Excerpt

My name is Jacqueline. My home is in France, in the village of Douai. In Douai we are known for the bells that have come and gone, and come again to our town hall. I have seen the joy that they have caused, the despair that we have felt from the loss of them, and the magic that they have created.

The bells came here centuries ago, some say that it was the year 1100 but who can know? They are as much a part of our village as the sea is to a seaport. In my lifetime I have seen the bells taken down cruelly and I have seen them raised again, as if the hopes and dreams, as well as the fears of the people of the village, were being raised with them. The raising of the bells is a dramatic work of sweat and toil. Before I saw it happening myself, I often wondered how such things would rise from the ore of the earth to their home in the tower.

I dreamed of it as a child and when I closed my eyes, it was if they elevated themselves to their place, far above us all. I would imagine it, and I could almost see them rising, as if on angels wings. And once in place, they would be there for all of the ages.
As a young girl, I always felt that in those times when the bells were silent in the tower, that they were there watching over us.

But such are the dreams of children. Bells are cast, with sweat and toil. We make them and put them in their cradled homes and set them to work for us.
But I also know that magic happens when people believe in each other. I know that mysteries unfold when people reach beyond themselves in faith, and reach to the extent of their mortal means, and still hope for more. I have learned that destinies are claimed or denied when we take the time to listen, as if we are listening for that still, small voice that is great within us.
In my lifetime I have listened, and sometimes tried without success, to ignore my destiny. On some occasions it whispered like the mellow tingle of a sleigh bell, and other times as if I were standing in the middle of the bell tower, surrounded by the pealing of every one of the thirty-five bells in my head.

The bells have come to mean something precious to me, not only by their tones, but also in the way that they symbolize our lives.

To me, the bells are like our individual gifts. They will sit there dormantly, until we decide to swing them into work. A still bell makes no music.
I have learned that if I move my gifts and my hopes and my dreams into action that wondrous things can happen.
Most importantly, I have learned that if I can swing my own bell into chiming, and have faith that all of the others bells will do the same, the world becomes a beautiful song.
Here is my story. It begins in the middle. The bells that ruled the tower for centuries, had been absent for decades, removed by people who sought to rule over us. After thirty long years, they were finally being restored to our village.

The Bells are lifted up again.

As the people in the town manned the many ropes and struggled to raise the bells into their new home atop the tower, there seemed to be a hesitancy to fully rejoice in this long awaited, much discussed and, often argued act.
Surely, there was no one from the town that was not present at the square on this day, for this event.
Certainly no one would miss the spectacle of seeing the bells rise to the tower.
Yes, they were all there. The young and the old. The many that had dreamed of this day and the few who dreaded it. Those who were largely indifferent were there for the spectacle and some were there to watch the others. Some came to sell their wares or food, knowing that the day would be like market day. Some came to eat, some to laugh or gossip or sip wine in the lazy sun that drooped over the heart of town at midday.