Silent Nights
By Sherlene Hall Bartholomew

It was the un-merry Christmas season of 1964 and the fourth not-so-fleeting month of my two-year LDS South German mission.  I was not finding that rich mission experience I always imagined when I first read fiery tracts by latter-day stalwarts like Parley P. Pratt, that Grandma sent from her mission with Gramps, when I was still a dreamer and in the sixth grade.

My first city was Schwenningen, a clock-making village overshadowed by the tangled and dense Black Forest, near the Swiss border.  Privately we called this town the mission “Siberia.”  Temperatures here, in response to both our message and the wind-blasted weather, were frost-bitingly frigid.

Sister White, my first companion, warned that four missionaries working this area the former year found only two converts.  I told her they just needed more faith.  During our morning scripture search, I marked a favorite verse:  “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.  For by it the [sisters] obtained a good report” (Hebrews 11:1-2).  The successes we would tally, I insisted, would come through unseen power, made bright by perfect hope.  I was certain I had lots of it!

Now, several months later, I was noticing a chill in my ability to hope for many things, true or not.  As we “tracted” each morning, even our shivering breath caught cold, blanching and croaking before its steam could thaw our over-wrapped noses.  As Sister Macbeth and I sloshed, skimmed, plunged, and plopped through the weather, even our conversation hung in the air like broken icicles—blunt and frosted.

I complained to myself that even if we made the effort to talk through all those layers of scarf, we would not have much to share.  Sister Macbeth’s warm smile and patient bearing cheered me the first time we met.  Our problem was in matters of style:  At meals I inhaled food through one side of my mouth while talking out the other, at the same time writing letters or mission reports with whichever hand wasn’t forking.  Sister Macbeth preferred civilized dining.  My “efficient: approach to more than eating did not help her digestion.

There was much time to think at security gates, after ringing stiff, reluctant buzzers.  Finally, if someone took pity, a hum told us to push open the door.  It was good to know scents of clove and cinnamon, sifting down stairs to unsettle our senses, were not ghost-tended, after all.  One of us held the door while the other shook off snow outside; then we headed up three or more flights of stairs.  At each level we knocked at suddenly silent apartment doors and lingered to blow on fingers and pen-tips, so defrosting ink could flow to witness one more haunting.

“Why don’t you go to Africa?”

Somehow we managed to keep going.  Those few who opened doors responded as they had since August:  “My grandparents belonged to my church, so did my parents—and I, too, shall die in the religion of my birth.  Why don’t you Americans go to Africa, instead of pestering those of us who are already Christians?”

It seemed, in this prospering village, that few had time for a message of Christ at Christmas—especially from those “Mormons.”  Sometimes we were invited in long enough to hear a few rumors about the Latter-day Saints, thrust upon us with curious stares.  That prompted a new door approach that I dared use only when I became a senior companion:  “We have a short message.  If you’ll let us share it, I’ll tell you about my ancestors, who were polygamists,” I’d confide in surreptitious tones.  It got us in more than once.

Several contacts told us a local priest promised sure damnation if they listened to our message.  Strangely, our work picked up after that fiery sermon, but not for long. 

It was the overflowing love of the deeply appreciative members of our small LDS branch that kept us going.  Hearing stories of their conversions and watching their sacrifice to keep the Church going warmed our souls and gave us inspiration to keep seeking out that one praying Sister Fürst or fervently-seeking Brother Schmidt.

Shortly before Thanksgiving we were blessed to knock on the door of a widow with two small children.  She not only invited us in, but listened with eagerness to our message.  We were elated, after all those weeks, to be sharing our gospel message.  I wrote home, with some excitement, that things were picking up.  It felt good to see hope light the eyes of this grieving mother and her children, as they learned about eternal marriage and the continuity of family ties in the hereafter.

One evening, as we left our apartment shortly before Christmas, our landlord gave us a hand-delivered, typed message signed by this, our favorite contact:

“Please eliminate your religious visit tonight,” it read.  “We don’t want to be annoyed by you anymore . . . We don’t want to see you ever again.  P.S.  The door will not be opened to you.”

After that we continued tracting the long hours from door to door, but our forced smiles lacked conviction.  We had felt so much love in the small apartment of this, our German sister.  To think that all along our visits were only a burden!

Weighed in the Balance (Daniel 5:27)

On December 6 “Sankt Niklaus,” looking strangely like the village priest, appears in German cities--coming early, I suppose, so that he can make it to the States by the 25^th.  He brings along Knecht Ruprecht, his flogging servant, who brandishes a long whip made of wood reeds tied with cords.  Good children get presents from St. Nick and bad ones, the whip.

One night, after a long day of counting closed doors, Sister Macbeth and I trudged home, too numb to even know what we were thinking.  As we began the long mount up the cemetery hill to our apartment, the collapsing crunch of ice-glazed snow beneath us punctuated our blank thought, as if to give it meaning.  My eyelashes were stiff with ice and stuck together, but rubbing them with brittle gloves only further smeared my sight.  Peering through half-closed lids, I strained to see the blue cast of occasional street lamps, streaking eerily through rings of greenish haze against the starkly black and overpowering night.

Suddenly we noticed that shadowy figures behind the cemetery wall were keeping our pace.  When we slowed, so did they.  When we slogged harder against the deep snow, they stalked faster—always one short step behind.  When terror froze our progress, the stolid crunching halted, too.  As we finally took courage, forging past the cemetery gate, it creaked open, and two dark figures crossed the road, chasing after us.  Frantic, we fought ice for distance, as a voice commanded:  “Lady missionaries, stop!  We must talk with you.”

Turning, heart-in-throat, we saw outlines in the snow of a grizzled figure flaunting a whip and a robed priest in cardinal’s cap.  Vastly relieved, but still shaking, we faced our own judgment:  “Lady missionaries, have you been good this year?” asked the bearded shepherd, extending his staff.

I usually think of the right thing to say at three a.m. the next day, but this time silent prayer and plenty of adrenalin gave voice:  “I assure you,” I said, with my broken German, “We have been more than good.  Despite our best efforts, we have not convinced one member of your flock.”

“Very good,” said the voice below menacing, but now amused eyes.  “See that you have as good a report next year.  Knecht Ruprecht, put away that whip.  Such failure has its sweet reward!”  With that he handed us each a giant-sized chocolate bar.

Before we could gather words of thanks, the two priests pried open that arthritic gate and pressed through, while it groaned its discomfort.  Iron clasps clanked shut, sending an involuntary shudder down the moss-black graveyard wall.  Rooted in our tracks, we stared at this still vibrating fort, while rattling icicles huddled and chattered.  Falling silent, they hung down from slush-weeping cracks like unsheathed swords, dripping parted fluid.

Returning to our climb, pondering walls, our silence was soon overtaken by erupting hilarity from behind the wall we had turned our back on.  How comforting to learn that even this barrier could not contain sounds of glee, bounding over walls as lightly as might schoolboys playing hooky in the snow.  As we reached the top of the hill, we could still hear those messengers in the night, singing as they wove their way back to the church.  What were those familiar strains?  Could it be--now where did they learn “Jingle Bells”?  With all our hearts, we tossed back a chorus:  “Oh, what fun . . .,” we sang, all the way home.

Candles in the Night

That night our mission news was in the mail, with President John K. Fetzer’s antidote for Christmas blues.  He suggested that all missionaries present a gift on Christmas Eve to that person who had hurt us most.  It would help us understand the cleansing power of Christ-like compassion.

In response to our beloved leader’s suggestion, we bought an intricately carved gold candle, decorating it with pine boughs and carefully scribed verses about the light of our Savior’s love.  Our confidence was bright, too, as we approached the door of the widow who had sent the typed threat.  However, as we began to climb three flights up to her apartment, my heart beat faster, as my steps slowed.  I thought of all the reasons why this was not a good plan, after all:  What would this do to their Christmas and ours?  What if that angry man who lived below came out again to swear and rile?  What if on Christmas Eve, of all nights in the year, these loved ones blocked our hope to reconcile?  Perhaps that note spoke firm intent, not bluff.  What if they thought this just a ploy to shame—or worse, buy charity?  What right had we on this calm night to jar their privacy?  Sending cards was probably enough.

When we finally reached her door, we again tried to shake the snow off our long, wool coats and heavy, fur-lined boots, but the wet stuff clung like despair to a chilled heart.  We took a deep breath and rang her bell.  Perhaps the door would never open.  We had rehearsed what we would say if it did, but as the door opened, my mind went as blank as our appointment book.

I do not remember what we said.  I do remember extending our gift and stuttering something.  She looked at us a very long moment in utter disbelief and then burst into tears.  Throwing her arms around us both, she dragged us into her apartment, ignoring our protest that we first shed wet wraps.

Over and over she begged our forgiveness, saying that her father-in-law forced the typed message on her, threatening to evict her and the children from their apartment, which he owned, if she did not agree to end our visits.  She said she had felt miserable ever since delivering the letter, but had no other place to take her children.  The children were overjoyed to see us.  We were not sad to learn that the man downstairs was out of town that evening.

We opened our scriptures and read tenderly of shepherds in fields and angels singing of “Good will toward men”—that hope for peace that all began with a babe in a manger.  Together we sang enchanting carols children bring to open doors in Germany, each season:  “O Christmas Tree,” “Dear Children Come,” “Daughter of Zion, Rejoice,” and finally the reverent rhyme with simple melody whose sublime strains rose from nearby woods to vibrate in the hearts of Christians everywhere—“Silent Night, Holy Night.”  Familiar words seemed newborn, too, as thought caressed fresh wonder that bright night

Before leaving, we knelt together in our small circle of gratitude.  We prayed for our Lord’s blessing on this humble home and left well fed, much embraced, and tearfully thanked.

We did not endanger this German sister and her children with additional visits.  They did not come again to join with us in Sabbath worship.  I never heard from them again and doubt they ever joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

There was, however, something beyond statistics and mission “success” in our thoughts on that most holy night.  As we, with entwined arms, ascended that not-so-steep hill past the cemetery, I focused more intently on that streetlight at the hill’s crest.  Its radiance chased away dark shadows, casting a glow on our silent, but full conversation.

I noticed that when I quit squinting and defied the cold, opening wide my eyes, ice crystals on my lashes diffused light from the now-friendly lamp in rainbow splendor.  I watched this essence ebb and flow, swell with things unseen, then streak through the haze to overcome the night, in Schwenningen—hottest spot in what became the “Ever-Green Forest” of the verdant South German Mission.

Submitted to Meridianmagazine 17 Dec 2003, with minor editing from first publishment in This People, Holiday Issue, 1994.

Sherlene Hall Bartholomew, copyright 2003