I did not realize it until this week — because I never bothered to think about it —but I have a “thing” about chimes. I like hearing them.

Someone with a keen understanding of human behavior would probably point out that I heard chimes in my childhood and they represent a positive experience or feeling for me. They would probably be right.

As a child growing up in urban California, I recall hearing very routine city sounds — especially at night, when I quieted myself long enough to notice. I’d hear sirens from emergency vehicles. I’d notice when my immediate neighbors pulled into their driveways. Early in my childhood, when it was still legal to break the sound barrier over city centers, I’d hear an explosive and sudden sonic boom as pilots sped overhead faster than the speed of sound, on their way to Edward’s Air Force Base in the California desert. But us kids considered that only a rare treat. Nightly sounds included the mournful cry of a distant train, traveling along the Oxnard plain. On chilly nights I would occasionally hear large fans, turned on to stir the air above orchards to prevent the citrus and avocados from freezing.

But my favorite sounds were the hourly chimes of a church clock located just one street over from my family’s home. I found them to be comforting not only in sound but in routine. I recall feeling cozy and cared for as I snuggled down into my covers. I doubt that I gave it any thought back then, but I had enjoyed some positive church experiences. I would have understood that church members had made a special effort to purchase and keep in good working order their bell chimes. They wanted to give nearby residents a sound that served as a sweet reminder that a church — and surely God’s spirit — was present at all times during the night.

I don’t believe I’ve talked at length about this “thing” about chimes, but my family picked up on it. It’s probably because I’m usually the one to gently run my fingers across the bottom of chimes in specialty shops to test the sound. In what has become one of my all-time favorite gifts, Matt and the kids purchased chimes for me one Mother’s Day. They are made of sizable metal cylinders and produce deep, minor tones. If I hear them I know the wind is blowing. If I hear the deep rumble of container ships, motoring out in the waters of the Puget Sound, I know the wind is REALLY blowing and a storm is brewing. On those occasions I hurry out to rescue my chimes so they don’t tangle in the gusts.

In October, I began hearing chimes when my dad grew critically ill. I didn’t dare mention it at first. I knew some members of my family would react the way they have always reacted to me when I’ve chosen to share an experience that doesn’t fit into mainstream occurrences. I knew they’d smile at me, shrug their shoulders, and giggle. That’s because I am the spiritual one and I’m occasionally entertaining to some. But after days of praying that God would draw near to us and make his comforting presence known as we faced Dad’s impending death, I could not help myself.

“Did anyone just hear that?” I quietly asked one morning as we hurriedly grabbed a cup of coffee before heading to the hospital to spend the day with Dad. “I keep hearing chimes. God’s near, you know.”

I boldly put it out there, but I spoke the words with trepidation. It’s one thing to write about God and quite another to speak of him at such a stressful moment —when we were all reacting in various ways to our private worries and utter sorrows.

“You’re hearing your cell phone. Oh Joan, get real.”

I let the words hang in the air. But the chimes continued, sweetly and with no warning or routine. I heard them in the hospital hallway as a hospice chaplain talked to me, asking if she could bring any spiritual comfort to us. I’d hear them as I sat beside Dad while he slept.

The afternoon family members and friends gathered to celebrate Dad’s life was the last time I heard those sweet chimes. As I stood in the fellowship hall of Dad’s church, to watch people eat and reminisce about their experiences with him, I heard them for just the briefest of moments. I trusted that God would be a part of our final goodbye, but it was simply glorious to hear his presence.

As I decorate the house this year for Christmas, I’ve decided to reintroduce angel chimes into our household as a way to remember God’s precious and short-time gift. These brass chimes work on a simple principle: lighted candles create a warm updraft of air, which moves an impeller carrying small clappers. As the impeller rotates, the clappers ring a set of chimes. The blend of light, gentle motion and sweet sound is best experienced for me in a darkened room, illuminated by Christmas tree lights.

Our new angel chimes arrive early next week. I can’t wait.