The bells of noon

I love living near churches. They are brick and stone ponds in a neighborhood. Places the sunsets paint everyday and oh, the bells.

My parents were married in a church with a 220-bell carillon. The bells rang at their wedding. The carillon is massive, brick and its sound carries for blocks in Lincoln.

In Chicago, we lived within 1 mile of at least a thousand churches (South Side, amiright?) but I don't remember any bells. Not even from the Catholic church (St. Barnabus, if you must know) that defined our parish. Our house shared a street with the trains, though, so. We still had a repetitive, timed soundtrack to our lives, but it was ... different.

I remember sitting in my apartment on B Street in Lincoln, realizing that I could hear the bells from ... somewhere. When I moved to St. Louis, I reveled in Sunday mornings, and still love the hustle and the bustle of other people going to church, of bells on the holidays reminding me to breathe slowly for a moment and inviting a blessing for the celebrants.

Here we are offered hourly serenade.

The noontime bells just filled my open window with something more joyous than 12 on a Tuesday might seem to warrant.

A reminder of the sacredness of time? The power of focus energy in a community? The privilege of clocks?

All of this, I think, and more.

The bells drew this forth, after all.