It’s a strange color for any building especially a Catholic church. Its 14 wooden doors break up the illusion of a wall. When they are all open, they fill the body of the church with fresh air. Although we’ve never been there on a Sunday, I can imagine that every seat is filled and the air is heavy and hot over the dressed up and perfumed congregation.
We are there to listen to the church bells ring. We can hear them from our thinly paned windows at home and we set out to find out the source. As soon as we pass through the gate unsure if we should enter, a boy comes running toward us. He‘s curious to find out who we are and what we are doing at his church.
“It’s almost six and we are here to listen to the bells ring this evening.” I say.
“My name is Samuel. I am an altar boy here and I know everything about this church.” He points up to the lime green building on the small hill. “People travel from far on Sundays to come to our church. The bells were donated to us by one of our rich members.”
I look at my watch and see we still have five minutes to go before the hour. He invites us to stay and suggests we sit on the bench under a tree a few feet away. He follows us and sits right next to Kojo. We sit quietly together with our guide and wait.
The bells begin to ring at the lime green church.
“Have you ever heard bells like this before?” Samuel asks eagerly.
I have been to St. Peter’s Basilica and heard the bells echo through the the piazza San Pietro. I’ve listened to the sacred bells of the grand Cathedral marking the end of the Camino de Santiago where St. James is reported to be buried.
I look at Kojo’s feet dangling from the wooden bench under the shade of the mango tree. “Never.” I reply.