As some of you may know I’ve recently been taking some time away from my heavy commitment to writing to do some religious service but while I have put being an author on pause I have not put being a writer on pause. Very early on in my service I had the idea of writing a Christmas story and sharing it with some of the new friends I made at the various locations where I serve. With some heavy-handed insistence however I have been persuaded to put the story here. More than any other story I’ve written however I kept having a strong feeling that I needed to be working on this. I have always tried to convey my faith in my writing but I have never done it this directly. The word ‘God’ has very rarely appeared in my writing but this story is different. Perhaps it is because of how different this time of my life is. Much of this story has felt inspired and while it is a work of fiction I remembered some very important people in my life who are no longer with us while writing this story. I think most of you already know the true meaning of Christmas. I’ve learned it from some of you, but I hope you enjoy this story for what it is.

It has been said many many times, though not often enough, that there is something special about the Christmas season. Even though we are bombarded with the artificial sounds of commercials, the only thing people know more than what they want for Christmas is that the true meaning of Christmas is not in the presents.

For some, it is a joyful realization of what they have: a loving family, a warm home, and a hope of brighter future. But it can also cause someone who has borne their trials with great strength to pause, and remember what was lost, and to feel the coldness of winter that often accompanies this time of year.

Everyone in this story already knew the true meaning of Christmas. We didn’t learn anything new from this experience, but there is something powerful in seeing and not telling.  

While on a leave of absence from my university I returned to my home to work so I could afford the next few semesters. I felt obligated to help when I was asked to teach a class for twelve to fourteen-year-olds. To this day I am convinced that there is a degree in hell which consists of teaching classes for twelve to fourteen-year-olds.

One day after our church’s choir practice the director of the choir, Sister Hiatt, approached me. She was a woman I only partially knew. She had an ageless face and in my own youth, I never knew how old she was. She could have been in her thirties or sixties and I would have believed either. She was very serious about music and made sure our choir practices were not a social event.

“Ethan,” she called out to me, cornering me in one of the pews after practice. “I was thinking of doing a song for our Christmas program with some of the children. Do you think your class would be interested in doing that?”

I thought of each and every student in my class carefully. “Well… they don’t really like to sing.”

“Oh that’s okay,” she said as I watched her reveal some genuine excitement. “It could be a bell choir.”

Seeing this rare innocent enthusiasm from her I decided to break one of the commandments I’d been trying so hard to teach my students: I lied, “They would love that.”

“But that’s not even a Sunday!” Isaac Witt, my most challenging student, blurted when Sister Hiatt presented her idea the next Sunday to my class.

The boy next to him, James Coatney, jumped when Isaac shouted. James was rubbing the leather skin on his bible and after the shout, he seemed to rub it a little faster. I always felt I had to be delicate around James as though he were a fine piece of china that would shatter into a million pieces if he even thought someone was cross with him. For reasons I guess known only to the two of them and God they were friends.

“Christmas is on a Sunday this year,” Sister Hiatt explained. “They want to keep our services short so our main performance will be on Saturday evening. Besides, it’ll be a wonderful way to spend Christmas Eve.”

They were no match for her unusual enthusiasm.

She brought with her a small white box that must have eaten at the children’s curiosity. Placing it on a table the children watched in reverent awe (at least it seemed like that to me since I’d never seen them so still). As she pulled the lid off tissue paper popped out like snow. With gentle hands, she lifted a small white bell out of the box. It glistened and looked so pure as though it had never been touched by human hands. On the side was an intricately carved depiction of the nativity.

“My father used to joke that this was the bell that only rings once a year,” Sister Hiatt said with a melancholy smile. “It will only be played once in this song between verses.”

James seemed mesmerized by the bell. He had even stopped rubbing the leather on his bible. I think Sister Hiatt recognized this because she turned to him. “Would you like to ring it?”

He nodded hesitantly before she handed the bell to him. He cradled it like a babe and ran his thumb across the carving of the star multiple times before he lifted it by the handle and let it ring out.

It was beyond description. A high-pitched note rang with such clarity and resonance that it demanded the whole world be still as the glorious sound rang out; If Christmas could be defined in a single sound, it would be this one.

We all listened until the last of its reverberations had trickled out.

Each week the students practiced and got a little better with their bells. All the while James only held onto that one bell and he only rang it once every time they ran the song. Eventually, I asked him if he wanted to have a second bell, but he shook his head and said he was worried he’d mess up.

I was always impressed at the size of Sister Hiatt’s home though I think part of the reason it felt so big was because it was so empty. It had all the things you’d expect it to have, but it was a quiet lonely mansion with rooms too big for their own good. Christmas was the one time of year it seemed more full because of all the choir practices that were often held there and I don’t know when the last time this many children were ever inside of it.

She didn’t just practice with them though. At the end of each session, she asked them questions about Christmas and Christ. At the end of one practice, Isaac started talking about his family: how it was difficult sometimes to be with so many people from all over the country. As he talked I noticed a sad twinge in Sister Hiatt’s eye. All my life I had known her as a lonely woman but I never knew how much loneliness could hurt.

Pain isn’t measured like fruit at the grocery store; it’s all just as different and unique as the person bearing it. I never did learn the source of Sister Hiatt’s intense pain. Her house was so barren and sad it made me think that maybe there was once someone she loved so much who had died and all that love turned to sorrow. Or maybe they betrayed her and that love turned to hate. Or maybe there was never anyone or anything to put all that love into. I knew, however, that the reasons didn’t matter; a scar was there. I couldn’t imagine what it looked like but in spite of all the reasons to dismiss the song of peace on Earth, she was singing louder and stronger than anyone I had ever known. Rather than shrink from this bleak time each year she made a challenge of it. There was an unspeakable strength in it I thought.

I wanted so badly to say something kind and thoughtful to Sister Hiatt but words failed me. Nothing I thought to say seemed to be enough and we made the short walk back to the church with my mind in a haze feeling sorry for that poor woman.

I guess I had decided that actions would speak louder than words and I dedicated myself that year to really going above and beyond in my own practice at choir and making sure my students took their role seriously.

Our chapel was full. Many friends and families of our congregation joined us for just this night. Some I don’t think had ever been in a church before and others, like a certain bell only, came once a year.

We sang for quite a while about all the typical Christmas things: a star, a babe, a manger, and so on until we reached the final song and the bell choir shuffled to their places.

We sang through the first few verses with a sprinkling of the bells. It was all on point and better than any practice we had ever done. Then we neared the part where James would play his bell. The choir softened until we went completely mute. The silence in the room seemed to roar in a way only possible in song.

There was a lot of emotion I could feel in that silence.

Then it rang out: that marvelous little bell. The sound filled the whole room with warmth. It was an extraordinary sound and I was convinced that the whole Earth stopped to let the last of its reverberations die out. The choir began to sing softly and grew as we moved on to the next measure. More bells joined us but right as the next measure began something unexpected happened.

It sounded again—James’s bell. I quickly hid my confused expression and sang on. I noticed Sister Hiatt’s face contort as she led on. Had it been a mistake?

Then at the next measure right on beat, it sounded a third time and I stole a glance behind me. James had a humble look on his face as he pushed the bell forward letting it ring again.

And for each measure, the bell rang out. At first, I thought it would ruin the song but as I opened my mind I realized that it complimented it beautifully. It was as if the song we had practiced was incomplete. If I were to ever hear the song again the way we practiced it I knew it wouldn’t sound right. This song needed the bell.

As the choir hit its final note Sister Hiatt looked to James with a smile. She extended her hand and he played on her cue one last time and the sound of voices and that wondrous bell blended into something beyond words.

I think everyone noticed. Even the people in the audience knew something unexpected yet powerful had happened. There was an undeniable spirit in the air.

After a prayer, Sister Hiatt stood in front of the choir and mouthed the words “thank you” with tears staining her cheeks. Many of my students made quick getaways but James remained at the center in the back of the stage staring hard into the bell.

As I approached him I could tell I startled him. “I’m sorry-”

“No, no, it was beautiful… I’m just surprised you would do that,” I said.

He nodded and his fear vanished. “It’s a beautiful sound… So why should it only ring once a year? I thought it needed to ring more.”

I smiled and hugged him. “I think you’re absolutely right.”

We wished each other a ‘Merry Christmas’ and went off the stage to our families but the truth of what that young boy said has never left my heart.

A bell that only rings once a year is a flawed notion. Just as silly as a Savior we only celebrate once a year; just as ridiculous as a religion we only practice once a week. No, such a sound, such a gift deserves to ring out all year round and in every moment. And when that song softens and it seems that the noise is lost we ring it again so that the miraculous song of ‘Peace on Earth and Goodwill to Men’ never dies but plays in the hearts of each and every one of us every time we draw breath.