A Chant Sublime

I wrote this post last year for Christmas. For weeks, I've been trying to write a new one, some words to give of myself but unfortunately, I'm a little dry this year. In the mean time, I hope you don't mind the repeat. Thank you and I wish you the happiest of holidays, whatever you may celebrate.

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“I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet, the words repeat
Of Peace on Earth, Good will to Men.”

One of my favorite Christmas songs is I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day. It never used to be. I’ve long preferred O Holy Night and What Child is This? My father used to sing to us O Holy Night as a lullaby and so that particular song will always be dear to my heart.

So, why the bells?

"I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along th’unbroken song
Of Peace on Earth, Good will to Men.”

A few years back, the church we attended had a tradition at Christmastime of letting the congregation come up to the pulpit and describe their favorite Christmas hymns. We could come up, tell our stories, and the congregation would sing a single verse to allow time for others to share theirs. It was a beautiful, interesting way to learn more about people, as well as fill ourselves with song just days before Christmas.

One year, an older gentleman shuffled up to the podium. There was an awkward pause as he rested there, shifting from one foot to the other while he looked down at his shoes. After a time, he raised his head and looked out at all of us.

He said, “This time of year is hard for me. I lost my wife last year at Christmas.” Again, he stopped and looked down. When he could speak again, he told us how that cold Christmas morning, he awoke to a home still decorated by her hand, gifts for her under the tree, and an empty chair where she would have sat.

All of these things tore open his wounded heart. On a day the rest of the world spent rejoicing, he wept alone by the lighted tree.

“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.'”

While he mourned, he heard a sound from outside. Rising over the glistening snow, too early to be out in that weather, he heard voices. Though he couldn’t see them, he could hear carolers, singing some jaunty holiday tune and shaking a small set of bells.

That small, tinny sound brought back the memory of another time in life, where he lived in a small town with a bell tower. Every Christmas, the bells called out over the city; a bone-deep ringing, celebrating the birth of Christ.

“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.'”

For a moment, the sound of the caroler’s bells was coupled with the cathedral bells of his memory. His mind was filled with that verse: “God is not dead, nor doth he sleep.”

He told us that in that moment of great despair, he felt God sent him a personal message. That bitter Christmas morning, God reminded him that it was a day of miracles—the greatest miracle the world had known—the day the Christ child was born for the sake of man.

That miraculous day was not just a promise of salvation. It was the promise of understanding—true empathy for all he might ever go through. It was a promise of forever and the truth that he would be reunited with his beloved wife.

His heart rose and swelled within his chest.

“Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of Peace on Earth, Good will to Men.”

It was one of the few times the congregation was allowed to sing the full hymn.

While I do not doubt that many hearts were touched by that gentleman’s story, my own was changed forever. I learned something about despair that day. I learned that Christ did not just suffer for the sins of the world but the injustices of the world, also. It is a lesson I’ve carried with me through many hard times.

Whenever I feel that despair creeping upon me, whenever my life becomes so difficult that I want to declare the non-existence of peace on earth, I play this song. It doesn’t even need to be Christmas—but after I play it, I find Christmas in my heart.

I hope as you near the heart of this season—wherever you are and whatever you believe—that you have peace. I wish for you a time of reprieve from your sorrows, a calm in your storms, and a rising joy in your heart.

A voice, a chime, a chant sublime of Peace on Earth, Good will to Men.

Merry Christmas

L.T.

Eighty-Seven

In honor of my Grandmother’s Eighty-Seventh birthday, I’m reposting something I wrote about her last October. I guess it just says everything I feel when I think of her.

I love you, Grandma.
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“The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leaves
And blossom, under heavens of happy blue.”
--Jean Ingelow

Her name falls from our lips moments before we get home. Like we had summoned her, there she is in the drive, a silhouette waving in the dappled light. My chest fills with that same sun kissed warmth and I smile.

My sons tumble from the car, all hands and arms and bouncing hugs. Her laughter echoes like springtime; dying leaves are confetti in the air. It’s the best kind of surprise, the only kind I welcome.

They call her “Other Grandma” and she is. Great-Grandma is too distant for someone as close and constant as my own mother. She takes their tugs and pulls like priceless coins and pays them back in kind. As they scamper away, her eyes find mine and I am drawn into timelessness. My own tumbling hugs and grubby childlike fingers clasp hers in the windows of our memories.

I breathe deep and recall home as pure as home ever was. My grandmother—my haven.

The talk is all of ripened fruit and admiration for God’s growing goodness. Time is folded. We gather our buckets and head for the harvest. What is mine is hers, what is hers is mine.

Her voice calls up through the branches, a reminder that my perch is safe and guarded. She debates the worth of those high, bulbous globes and I pretend not to hear. I know the best is always closest to the sun.

I take a step down and she calls a tender warning. My arms stretch low, my hand cradling the faded green-gold fruit. Earth and sky meet as her papery fingers brush mine and I know that heaven is not above—but below.

Again and again I reach for the sky, plucking pieces of sun and dropping them into her waiting hands. Each brush of my skin against hers is reminder of time and how I wish it would stop. Just she and me beneath the pear-tree.

Our treasures teeter over brims and we leave the smaller pears tethered to their mother tree. Another time. Another day. A moment more to admire the tomatoes I’d never have grown without her and it’s time to go.

The sunlight has switched places and her face is a shadow in that brilliance though I am now the one standing in the drive. A slice of fear grips my heart—it is the second time I couldn’t see her face though we’re both wreathed in radiance.

Her voice finds me in my blindness, a happy farewell, and I brave a smile for her. My son’s words play in my head through another folded moment:

     “I hope Other Grandma never dies.”

and I whisper as she drives away, “Me too.”