The steeple of a tiny church across the canal from my temporary digs in southern Florida pushes its tiny cross toward the sky. I’ve been asked to travel to Orlando for a radio interview and then elsewhere for tv, and have to prepare for that, as well as to write almost daily for a variety of media interested in “Hey, God?
Yes, Charles.” But I work really hard to be “home” every day I can, at 9, noon, and 5, so that I can sit on a bench beside the water.
In a moment, sweet bells from that church will begin to ring. They will toll their way through two hymns, the bells a gift from a widow in loving memory of her husband. That would be wonderful enough. But there’s more.
We’re on an island, and it’s pretty isolated, a fishing village. The story is that she was in the bait shop down the way here, sharing her idea with the owner
but, she said, I don’t have any idea how to find someone who does bells. A man, who just happened to be standing within earshot, spoke up and said…"I do." He directed her to the right person - a bell person - on another island. Really??!!