Every Christmas should begin with the sound of bells, and when I

Host: The evening sky was painted in copper and blue, the snow beginning to fall in lazy, unhurried flakes that turned the quiet town into something almost holy. A small train station, long closed for the season, stood at the edge of the frozen river, its roof dusted with white, its windows glowing faintly from a single lamp left burning inside.

Jeeny and Jack sat on an old wooden bench beneath the awning. The wind hummed through the telegraph wires, and from somewhere far away came the faint, ghostly jingle of sleigh bells — the kind of sound that barely exists anymore, half memory, half miracle.

Host: The stillness between them carried a kind of tender melancholy, the sort that only winter seems to understand. Jeeny’s breath curled into the air like smoke, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee gone cold. Jack had his coat collar turned up, his grey eyes fixed on the horizon where the snow met the dusk.

Between them lay a small book of essays, its pages folded back to a line Jeeny had just read aloud — Paul Engle’s voice echoing quietly between the falling flakes:

"Every Christmas should begin with the sound of bells, and when I was a child mine always did. But they were sleigh bells, not church bells, for we lived in a part of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where there were no churches."

Jeeny: “I love that line. It’s like he’s saying that even without the sacred, there can still be grace. That the magic doesn’t always come from the church — sometimes it’s just the world itself, ringing softly.”

Jack: “Or maybe he’s saying that nostalgia’s just a trick. You hear a sound from your childhood and call it holy because it reminds you of when you didn’t know better.”

Jeeny: “You always find the storm in every snowfall.”

Jack: “No. I just remember what comes after it — the melting, the mud. That’s the real part no one writes about.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying with it a faint echo of laughter from the nearby town square, where distant lights twinkled through the snow. For a moment, both turned their heads, half-listening — as if the past itself were calling softly across the years.

Jeeny: “When I was little, my mother used to hang small bells by the window. Every time the wind blew, they’d chime. She said it was the angels checking in. I didn’t believe her, but I pretended to. I think I just liked the sound.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now I think she was right — in her own way. Maybe angels are just memories that refuse to die.”

Host: Jack looked down, his gloved hands tightening around the coffee cup. His voice, when it came, was softer — quieter than the wind.

Jack: “When I was a kid, we didn’t have bells. Just the sound of my father starting the truck before sunrise. That was Christmas morning for me — diesel and frost. He’d say he had to keep working, even that day. Said the world doesn’t stop for holidays.”

Jeeny: “That’s sad, Jack.”

Jack: “No, it was real. He taught me that warmth isn’t guaranteed. You make your own. Sometimes with a job. Sometimes with silence.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes with music.”

Host: She nodded toward the distance, where a faint jingling carried again — a team of horses pulling an old sleigh down the far road. The sound was barely there, fading and reappearing through the drift of snow.

Jack: “That sound. You hear it once a year and suddenly everyone gets sentimental. They start talking about hope like it’s a present you can unwrap.”

Jeeny: “Because maybe, for a few days, it is. Maybe that’s what Christmas was meant to be — not religion, not ritual, just a moment of stillness. A world pausing long enough to remember what gentleness feels like.”

Jack: “You think sleigh bells can replace church bells?”

Jeeny: “They don’t have to replace them. They can exist beside them. Some people find faith in pews. Others find it in snow and sound.”

Host: A gust of wind blew past, scattering a small swirl of snow over their boots. The lamp above flickered once, the light trembling like a heartbeat in the dark.

Jack: “You know, when Engle talks about those bells, I don’t think he’s talking about Christmas at all.”

Jeeny: “Then what?”

Jack: “He’s talking about belonging. About growing up in a place that didn’t give him the traditional version of holiness, so he made his own. Those bells — they weren’t just festive. They were identity.”

Jeeny: “Yes.” She smiled faintly. “That’s why they matter so much. Because they were his way of saying, ‘We had no churches, but we still had joy.’”

Host: The snow fell heavier now, each flake illuminated briefly by the lamp’s glow before vanishing into darkness. The world had narrowed to the soft rhythm of falling and listening — the slow heartbeat of two people remembering their own childhood winters.

Jack: “Funny thing, though. People talk about Christmas like it’s supposed to be perfect — warm, loud, full of family. But maybe the best ones are the quiet ones. The kind that don’t need proof.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the proof is the sound itself. The way the bells echo long after they’ve stopped ringing.”

Jack: “You mean the way memories echo.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The way they keep you company when nothing else does.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes tracing the grey shape of the distant town. The light reflected faintly in his eyes — two small flames flickering against the vast winter.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we romanticize childhood because it’s the only time we didn’t know we were lonely?”

Jeeny: “Or maybe because it’s the only time we knew how to be present. Kids don’t analyze happiness. They just live inside it until it fades.”

Jack: “And adults spend the rest of their lives trying to rebuild it.”

Jeeny: “With sleigh bells, and songs, and lights — anything that sounds like warmth.”

Host: The bells rang again, faint but real this time — the sleigh drawing closer, the jingling merging with the whisper of wind and the soft percussion of falling snow. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, listening, neither speaking for fear of breaking the fragile spell.

When the sleigh passed — just a shadow and a sound — Jeeny closed her eyes.

Jeeny: “There it is. The world’s way of keeping its promise.”

Jack: “A promise of what?”

Jeeny: “That even in the middle of winter, something still remembers to sing.”

Host: The snow settled quietly around them, the last light of day fading into silver night. The lamp flickered once more and then steadied, as though refusing to surrender to the dark.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe not every miracle needs a steeple.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: They sat together in that small, sacred silence, the kind that hums with memory — the sound of bells long gone but never forgotten.

The camera panned slowly upward, capturing the faint glow of the town lights below, the smoke rising from chimneys, the soft trace of sleigh tracks leading off into the distance.

And as the last bell faded into the night, the voice of the narrator lingered one final time:

Host: Because maybe, as Paul Engle remembered, Christmas doesn’t begin in the church, nor in the choir — but in the quiet spaces where the human heart, hearing the sound of sleigh bells in the cold, decides to believe again.