I Heard the Bells

One of the most common, and detrimental, misconceptions about loss is that grief is something we “get through.”

As we discussed last week in Silent Night, society has linearized grief, thereby making it a chronological narrative that casts “healing” as an elusive land of milk and honey. According to the archetypal narrative, grief doesn’t end until we arrive in that fabled land and all our brokenness is restored.

It’s a nice idea – the framework of countless mainstream books and movies – but it’s patently inaccurate. In fact, it’s an impostor that cheapens the real fairytale. My life is not a Nicholas Sparks novel, and neither is yours.

The real fairytale, yours and mine, is much more painful, and inherently, much more beautiful.

Because healing isn’t a peak we summit, but rather, the lens through which we view the valley. It may have milk and honey, but its neither distant nor elusive. It exists inside of us. And we alone have the power to harness it.

Yes, my fellow grievers – healing is something we choose.

One of history’s most resonant examples is American poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The timeless scribe was no stranger to tragedy. In 1861, his wife, Fanny Longfellow, burned to death right in front of him. While attempting to melt a bar of sealing wax, a few stray drops fell upon her dress and ignited it. Despite her frantic attempts, Fanny was unable to extinguish the flames. When she ran into Henry’s office, he wrapped her in whatever he could find, including his own body, in a desperate effort to smother the flames and save her life.

But her wounds were simply too severe. She died the next morning.

Understandably, Longfellow was traumatized and heartbroken. He was also literally and figuratively scarred (a result of severe burns to his arms, hands, and face – the real reason for his iconic chest-length beard). To make matters worse, less than a year later, he received word that his eldest son, a soldier, had been shot and gravely wounded in a Civil War battle.

In the years that followed, Longfellow stood in the very place where we now stand: On the precipice of the great valley.

He had a decision to make. And he, like most of us, didn’t figure it out right away.

His journal tells the tale:

“How inexpressibly sad are all holidays.”

“I can make no record of these days. Better leave them wrapped in silence. Perhaps someday God will give me peace.”

“A “Merry Christmas” say the children, but that is no more for me.”

Those entries were from Christmas 1862. The next year, he was so bereaved he wrote nothing at all.

But something happened between 1863 and 1864. Something significant.

I’m no Longfellow historian, nor do I have any documentation to prove my extrapolations, but as someone who has stood (and stands) on the very same precipice, I’m confident I know what that “significant something” was.

Sometime in that fateful year between Christmas 1863 and Christmas 1864, Longfellow made the realization all grievers must eventually make:

Much like grief is not something we merely get through, healing is not something that happens to us.

It’s something we choose.

It is not the absence of heartbreak, the convalescence of wounds, or the disappearance of scars. It’s hearing the bells in spite of our agony.

When Longfellow sat at his desk and wrote “Christmas Bells” in 1864, his heartbreak had not vanished; his wounds were undoubtedly still raw; his beard still shrouded his scars. He was still broken. But after three years of silence, he heard the bells…

“I heard the bells on Christmas day

Their old familiar carols play

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good will to men!”

Now preserved in the classic Christmas song, I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, may Longfellow’s words be a source of hope for you this Christmas season, a melodic reminder that healing exists inside of you, and that heartbreak is powerless to stop it.

Stand against the wind, broken and scarred, and hear them – the bells are ringing.

“Then pealed the bells more loud and deep

God is not dead, nor doth He sleep!

The Wrong shall fail

The Right prevail

With peace on earth, good will to men!”

My favorite version: I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day – Casting Crowns.

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