“I am walking with my lantern and my lantern is walking with me. Above, the stars are shining, below shining we are.” As I am writing these lyrics of a St. Martin song to you I am comfortably seated in front of a fire brightly burning in my parent’s fireplace. It is the eve of St. Martin’s Day and for children, parents, and blog writers it really is not St. Martin’s without being frozen stiff for the first time in the dark season of the year and dreaming of the warmth of a fire or the coziness of wearing pajamas and being tucked into bed.
Why getting cold – voluntarily? Because St. Martin is riding through the streets and hundreds of children light his way with their lanterns to the poor man in the cold. He does not know, yet, that he will be wrapped in a warm cloak very soon, and everyone is looking forward excitedly to this moment.
The kindergarten and school children were industrious during the past two weeks making lanterns that look like owls or frogs, like geese or toadstools, burning fires, teddy bears, stained glass windows, cats, like sun and moon, like sheep, and I am sure that I see a happy looking spider, too. The kids are carrying their lanterns with a stick and a little light illuminates them lively, little things hopping and bobbing cheerfully through the dark. We are on a long pilgrimage leading from the Dorfkirche to the monastery, up a steep hill. While I am still catching my breath (hey, don’t snicker, I am taking pictures running back and forth and back again!), people start to sing “Wir tragen unsere Laternen, die Lichter, sie brennen sacht …”  (“We carry our lanterns, and the lights, they are gently burning …”) Did you ever notice that children’s eyes get brighter the darker it is, when they are watching a light? I am observing this for the first time as night is falling and the moon is coming out.
As we walk and sing together, I am taking a closer look at the people around me. Boys are running and clowning around, one was hiding in his mother’s coat crying; some of the little girls twirl with their lanterns like Pippi Longstocking, others walk like fairies, some are carried by their daddy. Their older sisters walk together in small groups a few steps in front of their parents and are enwrapped in whispered conversations, their lanterns turning toward each other. And the youngest ones look around awed and a little fear in their eyes worried about all those older children rollicking about and wondering about St. Martin leading the trek wearing a golden helmet and a red coat sitting majestically on his (actually: on her) horse. Parents are chatting with other parents and they are telling their kids to stay close and not to get lost and they are so very obviously enjoying every single moment.
Walking about with my camera, I am passing Brother Matthias and a man pushing his bicycle and carrying a blue and yellow lantern. I hear Brother Matthias say: “Why are you carrying the lantern?” Man: “Oh, I am trying to find my son.” “Did you loose him?”  “He is somewhere in front walking with St. Martin. I won’t get through the crowd with my bicycle, though, but as long as I do not hear him cry, I assume that all is fine.” “Would you actually recognize his voice with all those children around?” “I would recognize him among thousands and from far away.” Brother Matthias considers this and then nods.
By the time we are turning into the courtyard of the monastery, young and old are cold with those frozen fingers in question (and some had dripping noses, too). When the brass band is welcoming the noble rider and his (or her) entourage playing the ancient tune “Sankt Martin, Sankt Martin, Sankt Martin ritt durch Schnee und Wind, sein Ross, das trug in fort geschwind…” (St. Martin rode through snow and wind, his steed carries him swiftly..) and the church bells are ringing festively, many blink away tears. And the sight of the colorfully little booths with St. Martin pretzels, hot juice, mulled wine, and sausage warm not only my heart. And with such promise of warmth and refreshment, we watch St. Martin cutting his (or rather her) coat in half and giving it to the poor man. We all join in celebration. The feast concludes, the stars are shining brightly, the lanterns are extinguished - and now home and now to bed or, rather, to the fireplace that I am writing you from.

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