Bells And Whistles

Bells and Whistles

I don’t always hear the bells and whistles of my neighborhood, but then I don’t always listen.

The bells chime on the hour or for special occasions, ringing out from one of the churches near my home. The notes they peal tumble over one another on the wind, their tones mingled with the noise of the day. Sometimes I detect a melody, sometimes not. But they make lovely music just the same.

The whistles make long and plaintive moans, each more like a lament than a song. I hear the whistles most often in the dark: faraway sighs that become louder and longer as they travel toward me on unseen tracks.

I sometimes fail to hear the bells and whistles of my life, too. I miss the bells of joy that well up and spill over into ordinary moments, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. It just means I’ve begun to take them for granted—to overlook the joyful ringing of a spectacular sunrise or an unexpected embrace from a friend.

There are whistles, too. Echoing reminders of things I should let go of, even when I’d rather not. Regrets that I can’t redress or undo. Losses that don’t seem to dim with time. It aches to hear them, but it’s good to listen just the same.

Together, bells and whistles sound the story of my life. Yours, too. And it’s the combination of them that keeps us clinging to the author of both. It’s their strange and subtle intertwining that makes for a fuller, deeper, more percussive, and more precious existence.

Bells and whistles balance and bookend the days of our lives. Sometimes God throws a party in our presence, and the bells drown out the whistles. Sometimes he plays a dirge, and all we can hear are notes in a minor key. But it’s all music from him, written note by precious note and line by glorious line.

There is a time for every event under heaven—a time to give birth and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted. A time to kill and a time to heal; a time to tear down and a time to build up. A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-4, NASB