Christmas in Hungary
I was four that year. Mikulás had already come on December 6th, filling my little shoe on the window sill with chocolates and cookies.
Now it was Christmas Eve and time for the most special celebration of all. For weeks everyone had been cleaning, cooking and baking. Glorious aromas hung in the air like decorations. Auntie Marika, about thirteen years of age, led me into the musty, dark wardrobe to hide and await the coming events. We both chattered and giggled in nervous anticipation. Then we heard voices outside, singing.
“They’re angels!” She whispered to me.
“And were they good this year?” A deep voice echoed in the living room. Of course the answer was “Yes!” but we sighed with great relief.
Finally, Grandmother called us to come out. There stood the magnificent Christmas tree. An angel looked down from the very top; and the branches were covered with candies and candles and sparklers and glistening angel’s hair. Baby Jesus had again sent this tree and all the presents. Daddy could not be with us, but there was a precious gift from him. I was allowed to light one candle. Most of the grownups went to midnight worship service while Marika and I cuddled in bed with our new dolls. We listened as Grandfather told us the Christmas story. Tomorrow there would be feasting and visiting.
But for me, the best visitors that year were the angels. Mommy thought that perhaps they were carolers we had heard. I never believed that. They were angels. I am certain.
from: Echoes of Footsteps