I was a gift, given on a birthday many years ago.
The giver gave no instructions, but liked the sounds I made when moved gently. The receiver thought I would be perfect on the back porch, near the kitchen door, so I could be heard while he prepared supper.
He knew about bells, our messages, our importance, the role we play in life, bringing the soft sigh of sound ever so gently.
My small chime was different from the large bell he grew up knowing. That bell was robust, and could be heard for miles. It marked meal time on the ranch, bringing cowboys and farmers to the ranch house for a meal of beans and cornbread, laughter and stories.
My voice, on the other hand, is simple and draws little attention. I’m alone, waiting on a breeze to move me, so I can remind him of those days of bigger bells and different messages.