Bells Across the Rooftops

In the neighborhood where I grew up, there were church bells. Not just the ordinary bong-bong-bong kind that marked the hour, but bells that played hymns. Real ones. Beautiful, melodic, and strangely uplifting, even to a kid who didn’t yet know the words. I didn’t even know where they came from. Just that they rang out across the trees, over the houses, like a soft invitation to pause and breathe. (If I had to guess now, I’d say they were from the Catholic church down the way—but I could be wrong.) Years later, when I became a regular churchgoer, I’d hear certain hymns and think: "Wait. I know this one." And I’d realize—I’d first heard them from the bells. And I miss them. That simple, comforting sound. The way they made a weekday feel sacred. The way they told you time was passing, but gently. You don’t hear bells like that much anymore. Maybe it’s because neighborhoods got noisier, or churches got smaller. Or maybe it’s because we’ve grown hesitant, afraid that a hymn from...