We Heard the Bells

Our first big snow arrived over the weekend, all gusts and billows, and our dear town was nearly plummeted in the best of ways. The neighborhood children scattered into yards front and back, wrapped in pom pom hats and last season’s too-small snow pants. Red-cheeked and breathless, they set out producing all manner of festive creations – ice sculptures from cake pans, towering snow frogs(?), for our own part: a fairly ambitious luge ramp down the driveway.

And me? I joined the chorus of parents taking particular delight in the quiet and warmth by the fire, sorting craft ideas, recipes, and planned outings to tuck into our annual advent calendar. I unpacked our bin of beloved Christmas books, paging through favorite stories carrying notes in the margin of when they were read, funny insights, which child was delighted most by the tale and why. Someday, and it is not lost on me how someday is so often nearer than we think, they’ll belong to the children for their own tradition-making. But not yet.

In a season that has felt heavy, the brief respite for reflection was welcomed. Poring over memories more abundant than I’m owed reminds me of just that: I am owed nothing. Life is not a given, but a gift.

Last week, the kids and I read the myth of Demeter, who the Greek believed to be the goddess of the harvest. In one particular tale, her daughter Persephone is taken to the underworld, and Demeter enters a period of mourning. The earth she keeps domain over becomes cold, barren, frozen. She wanders the earth in search of her daughter – perhaps, also, in search of who she is to become without her daughter? – for months. Only until Persephone returns to her side does Demeter’s joy bring forth new life, rich soil, the beginnings of crops. Spring, again.

It occurs to me that many of us can find a home in the tale of Demeter this winter. Wandering, somewhat aimless, awaiting our spring. Our homes ache with grief, loss, disappointment. Our hearts feel broken by what we cannot yet find. Our nation bulges with conflict, strife. Our world feels unsteady, tilting nearer to an underworld where the rules no longer apply.

But this morning, one of my favorite Christmas songs came on the radio:

And in despair I bowed my head:
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Yes, of course our world is broken. Our hearts are broken. And perfect peace and goodwill – by our definition – will remain unattainable. Because what is peaceful to one does not bring good will to men. And what is peaceful to men does not bring good will to all.

Still, the bells ring.

Sometimes hope arrives after a terrible injustice. Sometimes we’re lucky enough to catch it. We find ourselves making beaded elves for the tree, or pouring warm syrup into a candy mold and we feel a quickening, a pulse of light. Radiant, warm, expectant – joy, or something like it.

There are other times, of course, in which winter stretches long. Hope feels elusive, a luxury in which we can’t afford. There are sidewalks to shovel and boots to dry and errands to run, and December becomes a finish line too far to cross, the tail end of a year in which we have grown too weary to fathom crawling past with anything less than our barest of wounds. Banged up and burdened, our eyes fail us. 

And so, we must open our ears.

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

The truth is this: the bells ring daily – in good news and bad. They ring, always, setting our world in motion to a rhythm we don’t understand; a song left unsung, a roaming Demeter in a season of pause. 

And if we try, perhaps for a moment, we might hear them. Clearer than the collective sounds of crowds shopping, sleds scraping, mothers grieving, babies giggling, families feuding, neighbors shoveling, music blaring, pans banging, enemies fighting.

They sound still, small. Quiet.

A bit like a voice.

“Let me hear what God will speak, for he will speak peace to his people.” -Psalm 85:8

Yes, the bells ring.

And today, just for a moment, a small miracle: we heard them.

 

p.s. Today’s essay was inspired by this week’s A Year of Reflection prompt. Feel free to join us for 2026 here!