I AM A BELLRINGER.   Not little tinkly handbells, but big, bronze, high in the sky, swinging back and forth tower bells. I got involved in Change Ringing – which is what this particular pastime is called – when I was a freshman at the University of Chicago.  At that time, U of C’s Mitchell Tower was one of only 15 towers in North America.

I loved ringing because it was a mix of physical exertion, intense concentration and team work.  And it was typically U of C – an arcane, obscure activity which appealed to my sense of whimsy.  I plunged into ringing and worked my way up the learning curve, starting with bell control and then taking part in ringing complex patterns and sequences called methods, all documented by rows of numbers written down on paper with a thin blue line marking a particular bell’s progress through the course.  When I moved back to New York in 1984 however, there were no towers nearby so ringing took a 22-year hiatus until Trinity Church Wall Street installed a beautiful ring of 12 bells in 2006.

I got involved immediately but sadly the demands of work and small children at home kept me from attending with any regularity.  But still the ringers warmly welcomed me back whenever I showed up and kept me posted via email about goings-on in the tower despite my long absences.

After my wife’s stroke in 2009, I found myself stranded in London (not at all a bad place to be stranded, mind you).  I soon fell in with the ringers in East London, and was warmly taken in by the band at St. Dunstan’s in Stepney.  When I wasn’t at work or at the hospital visiting Mary Elizabeth, I was ringing – either in weekday practices (and the pub after), or racing around on Sunday mornings to ring for services at multiple churches.  Usually we’d start at Stepney, hop in the car and race across the Thames and ring at Southwark, and then, time permitting, head over to St. Vedast in Foster Lane.  The ringers’ hospitality, friendship and warm support made what would have otherwise been a grim 3-and-a-half months bearable.

As the months wore on and we were trying to get home, each evening I’d show up at the tower and somebody would remark, “Well, we’re happy to see you – but sad that you’re still here.” Meanwhile, back at home the ringers at Trinity hadn’t forgotten us and dedicated several quarter peals to Mary Elizabeth’s recovery, much like the ringers in Chicago had dedicated a quarter peal to celebrate our wedding back in 1993.

Earlier this year, I decided that despite the increasing demands on my time, I needed to take some time for myself and do something for me – and me alone.  So I re-dedicated myself to ringing – and although I can’t do Sundays – I am now usually found on Wednesday evenings ringing away with my bell friends high above Wall Street.

Several years’ absence from the tower left my ringing skills rusty and my hands tender from pulling on the bell ropes.  But with consistent ringing, I’ve improved greatly and am pleased with my progress.  And my hands have toughened up. In the first few weeks I had terrible blisters on my fingers and we went through a lot of bandaids.  Gradually however, calluses have replaced the blisters and the pain has gone away.  Every once in a while, I’ll ring something new, or for a longer period of time and get surprised by another painful blister, but that too gradually becomes a callus.

Over the last 4 years,  I’ve tried to find some way to accept and even embrace the changes in our lives wrought by Mary Elizabeth’s stroke.  I’ve struggled to stay positive and count blessings  – not losses.  There are still dark days, but I think that gradually we think less about what happened to us, and more about what’s happening to us and what bright things the future might hold.  But I suppose I’d been hoping for a sudden change – an eclat –  some kind of epiphany or breakthrough (accompanied by rays of heavenly light and angel chorus no doubt) – some single moment when I’ll be stopped in my tracks, thunderstruck by a profound understanding and knowledge which will leave me satisfied and content with my life.

Well, that hasn’t happened and I don’t know if it ever will.  But while I’m waiting, I look down at the calluses on my hands from ringing and think about how gradually I’ve built up a resistance to pain.  Sure, I’m sometimes reminded of our pre-stroke life, or see a picture or video of Mary Elizabeth and feel that sharp and searing pain of loss.  But, I build up those callouses, grab a hold of the rope and keep on ringing.