At Christmas, I worked long hours for UPS delivering packages. When my daughter Sharla was in kindergarten, I headed out to Valley Springs as soon as school was out to drop her off at Momma’s. At the farm, she happily exited the car with her suitcase and waved as she ran across the yard, acting as if I didn’t need to get out and even hug my own momma.
Their days together at the farm were full. Momma had a winter garden to care for, old folks in the nursing home in Llano to see about, and of course, daddy, who had to have something fried for his dinner every night. As momma was usually behind on making our Christmas presents, she spent a lot of time at the sewing machine. She did plenty of demonstrating how the machine worked, but Sharla was always too busy playing boy stuff with her cousin, Matthew, to absorb the instructions. The amount of work and effort momma spent in sewing Sharla doll clothes each Christmas was pretty much wasted.
Television was only watched at night on the farm. After daddy fell asleep in his chair by the fire, momma would search one of the few channels for a Christmas movie. Seated in a deep, soft chair, surrounded by the hum of momma’s sewing machine and the snores from Pap Paw’s side of the room, Sharla saw for the first time It’s a Wonderful Life. When I called to check on her the next day, she excitedly told me all about the part where the little girl said, “Every time you hear a bell ring, an angel gets her wings.”
Another night at the farm passed by watching momma’s favorite show, Billy Graham’s Christmas Special. At the end of his uplifting service half of those in attendance would crowd down to the front of the center to accept the gift of everlasting life. Even though she was playing with her favorite toys, Sharla paid attention.
That night when momma tucked her in, Sharla asked, “Granny Mac, what does en-ter-tain mean?” Receiving a clear answer, she asked another question, “Do you have any bells? I need bells ‘cause I’m making something for Christmas.”
Momma dug through her junk drawers, old trunks, and leftover Christmas decorations. By the time Sharla was at the breakfast table, momma had six bells of varying sizes. Sharla was happy until she realized only four had handles you could run a string through.
“But, Granny, this might not be enough bells. We need to buy more. If you’ll take me to the store, I’ll find some. You can pay for them until momma comes for Christmas. I know she’ll pay you back.”
So, the next time they were at Bill’s Dollar Store, momma let Sharla pick out a package of quarter-sized, brass jingle bells sewn to a piece of cardboard, and after much begging, agreed to let her buy two miniature cow bells. Smiling all the way home, Sharla hugged the brown paper sack to her chest and rattled on about the surprise she and Pap Paw were going to fix.
Once at home she sought him out, leaving her grandmother in complete suspense as to her need for the bells. Knowing her husband was a trickster, momma was a little worried about what they were going to do. But, she reasoned, at least he couldn’t hide all the bells inside the fruit salad the way he hid a tiny plastic lizard last year.
On Christmas morning, driving to mommas was a continuous battle with the north wind threatening to blow me sideways off the road. The night before on Christmas Eve I’d worked late and hadn’t arrived home until 10:30 pm. All I really wanted for a Christmas present was a nice quiet place to spend the day. Knowing that wouldn’t happen at momma’s house, I resolved to put a smile on my face and act interested when one of the “strange” people momma had accumulated over the years showed up for Christmas lunch.
Selfishly, I wondered why I couldn’t have been born into a household that fed only kin instead of every stray person found on the side of the road. I could only hope the strange little lady with the enormous hat that showed up last Easter for lunch would not be there again. Her loud voice was most annoying, and her outrageous hat smelled of mothballs.
Arriving, I ran across the cold yard to the front door, all the while zipping up my sad state of mind and tossing it into the wind. It was Christmas! Day of good cheer and thankfulness for Jesus! Once inside I had to hunt for Sharla, who was in hot pursuit of a cousin who was really a famous outlaw. Warning me as she ran by; I’d best get out of the way or I might get shot.
I helped momma with lunch as she would hurry to the front door and then circulate through the kitchen to introduce so-and-so she or daddy had met somewhere over the rainbow. Each addition caused much rearranging of tables and chairs to accommodate the whole bunch. To my great irritation the woman with the loud voice arrived just before noon. As I bent to give her the hug momma expected us to provide, the smell of mothballs on her coat nearly smothered me. Hurriedly I asked if I could take it from her, wondering if I could dash outside and bury it in one of mother’s dormant flower beds.
The noise level in the house increased. Deer hunting stories were swapped in the living room, recipes in the dining room, and war whoops came from the small band of Indians playing in the bedrooms. Ugh, my head was starting to pound. I thought about sticking waded up tissues in my ears just to make it until lunch.
Finally, someone spread throughout the house to gather us for prayer before the family served themselves buffet style off of the kitchen counters. I couldn’t help but wonder where I could find the quietest corner to eat my lunch, a place to get out of this madhouse and let my food digest in peace. I vowed that next year I was going to ask momma to please let us have a quieter, family-only lunch. Someday, when I took over the cooking, I was going to put my foot down and stick to a tiny section of the family when it came to invitations for lunch. Who needed all this noise and confusion on Christmas Day?
As the group stuffed itself into the kitchen and living room, the crowd quieted. Finally, I thought, a moment or two of peace! As the question arose of who wanted to say grace over the food, we heard bells ringing on the front porch. Lots of bells. Bells with different tones. Donging greatly bells, tinkling lightly bells, jangling merrily bells. Noisy bells! I put my hands over my ears to drown out the sound.
What in the world was going on? What kind of Christmas decorations did momma hang on the porch? As the crowd headed toward the crescendo of the apparently windblown bells, little Sharla pushed her way through and ran ahead. Throwing open the door she gazed lovingly at the bells ringing in the strong wind, the three large cowbells the loudest of them all.
It appeared Daddy had helped her tie each bell to heavy twine, and sometime late this morning he’d strung the line between the porch’s two metal support beams. In her loudest, most excited voice, Sharla shouted, “Angels, Pap Paw! We have angels here with us today!”
“Oh,” I said, “I get it. The movie. You watched the movie about angels and bells.” “Yes,” replied Sharla. “And we also watched a big preacher talk the other night about how you could have angels with you at the dinner table and not know it! And I wanted to know how many showed up here at Pap Paw’s and Granny Mac’s.”
Looking at her handiwork again, she caught her breath and then shouted, “Momma! There must be a bunch of angels here because all the bells are ringing! We have a whole house full of angels!”
Everyone laughed and patted Sharla on the head, or gave her a hug. As we quieted down, the old man that had accompanied the mothball smelling lady lead the prayer as the bells jangled loudly in the background. “Lord, part of Billy Graham’s message was based on Hebrews 13:1; It says, Keep on loving each other as brothers. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it. Help us, Lord, to remember how lucky we are to have such a feast to sit down to today, a feast prepared by loving hands most assuredly owned by an angel.” He continued, “Help us to remember that your son Jesus is the reason we are gathered here today, and please bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies. Amen.”
Secretly, I was proud of my daughter. She’d found a way to bring a Bible verse to life. The verse made me rethink my tackiness about sharing our table with a houseful of strangers. I was thankful I’d kept my selfishness hidden where no one else could see it.
I was wrong. Someone else had been paying attention.
Just how many angels were around that table? Find out in the 12/15/16 issue of the Advocate.