Church Bells

A nostalgic memory from growing up in a small town in the Flemish part of Belgium is the sound of the local church's bells calling people to Mass. I remember it as such a cheerful sound. We lived within walking distance from the nearby village church, and I have fond memories of being about eleven and putting on a pretty dress to get ready to walk to church, as the church bells kept on joyfully ringing. Our family did not do this very often, so it was a treat, to walk relaxed, on a warm summer's Sunday, together, talking, laughing, to church with my parents, sisters and brother. It was all the sweeter during the two month long summer vacations, as we did not have to worry about school the next day, so getting up early for church was all right. The sense of community, of belonging, brought about by a group of villagers walking to church, and to be part of that happening, still makes me miss that. I belong to a wonderful African American Baptist church, where the music is wonderful, but there was something so sweet and special about hearing the church bells ring, telling you it was time to get going for Mass. Maybe that is why the sound of the call to prayer coming from a mosque in the occasional movie I may come across set in the Middle East or North Africa, fills me with nostalgia.I feel a close spiritual connection through our private and abundant back yard with its numerous trees, bushes and rainbow of flowers, and half a dozen of different types of birds, but the feeling of spiritual peace and elation at hearing the church bells is something I will always miss. I imagine my aunt Lieve in Oostende, Belgium, walking to church each Sunday, as she has done her whole life, hearing the sweet sound of the church bells. It never ceases to amaze me what things you miss as you go through life as an immigrant. Becoming an immigrant makes you party to a very specific lens, through which you see things from the unique perspective of someone who forever has kaleidoscopic vision. Very beautiful at times, very confusing at others, because often you are alone in remembering what you left behind, and explaining it  only makes you more keenly aware of the specific challenges of the outside insider as a first generation immigrant you face on   the best of days.