Handbells in the Choir Loft

At sixty-six, I joined my church's handbell choir. I can't read music very well, and I'd never held a handbell. The director said that was fine. "Each person only plays two notes," she said. "You just have to ring them at the right time."

That turns out to be the hardest part. There are twelve of us standing at a long table covered in foam pads. Each of us has a pair of brass bells. When your note comes, you ring it. When it's not your note, you count, wait and try not to panic.

I was a G and an A. For the first month, I rang late every single time. The woman next to me, a retired librarian who plays the Cs, would nudge me with her elbow when my turn was coming.

We're practicing now for the Thanksgiving service. The sound of twelve people ringing together, the notes hanging in the air of that old church, gives me goosebumps every time. I rang on time at last Wednesday's rehearsal. The librarian gave me a thumbs-up.