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| Neavitt United Methodist Church- eastern shore of Maryland |
The bell peals across the Marsh. It is an uneven sound and the
timing is off by a minute or two. It does not peal so much as clang. It is an ill-formed bell perhaps, and almost
certainly rung by hand at a small church unable to afford electronic carillons
and computerized mechanisms.
A memory of
when I was little comes to mind. Walking with my family into the vestibule of
the old St. Louis Church. Its doors wide open to the mild Sunday morning. Faded
smells of incense and paste wax linger in the air and the sun slips through
stain glass windows and across the backs of simple wood pews. The priest in his vestments and two altar
boys in black cassocks and freshly pressed white cottas stand in the vestibule.
A rope dangles down 30 feet from the belfry. The priest grins and nods to the one of boys
and the one not chosen looks on with barely concealed envy. The chosen one reaches high, grabs the rope
with two hands and pulls hard, producing a faint peal. He pulls harder and the
bell begins its rocking motion, and the clapper hits against the side with more
confidence and more volume. Each time
the rope rises, the boys hands, gripped tightly, also rise high above his head
and the momentum lifts him to his toes. This bell, the bell of my memory, peals
deep and true and at that moment, all I want to be is an altar boy.
