It was late.
Very late.
“Christ,” I thought, “What time is it?!”
It was sometime around 3 a.m. Christmas morning, and the pink pretend kitchen I was helping Santa put together for my almost 2-year-old daughter just wasn’t cooperating.
As I remember it now, it was around that time I began to hear ticking.
Time was ticking away as I continued to fumble and curse this pink pretend kitchen. I was running out of time before the kids ran downstairs to see what Santa brought. Then, something strange happened. The clock sitting on our mantle began to chime.
I didn’t notice it at first. There’s nothing all that strange about a clock chiming. It was a noise I had heard for years as a boy. I was with Mom the day she picked out that clock. “What do you think?” she had asked me. “I think it has the prettiest chime of any in the whole store,” she said. I don’t remember how I answered her, but I know that she had put the clock on layaway that very day and had saved for months to bring it home.
That mantle clock was the closest thing to an heirloom our family had ever known. It was expensive in its day. One of those quaint, triple-wind, German-made clocks. Mom had kept in on the top of a bookshelf in our living room for years until it was time to pack it away.
Our clock survived hard times – until it didn’t
You see, life doesn’t always go as planned.
The clock was one of the few things that survived both of my parents losing their jobs. The clock survived several years packed away in the attic of my grandparents’ house, and several more in a storage shed. There’s just no bookcase or mantle to put a clock on when your family is homeless – living in a tent or sleeping on the floor in a not-so-nice apartment in a not-so-nice part of town.
Gradually, life got better. Slowly.
Mom had taken the clock out of the box once after she and Dad had bought their first home. She had dusted it off, placed it on top of a bookcase in the new living room, and wound it. The clock would not tick. It would not chime. “Maybe,” she said with a tear in her eye, “it’s been too long.” She placed it back in the box, and stored it in her attic.
There, in the attic, the clock sat. Not ticking. Not chiming. For years.
In those years I had finished high school, then college. I had gotten married. I was blessed with the two most beautiful children. I had bought a house with a fireplace and a mantle.
Unknown to anyone, Mom had come over to our house, saw the mantle and decided it needed a clock. Again, she had saved for the clock. This time to have it fixed.
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She came over to our new house that spring, excited. She came carrying a box.
“I had it fixed.” She said as she hurried in the door. “Oh, you’ll love it!” she said to my wife. “It had the most beautiful chime.” Mom took the clock out of the box and placed it on our mantle. “I hope you don’t mind.” She said, “I just knew it would look good there.” She wound the clock.
The chime of my childhood was back. And the chime really was beautiful.
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There, on the mantle, the clock sat. Ticking. Chiming. For months.
Then, one day, the ticking stopped. The clock would not tick. It would not chime. No amount of fiddling, fumbling or winding would bring it back to life.
Reluctantly, I let Mom know. “Maybe,” she said once more with a tear in her eye, “it’s been too long.” She asked for the box we had stored the clock in. “No,” I said, “We’ll leave it sit right there. That clock is too beautiful to live in a box.” I offered up a lame joke: “And, anyway, at least it will be right twice a day.”
There, on the mantle, the clock sat. Not ticking. Not chiming. For more than a year.
But, as I said, it was late.
Very late.
Then, it was Christmas time
I continued to fumble and curse this pink pretend kitchen I was helping Santa put together. Then, something strange happened – again. The clock began to chime – on the hour.
I stopped.
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Finally realizing I was hearing my own small Christmas miracle early, I stopped cursing that pink pretend kitchen. I sat on my couch and I listened. I listened to the seconds and minutes tick by. I listened as those beautiful chimes came and went every quarter hour. I listened to my Christmas miracle ticking away. With a heart full of awe, I finished putting that pink pretend kitchen together for Santa.
Afraid that the magic of Christmas morning would die, I reluctantly went to bed straining to hear the ticking. I heard one last chime as I drifted to sleep.
The next morning, amid the tearing of paper, there, on the mantle, the clock sat. Ticking. Chiming.
My wife noticed it first, “What? How? Did you have it fixed? What did you do?” I smiled with tears in my eyes and told her of the miracle of my answered prayer. My children, almost 2 and 4 at the time, noticed the ticking and chiming and told me all about how Santa must have come and fixed the clock as he came down the chimney and how Rudolph played a pivotal role.
Later that day, my parents came over for Christmas dinner. I said nothing of the clock as we sat down to dinner. When the clock started to chime, my mom looked up from her food and said, “What? How? Did you have it fixed? What did you do?” I smiled, and yet again with tears in my eyes, and told her and Dad of this small miracle to my answered prayer.
25 years later, this is my Christmas miracle
It has been nearly 25 years to the day since I received that Christmas miracle.
Recently, it dawned on me my Christmas miracle clock came alive helping raise our kids. Helping us get off to school on time, reminding us of lunch times, supper times and, most annoyingly, bedtimes. But also providing thousands of countdowns to practices, rehearsals, gatherings, appointments, games, concerts, and hundreds of other special and ordinary occasions. Looking back on it now, our Christmas miracle was trying to tell me to cherish every second, because they grew up so very, very fast.
During this time of year, I sometimes forget to wind the clock. Before long, I begin to miss the chime. Every time I rewind the silent clock, the resurrected chimes become more beautiful.
This Christmas, warm and safe and well-fed, I realize the miracle that is Christmas – hope – is never too late. Maybe, just maybe, it is never too late for hope.
Dane Pelfrey is a former homeless kid, CTO, hog calling champion and a “Price is Right” contestant. He happily lives in the middle of nowhere, near State Center, Iowa, listening to time ticking by. This column originally appeared in the Des Moines Register.
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This article originally appeared on Des Moines Register: My Christmas miracle was a gift that came right on time | Opinion