The bell had last rung in 1945 on Christmas Day, its peal joyful and jubilant. The bell was twenty years old then, and the one who rang it was strong and sinewy. He could still remember the sweater he’d worn that day. It was of heavy knitted wool, handmade by his girl, Betty. He planned to ask her to marry him the next evening and knew she’d say yes.
He knew, because that’s the way life was for him. It was almost as if he could make what he wanted appear before his eyes. If he wanted a job, he got it. If he wanted a girl, she loved him. When he wanted a house, he’d be moving in the next month.
They’d had a small wedding in the church where he was bell-ringer, but the bell didn’t ring on his wedding day. It didn’t ring on any Sunday or holy day afterward, either. He’d checked to see what the problem was. The clapper seemed fine. There were no noticeable cracks and the bolts were tight. He’d climbed up to examine the mechanism of ropes and pulleys. Nothing. So there it remained, in its ordained place high above the church, looking for all the world like a working bell, but in reality doing only that and nothing more.
He and Betty had raised a family. Five strong boys and a daughter whose life had been cut short by a high fever and misdiagnosis. Betty, his Betty, couldn’t stand the loss and she had died within a year. Neighbors were puzzled. She’d seemed in good health. But he knew it wasn’t her health. It was her heart.
He’d soldiered on, looking up at what he called “his bell” each time he crossed the church threshold. He hadn’t been able to fix the bell just as he hadn’t been able to fix Betty’s grief. It bothered him, not being able to make things right. But the bell was the first to teach him that life can clobber even the luckiest man.
It was Christmas Eve, and the years had marked time as they do in everyone’s life. He was tired and the church was, too. And he thought, as he listened to sweet carols sung by weary voices, that what he needed was what the church needed. And what the church needed was what the world needed.
He slipped out of his pew before the last song and climbed the tower stairs to stare once again at the bell. And he did something he hadn’t done when trying to fix it nor in all the trials in his life that he’d found to be unfixable.
The good Lord had more important things to do than listen to an old man make a needless request. But this time, well this time, he’d approach the throne. After all, even Kings give presents to their servants.
“Father,” he whispered, his breath making puffs in front of him. “I’m so tired, and this here church is world-weary. And who are we, anyway? We aren’t any of us impressive or even good. I’ve tried, Lord, how I’ve tried to get this bell to ring. It was my job, and I failed. I couldn’t figure it out. I couldn’t fix it. And it won’t matter, I guess, if you don’t do this. But it’d mean a lot if this old bell could ring again; If it would do what it’s meant to do, and on Christmas Eve, no less. Let it ring, Father. Let it fill the night with the voice of the angels.”
And the old man, full of years, grabbed the rope and pulled with all his might. And clarion rings called from the church tower, echoing through the town and fields. Its peals were taken up by bells across the town: big, booming bells; choir-like bells that rang in harmony; even tiny bells hanging from Christmas trees in homes of the townsfolk. The church people rose from their pews and ran outside to look up in wonder. And the old man pulled and pulled with tears streaming down his face, while voices of the angels sang.