Of Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men

by Joyce Andrews

I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bow'd my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong, and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men."
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep
God is not dead, nor doth he sleep
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.
Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

The lyrics of the familiar I heard the Bells on Christmas Day, were written on Christmas Day by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, when he received word that his son had been mortally wounded in combat in the Civil War. When I was a child, the words symbolized the spirit of the season for me. Peace and good will were the order of the day. Gifts were made or bought--then hidden, then given; and we were reminded of how much we loved and needed one another. This was a time of reflection and celebration--of families and friends coming together, setting aside discord and rancor, singing, sharing and rejoicing in the pleasure of being together and the promise of peace and new beginnings.

After the death of our daughter, Rhonda, I thought I would never again recapture that feeling. The pain of losing her was made even more intense by the beauty of the season. The sound of bells brought tears to my eyes, and I braced myself against the moment I would hear this lovely song again. The words were just an empty promise now. "This is reality," I thought, "All of my peace and joy are in the past. How can I ever again hear the music and the message of peace on earth, when I'm tormented by this longing for my child?"

When our child died, our lives were irrevocably divided into two parts: before and after. We could not control our child's death; and in our weakest moments we believed that we could no longer control anything in our lives--that we had no further responsibility for anything that happens to us or to anyone else. Yet we know this isn't true. We still have control over our own words and our own behavior, and we work at controlling our thoughts.

Longfellow's words are both a plea and a promise. I put myself in his place; the pursuit of peace became a personal quest when our child died. Yet how can we find personal peace when each day brings fresh rumors and reports of conspiracy, bigotry, violence, hunger and strife? Our lives are filled with dismal reminders of how tragic the consequences can be when we lose sight of our real mission on earth: to love and live in harmony with one another.

Words can hurt; words can ignite anger, words can destroy lives. But words can heal; words can inspire and light fires of friendships and hope.

This year, when we hear the plea for peace and good will, perhaps each of us can, in some small way, help someone realize the promise the words embody. Let's do it in memory of our children.

Copyright © 2003 The Rogue Valley Chapter of The Compassionate Friends