O Night Divine

The following story comes to me from Rod Such. I think that it speaks to the kinds of "ordinary miracles" that run into us once in awhile and transform us. I hope that you have had such an encounter.

A friend writes:

O Night Divine

It’s Christmas, a time when almost all bloggers feel compelled to share a Christmas story. I usually try to avoid orthodox behaviors, but I’ve got Santa looking over my shoulder here, so today I’ll go mainstream.

This story took place three years ago, a few days after Thanksgiving. My brother Bob was getting married at his house on the near north side of Chicago. My family lives in Cary, about 40 miles northwest of the city. To avoid the drive and eradicate global warming, Karina and I decided to take a commuter train downtown, walk five blocks through the Loop, and take the subway to my brother’s neighborhood. We thought it’d be nice for the kids to see the city’s towering Christmas tree on Daley Plaza and take in the window displays at what was then still Marshall Field’s (now it’s Macy’s, a fact few Chicagoans acknowledge).

So we did this, and it was in fact delightful. The tree was as tall and beautiful as we remembered it from our childhood, and the kids squirmed their way through the crowds huddled at Field’s windows, getting their noses up close to the glass. Then we went over to the subway entrance and walked down the long flight of stairs.

As we slowly descended, Karina and I chatted with each other in sign language. Like many late-deafened people, I have to pay close attention to understand signs and I become oblivious to everything else in the surroundings. About halfway down, Karina motioned me to look in the direction we were heading.

There at the bottom of the steps stood a black man, like an apparition, looking directly at us. He wore a frayed brown fedora and a rumpled tweed sports coat several sizes too big, a person obviously down on his luck. He continued to look at us intently as we descended. Then with hesitance he finger spelled the words “Bill…Bill Graham.”

Startled, I cautiously signed “Yes.” Only gradually did I realize that I knew this person. I knew this person finger spelling my name. He smiled and with big signs and voice said “Good to see you.” “Hi,” I signed weakly, trying to place him and remember his name. He saved me by saying “Morris.” He finger spelled it as well.

Morris, I thought to myself….Morris…How do I know him? Then came the dawn of recognition: “Morris!” I shouted. “Morris Haynes!”

Morris had been in my very first sign language class at the Chicago Hearing Society almost 30 years ago. A hearing person, he took the class because he had a deaf cousin.

We shook hands warmly, and I introduced him to my wife and kids. He smiled broadly.

“This is wonderful,” he said, and with a waggle of his index finger signed: “Where are you going?”

I told him about my brother’s wedding, and he again said: “This is wonderful.”

Then he paused a moment in thought.

“I would like to sing your children a song,” he said finally.

I looked at Karina, who nodded. “Okay,” I said.

Morris led us over to a post where a cigar box lay on the platform. He positioned himself next to it and told the kids to stand right in front of him. Then he began to sing. It happened to be one of my favorite Christmas songs, “O Holy Night.”

Morris looked at my kids while he sang, his eyes never leaving their faces, his voice echoing off the tunnel walls. “….The stars are brightly shining…..A thrill of hope….For yonder breaks…..O hear the angels voices!.....O night divine….Led by the light……He knows our need……Behold your king!....”
We could hear the train coming from down the track. In a minute or so we would be on our way.
“O HEAR the angels VOIces! Oh night divine….”

The train roared closer, building to a crescendo. Morris sang louder.

“O NIGHTTT! O HOly NIGHTTT! O NIGHT DIVINNNEEEE!”

As he finished the train rolled into the station, like it was carefully planned.

Morris said to our kids: “Did you like it?” They nodded.

“That was beautiful,” Karina said, signing.

“Thank you,” I signed.

Awkwardly, I took out my wallet. I removed a ten dollar bill and placed it in his box.

“Thank you,” I signed again, and we hugged.

“Have a merry Christmas,” he said to me, and then to my family.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, as I started to walk away. “You take care.”

“Merry Christmas, Bill.”

“I hope to see you again.”

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

Karina and the kids waved me onto the train. I boarded and stood at the door looking out. Morris had moved to another area of the platform. As he positioned his box, our train began to move and quickly gathered speed. Soon we would be at my brother’s wedding.

I turned to Karina and she signed: “He has a really beautiful baritone voice.”

“That was wonderful,” I signed. “Wonderful.”

Morris will probably never know how special his song was. Or that he’s been in my heart on Christmas ever since, his voice resounding in the tunnel as that train approached the station.

Merry Christmas, Morris. Merry Christmas. I hope you’re well.