The Day the Bells Rang

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

Daughter #2 told me yesterday that for her, it didn’t really feel like Christmas yet. I’m old. I’ve seen a lot of holidays come and go, but one or two stand out. Not because of lights or the gifts or even the time with the people I love. But every once in a while, I am powerfully reminded that we celebrate Christmas because it is the birth of Christianity—a day when millions of us around the world, regardless of our particular sect or interpretation, stop what we are doing, and join together in gratitude for our faith.

 One such moment for me was almost 30 years ago. Son #1 was in Hungary serving a mission for his church. For almost two generations, religion in Hungary had been forbidden–churches closed, religious meetings discouraged, and the power of the state had become a hammer with which to stamp out belief. I’ll never forget opening a letter from Son #1 in which he described the moment when the last Soviet tank left Hungary. In celebration, the bells of every church across the country–which had been ordered silent for years–rang together for an hour, sending out the news that their doors were open again for worship.

That year my family and I had traveled to be with grandparents, a trip we rarely took because gifts for eight children plus my husband and I took up our entire VW van–no room left for the people. Good thing some of them were small.

In my mother’s house on Christmas morning, it was tradition for family members to sit in a circle, each opening one gift at a time so that everyone could enjoy the surprise. Since both my brothers and assorted family members were there, it required considerable policing to see that my children followed the rules and didn’t sneak behind the tree to open a couple of their own gifts before their turn came again.

Once I became a mom, I was far more interested in seeing that my children had a memorable Christmas than I was in anticipating what might be under the tree for me. When whichever child was assigned to pass out gifts handed me a crumpled-up ball of brown mailing tied with string, I smiled. It was from Son #1 and had traveled a very long way to make it into my hands for Christmas. He’d obviously used a black magic marker to address the mess, and when I squeezed it, the package was so insubstantial, I was pretty sure he’d forgotten to enclose whatever he’d intended to send—pure Son #1 behavior. Enthusiasm had always won out over detail and order in his case.

Before I opened the bundle, I held up the parcel for the 20 or so family members in the room to see. The chatter of little people stopped immediately. A package from Europe was uncommon in those days. Twenty pairs of eyes riveted on what I held in my hands. Carefully untying the string, I teased apart, bit by bit, the pieces of packing paper which were barely holding the packet together. Inside was a ball of yarn, fragile and delicate even before its shape was visible. One layer at a time, I carefully untangled the needle craft and opened an unimaginably fairy-like shawl, obviously very old. It was accompanied by a torn section of the wrapping paper with this note scrawled on it:

              “Mom: This was made in 1796 in Leningrad by the first Milih Kovacs. It has been handed down, mother to daughter, ever since. It was given to me to give my mom as a reward for raising a son worthy to teach the gospel to the Kovacs family so they can live together eternally. It may not mean much to you, but it means a lot to me and Sister Kovacsne.”

I began to cry. A baby born in Bethlehem more than 2,000 years ago without political clout or wealth or even fame had quietly opened a path for Christians in Hungary, whose churches had been chained and bolted shut, to once again rejoice at His birth. I felt the power of millions of faithful Christians across the globe come to rest in that tiny piece of cloth. It was, indeed, a compelling reason for the bells to ring.

The shawl, now framed, hangs on the wall in my bedroom. I see it every morning when I wake, and I am reminded that underneath the clamor or the holidays, I am part of an intangible web belief that weaves we Christians together across the earth. And I am profoundly thankful. Merry Christmas.