As a child, I attended a small German church nestled in the middle of the bread basket of the world, Central California. Today, the stately structure still stands quietly amid a crumbling country town. Since the early 1900s, it’s been the center of every major family event of the Volga German Christians living in the area. My parents, aunts and uncles, and cousins were all married there. Babies were baptized. Families said “Goodbye” to loved ones.
The bell tower was always a curiosity, yet I never braved the narrow stairs to check it out. The early community knew what each pattern of dongs meant. One set of rings meant a wedding, another signaled that church was about to begin. This wasn’t a preprogrammed AI-generated announcement, but produced by the bell-ringer who was a very real person. Before the memorial service for my 92-year-old father, the bell rang 92 times, once for each year of his life.
Upon entering the church, I remember being greeted by the warmth of the space. The air smelled of old wood and candle wax mingled with the faintest hint of pine. Simple wooden pews lined the room, their surfaces worn smooth by decades of worshippers. Stained glass windows cast colorful patterns on the stone floor, their designs depicting nativity scenes that glowed softly in the fading sunlight. The room was silent, save for the faint rustle of wind outside and the quiet hum of something timeless lingering in the air.
Each Sunday, the service started with the first delicate notes of a familiar hymn. A small choir of voices rose in unison from a corner near the altar, their melody pure and hauntingly beautiful. When the Christmas season arrived, “O Come All Ye Faithful” filled the room, each verse swelling with a reverence that seemed to transcend time. I stood still, captivated by my mother’s beautiful voice. There was something wonderful about the way the hymn echoed in the room, wrapping itself around me like a warm embrace.
Singing old hymns today stirs memories from my childhood—Christmas Eves spent with my family, sitting together in the living room as the fire crackled in the hearth. Singing Christmas carols while my mom played the piano, the words connecting us to something far greater than ourselves. In our little chapel, that sense of unity and wonder was nurtured for years assuring that beautiful traditions would never fade away.
This church was built by Volga German immigrants decades earlier, a labor of love creating a new home in a foreign land. They brought hymns, customs, and faith, weaving them into the fabric of California’s cultural landscape. “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” was a hymn that crossed oceans and centuries, just as those early settlers had. My earliest memories are of the old Germans sitting in the front row while singing the song in their native tongue. Mysterious to a little one that could barely sing the song in English.
The last time I sat with my family, I quietly sang along. My voice was unsteady at first, but soon blended with others, carried by the same unseen force that filled the room. “O come, let us adore Him,” we sang as the words floated up to touch the heavens.
When the hymn ended, the silence returned, but the church was somehow thick with peace and the lingering echoes of something eternal. Sitting in one of the pews, I let the moment settle into my heart while time seemed to stand still.
As I left the church all those Christmas’ ago, I felt a quiet sense of joy, as though I’d been given a gift. The strains of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” stay with me, a reminder that some things—faith, music, tradition—can transcend time and place. Decades later, I still think of that little German chapel nestled in the vineyards of Central California and the hymn that connected me to a world both past and present. Every Christmas, when I hear those familiar notes, I’m transported back to that sacred space, where voices blended in perfect harmony.