Church Bells
Guest Writer: Elizabeth-Anne Stewart
Elizabeth-Anne Stewart, C. 2022
I no longer hear the church bells ring,
summoning me from slumber,
awakening my soul,
rousing my sleeping heart
to a new day
a new world
a new beginning.
I no longer see
shadows playing on the walls
as dawn breaks
and sunlight stretches
through dusty blinds
into my room,
teasing me with vestiges
of yesterday
as I lie somewhere
between past and present
on a bed of solitude—
or loneliness, perhaps.
Oh, the ache of memory!
The ghosts that flit
across the cracks
of my fragmented self,
smile faintly, reminding me
of together days,
now severed by death—
but whose I ask,
who resides within the tomb?
My former self runs
to greet holy phantoms
but they play
hide and seek,
inhabiting my dreams
before fading
into the night.
Do they sleep
in cold vaults
of decaying bones
or do they rest
in the Divine Embrace
that so often eludes me?
I dare hope
they have risen on angels’ wings
but I, for one,
am anchored to Earth,
tethered by questions
that disturb the universe.
Priests and prophets
tread a jagged line
between gift and curse,
between heaven’s bounty
and worldly desires,
between insight
and cluelessness.
Elijah’s mantle
brings no peace
but only the burden of words—
syllables of possibility
reaching to Infinity
or anguished cries
that pierce complacency.
But every mystic knows
that in the darkest times,
Melchizedek’s gifts
of bread and wine
transubstantiate
the ordinary
into the extraordinary,
blessing those
who raise their eyes
to count the stars.
And so the script is set.
Church bells echo
from toppled steeples,
their faint lament
whispering beneath the rubble,
pleading to be heard.
Their chilling refrain
tolls for you, for me,
for a world devoid
of guiding lights
in which perversion
masquerades as passion,
and lies proliferate,
twisting Truth
into a commodity
that indoctrinates multitudes
while those with discerning minds
keep silent.
I stand on holy ground
where shards from St. James’ belfry
demand restoration,
still mourning
that day when the wrecking ball
wrought its worst,
muting their music,
levelling God’s House,
seemingly at whim.
Clawing stones,
scraping for relics,
my bleeding fingers
seek to liberate
their strains.
Elizabeth-Anne Stewart, PhD, PCC, BCC
In addition to her work as a spiritual director, Elizabeth focuses mainly on spiritual coaching and writing coaching. Based in the greater Chicago area, she teaches writing at St. Xavier University, and spiritual coaching at the Institute for Life Coach Training (ILCT); she recently launched The Ministry Coaching Foundation to offer opportunities for continuing education and personal renewal.
www.MinistryCoachingFoundation.com;
joanna. joannaseibert.com