Three years since my mother’s death the closest I come to feeling her presence is sitting on a blue cushioned blond wood pew, facing a stained glass window with the artist’s vision of Christ with hands turned outward. The bell choir is playing some tune, any tune, today it was to the tune of Christmas. I dare not close my eyes as the image of her is too vivid, and my eyes will become wet and it will be impossible for me to keep the wetness from leaking to my cheeks and all will know I grieve. Yet even with my eyes open facing that window, the choir behind me in the loft, it is difficult to hold back those tears. It is when I see my dead mother most clearly alive, in her two toned light and dark blue robe and white gloves, standing behind a black music stand, a bell in each hand. I don’t know which bells she played, I don’t know the notes they played. But I see her there, smiling, first one hand goes out, then the other as she helps the others make notes on a paper fill the sanctuary with a beautiful song and her presence is felt in my heart and all around me. It is a happy thought to feel her so close and a sorrowful thought.