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 a steeple might feel exclusive instead of welcoming.
Maybe someone thought it would be better to just let the bells go quiet.

And that’s sad.
Because those bells? They weren’t meant to divide anyone.
They were meant to call people together.
Even if you didn’t go to church.

Even if you didn’t believe in the words.
They were beautiful.
Simple, honest beauty ringing out into everyday life.

I’m not Catholic now.
But I went to a Catholic high school, and anyone who’s spent a few years in plaid skirts and pews knows the sound of a church bell isn’t just background noise—it’s part of your inner landscape.

So when bells toll for a Pope, even years later, something inside stills.

It reminds you of a rhythm. A world with shared moments. Sound marking sacred time.

Of course, not everyone hears church bells the same way.

If you were from a different faith—or no faith at all—maybe they didn’t feel so welcoming.
Maybe they rang more like a reminder, or even a threat: “This is a Christian town.”
And if that’s how they hit… I get it.
Because sometimes old-fashioned things carry old-fashioned exclusions, too.

But I like to think the best parts—the truly beautiful parts—weren’t meant to divide us.
They were meant to connect us.
And maybe that’s the part worth remembering.
Worth reclaiming.

Not the walls.
But the sound that reached out anyway.

Because old-fashioned things still matter.

The way a bell rings out over rooftops.
The way it belongs to everyone who hears it.
The way it asks you to pause—just for a moment—and be part of something bigger.