O Holy Night

I still remember that night.

It was the week before Christmas when a bunch of cheerful lads decided to join a small choir and go carolling from house to house. The main purpose: spend some time singing, having fun and, why not, collecting some extra money. Who doesn’t think of making extra money at Christmas time?

It was getting dark, and it was cold enough to make us move quickly from place to place. We picked an area with a few blocks of flats. A minus degree temperature advised us to sing only inside the buildings and avoid talking and laughing outside. Nobody enjoys mute company at a Christmas party. But we were young and restless, not bothering much about wisdom forged in ice and snow.

So, we started with a lot of enthusiasm and joy! As we tuned our voices for the first song, we felt that singing carols was much more than about music. Carolling is singing in the present about the most important event in our past to ignite hope for the future.

The first block of flats was modest: doors opening, people listening, candies and money coming into our pockets. Not bad. Not bad at all.

The second building started to open friendly: people being happy, listening to us carefully, asking who we were. And who were we at that time? Youngsters believing they had all life before, not much to worry about and the horizon a lot distant because we had so many things to look forward to!

The third building exceeded our modest expectations: people were cheerful, laughing or crying for joy when hearing us, money was raining in our small pockets and we were more than happy to see our measurable success. Everything was going just as planned, even better.

We rang again at a stubborn door. After a while, when we decided that maybe it was time to go because nobody was answering, suddenly the door opened and a scary guy popped up in front of us. Holding a long rod in his bare hands, watching us defiantly, he stood there waiting for something to happen. For a moment, none of us said anything, but then our group leader regained his courage and greeted him in the traditional way. Immediately, the menacing face melted away, a smile appeared, and with a large gesture, he invited us into his house. It turned out that he was a musician, a member of a rock band, and he was happy to listen to us. When we finished he showed us proudly his walls full of trophies, vivid reminders of his concerts.

More than excited to have come out alive of that house and happy about not having known personally the weight of that fancy rod, we didn’t pay too much attention to his generosity.

It was getting even colder, we were tired already and starting to feel the bite of a Carpathian frost. Our group leader turned around and gave a silent look to the last building that we had in mind and said: ‘Guys, please, one more! For me!’ There and then, the dice were cast.

This time, the building seemed engulfed in darkness, most of the doors remained shut and we were all wondering ‘Why are we here?’, ‘Why are we still doing this?’, ‘Home, let’s go home! It’s finished!’

It didn’t make any sense, but none of us dared to express loudly what we were all thinking.

Eventually, a door opened, suspicious eyes measured us all, and a final ‘NO’ made our hearts sink.

We climbed to the penultimate floor of the building. There, in darkness and cold, we decided to sing. One more time. The last time. For the ears hiding behind the closed doors. I don’t know, maybe the friendly image of the nearby warm house, maybe that ancient vision of the star which stopped in the sky pointing to the place, maybe all of those united and tuned our voices for that late song.

As we were singing the second stanza, a door opened and a woman asked us to come in, so we entered her house. She said, ‘My husband has invited you. He would very much like to hear you. Please do come in!’ And she led the way to another closed door. It was the bedroom door. She opened it and in a few moments, the room was full of us.

When we stopped moving and the formation was ready, we noticed an immaculately white bed. A man was prompted between many pillows, watching us in deep silence - his pale face, his hands resting immobile, his eyes moving from one to another, weighting us curiously. In a faint voice, he said: ‘You can start.’

I had to admit that we all felt intimidated. Uncomfortable. Maybe scared. All these together and more. For a moment, we had a paralysing sensation, as if we were in the very presence of Death itself - our mouths unable to open.

Timidly, we started to sing, and then, something happened:

The song unites our perception, our voices, our hearts. Our souls get on fire and the room seems dilating, its space amplifying the sounds and tuning the harmony of the voices. The past starts melting in the present and shaping fabulously the future. Time is compressed and dilated, becoming warm and peacefully bright.

We were there, but not anymore.

We finished. We stopped. We remained silent, watching the man in front of us. We completely forgot we were there for him, and we were slowly coming back to reality.

He kept silent for a while. His moving eyes were the only sign of him being still alive.

‘This morning while I was here alone in this room, in this bed, I was thinking. I’ve got cancer. Terminal… I don’t believe in God and I said: “God - if you truly exist, give me a sign. Show me that you have forgiven me”. I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t believe that I would receive any sign. But tonight, when I heard you sing outside, I felt as if God himself was knocking at my door, and I asked my wife to rush to open it. Now, after listening to you, I know for sure that He has forgiven me. I have got what I asked for this morning.’

We stood there in deep silence, listening to his confession. We completely forgot our words, our feelings, our money.

We left and went upstairs, to the top floor.

The last tune was given.

My heart was beating slowly, my mouth remained stubbornly closed, my mind still clinging to this thought: I was standing on holy ground and I didn’t dare to move out. None of us didn’t.

I will always remember that night.

The night when heaven used a bunch of cheerful lads to visit a common man on the shore of his life, with the tidings that he was deeply loved.