My Christmas miracle was a gift that arrived just in time

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During this time of year I sometimes forget to turn the clock. Soon I start to miss the carillon.

It was late.

Very late.

“Oh my god,” I thought, “what time is it?!”

It was sometime around 3 a.m. on Christmas Eve, and the pink pretend kitchen I helped Santa put together for my almost 2-year-old daughter just wasn’t cooperating.

As I recall it now, it was around that time that I started hearing ticking.

Time ticked away as I continued to fumble and curse this pink pretend kitchen. I was running out of time before the kids ran down to see what Santa had brought. Then something strange happened. The clock that sat on our mantle began to ring.

I didn’t notice it at first. There is nothing so strange about a bell that rings. It was a sound I had heard for years as a boy. I was with mom the day she chose that watch. “What do you think?” she had asked me. “I think it has the most beautiful timbre of any in the whole store,” she said. I don’t remember how I answered her, but I know she had put the watch on layaway that very day and had been saving for months to get it home.

That mantle clock was the closest thing to an heirloom our family had ever known. It was expensive at the time. One of these quaint, triple-wind, German-made watches. Mom had stayed at the top of a bookshelf in our living room for years until it was time to pack it away.

Our watch survived hard times – until it didn’t

You see, life doesn’t always go as planned.

The watch was one of the few things that survived both 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 bookshelf or mantel to put a clock on when your family is homeless—living in a tent or sleeping on the floor of a not-so-nice apartment in a not-so-nice part of town.

Gradually, life got better. Slowly.

Mother had taken the watch out of the box once after she and father had bought their first home. She had dusted it off, placed it on top of a bookshelf in the new living room, and wrapped it up. The clock wouldn’t tick. It wouldn’t ring. “Maybe,” she said with a tear in her eye, “it’s been too long.” She put it back in the box and stored it in the attic.

There, in the attic, sat the clock. Not ticking. Don’t call. For years.

During those years I had finished high school, then college. I had married. I was blessed with the two most beautiful children. I had bought a house with a fireplace and mantle.

Unknown to anyone, Mom had come over to our house, seen the mantle and decided it needed a clock. Again she had saved for the watch. This time to fix it.

Opinion: Santa does not sit in meetings all day. He doesn’t get credit for my work.

She came over to our new house that spring, excited. She brought a box.

“I fixed it.” she said as she hurried through the door. “Oh, you’ll love it!” she said to my wife. “It had the most beautiful timbre.” Mom took the watch out of the box and placed it on our mantel. “I hope you don’t mind.” She said: “I just knew it would look good there.” She turned the clock.

The clock from my childhood was back. And the carillon was really beautiful.

There, on the mantle, sat the clock. Ticking. Chiming. For months.

Then, one day, the ticking stopped. The clock wouldn’t tick. It wouldn’t ring. No amount of fiddling, fumbling, or wriggling 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 kept the watch in. “No,” I said, “we’ll let it sit there. That watch is too beautiful to live in a box.” I offered a lame joke: “And anyway it’ll be right twice a day.”

There, on the mantle, sat the clock. Not ticking. Don’t call. For more than a year.

But as I said, it was late.

Very late.

Then it was Christmas

I kept fumbling and cursing this pink pretend kitchen I helped Santa put together. Then something strange happened – again. The clock began to ring – on the hour.

I stopped.

Opinion: Vacation hides a silent pain – toxic, abusive relationships. You are not alone.

When I finally realized I heard my own little early Christmas miracle, I stopped cursing the pink pretend kitchen. I sat down on the couch and listened. I listened to the seconds and minutes tick by. I listened as the beautiful chimes came and went every quarter. I listened to my Christmas miracle tick away. With a heart full of reverence, I finished that pink pretend kitchen for Santa.

Afraid that the magic of Christmas morning would die, I reluctantly went to bed and strained to hear the ticking. I heard one last sound as I fell asleep.

The next morning, in the middle of the paper tearing, there, on the mantle, sat the clock. Ticking. Chiming.

My wife noticed it first, “What? How? Did you fix it? What did you do?” I smiled with tears in my eyes and told her about the miracle of my answered prayer. My kids, almost 2 and 4 at the time, noticed the ticking and tinkling and told me all about how Santa must have come and fixed the clock when he came down the chimney and how Rudolph played a crucial role.

Later that day, my parents came over for Christmas dinner. I said nothing about the time when we sat down to dinner. When the bell started to ring, my mother looked up from her food and said, “What? How? Did you manage to fix it? What did you do?” I smiled, and once again with tears in my eyes, and told her and Dad about this little miracle of my answered prayer.

25 years later, this is my Christmas miracle

It’s been almost 25 years since I received that Christmas miracle.

Recently it dawned on me that my Christmas Miracle Clock came alive and helped raise our children. Helping us get off to school on time, reminding us of lunchtimes, suppertimes and, most annoyingly, bedtimes. But also provides thousands of countdowns to practices, rehearsals, gatherings, meetings, games, concerts and hundreds of other special and regular occasions. Looking back now, our Christmas miracle tried to tell me to cherish every second, because they were growing up so very, very fast.

During this time of year I sometimes forget to turn the clock. Soon I start to miss the carillon. Every time I rewind the silent clock, the resurrected chimes become more beautiful.

This Christmas, warm and safe and well fed, I realize that the miracle that is Christmas – hope – is never too late. Maybe, just maybe, it’s never too late for hope.

Dane Pelfrey is a former homeless kid, CTO, pig calling master and a “Price is Right” contestant. He lives happily in the middle of nowhere, near State Center, Iowa, and listens to the time ticking by. This column originally appeared in the Des Moines Register.