young, ill daughter.
“How did you get on last night? Were you afraid without your husband?” I asked.
“Yes, I was terrified. But then I heard the singing.”
“I heard it too! What language did they sing in?” I asked.
“Now that’s a funny thing. I know quite a few languages, but there was something very different about that language.”
“Well, the Lord really gave us something special to encourage us, didn’t He?”
And she agreed.
When I got home, my two helpers had felt safe enough to return to work. As I was making breakfast and fixing tea, I told the ladies about the music I heard during the night. They both began jumping up and down and crying and clapping their hands.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“Oh, the Lord has protected you!”
“I know that. But who did the singing?”
Esther, my wonderful driver and helper, said “Give me your Bible.”
I reached across the table and put the Shangaan Bible in her hands.
“Oh no, no, no. It must be the Bible in your mother tongue.”
I went into my bedroom and got my English Bible. She opened it to Psalm 91 and read, “He shall give His angels charge over you” (v. 11 nkjv).
She glared at me. “Don’t you believe what the Bible says?”
“Yes, of course I do. But who was singing?”
She put her hands on her hips and gave me a look that mothers give silly children. “You heard the angels this time, that’s all.”
I had no other answer. That music rang in my heart for a week. I don’t remember it anymore, but I feel that one day I will be singing that praise song with all the African Christians in heaven.