Tiny Glass Bells

I remember the night I cried for my loss.

I was on the school's annual induction retreat for incoming freshmen students, and after a late night of preparation and planning for the next day's activities I escorted one of my female colleagues to her cabin in the woods. I'm not sure what kind of security I could actually provide if we encountered some rabid lumberjack on the trail, but there's always comfort in companionship.

As an aging teacher I was beginning to struggle with my hearing, especially those shy little girls that sit on the back row, brilliant yet afraid they may be wrong with their contribution to our daily discussions. "Mr. Kelley, I think tha... ke... but...."-- DRATS! I'm losing my ability to engage in my own discussions!
So I went to the audiologist, was tested in her sound-proof phone booth, and was issued a set of high-dollar hearing aids programmed specifically for me. I was given a two-week trial to see what I thought, two weeks that included this particular retreat. I didn't wear them all the time-- as a playful teacher away at camp with students, I'm always mindful of the possibility that impulse-laden guys may entertain themselves with a moment of mutiny and decide to escort said teacher into the pool or lake-- not good for hearing aids or cell phones. At night, especially during meetings, I was free to don my new toys and try them out. I would turn them on and off at intervals, collecting data whether the cost was worth the benefit. Undecided.

Walking back along the trail that night, I realized I had turned them off during the meeting earlier and thought I'd just turn them back on. This model starts with a little chime: "Do-da-do-deet", except this time something was terribly wrong-- intense static filled my ears, like when as a kid I turned on my AM radio with my earphones on...so loud! So intense! This set of hearing aids were defective-- thank goodness I hadn't bought them-- and I turned them off quickly! Walking another minute down the moonlit trail, I thought I'd give them one-last-try [how often throughout my life I've done this?], and again: "SHHHHHHHH...", yet there was also something... something melodic... something familiar. As I stepped closer to the end of the woods the din unravelled into a very difficult, horrifying reality: the night was alive with insect life and I never heard it in my adult years.
I cried.
I cried for the horrible reality that I had missed a whole world around me for so long, a world that friends would comment on or complain about that I had no awareness of... a world re-experienced with a new wonder, like when a child gets her first pair of corrective eyeglasses. I bought the hearing aids.

So today as I sip coffee and eat breakfast in the backyard with my Sweet Susie, I realized my hearing aids made it home from their normal residence in my classroom. She sits transfixed, amazed at some mysterious event above us as I watch flocks of cedar waxwings fly in and out of the mulberry trees. In her sad, pitiful way she looks at me and repeats her gentle query: "Can you hear that?"
I reply, as always: "The cars?, the wind? the doves? the sparrows? the mockingbird? the neighbors? That?"
She just looks at me... sadly. Except today I go inside, put on the aids, and step outside into a din of tiny crystal bells trilling away with fantastic enthusiasms. "Got it," I say, now appreciating what I've been missing in my own backyard, sharing now with my sweety what brings her such joy.

Little, tiny crystal bells; trilling with life. Thank you, Abba, for the wonder of your Creation. And for the consolation of the Serenity Prayer, knowing there are some things that don't have to be accepted or settled for.