One of the most treasured moments of my life happened on a night train bound for Thunder Bay from Sudbury. It was Christmas, sometime in the late 1970s.
Three of us, all sister teachers, were going to visit a family at the lakehead for part of the Christmas holiday. We boarded the train at 10:25 p.m., on December 25.
It was one of those perfect winter nights—crisp, cold air, crunchy snow, lots of stars, and a bright, bitten-cookie of a moon shining down on us as we pulled out of the Sudbury station. The train wasn’t full. I wondered about the people who shared our car—alone on Christmas Day. I’m sure they wondered about us, too.
The car was calm and quiet. We passed Levack and Cartier, where the dark pines heavy with snow were Christmas card cutouts. It was beautiful.
Just as I rested my head and closed my eyes, something wonderful happened. In the dark, a clear voice began to sing “Silent Night.” One by one other voices joined in.
When “Silent Night” was finished someone else started another song, and then another and another after that. Not a word was spoken as one Christmas carol after another rang out—no stumbling over words, or hesitation, or even discussion as to what to sing next—the music just poured out spontaneously. Each of us taking part.
There was no comment or applause. The singing ended with one solo performance—from a darkened seat in the middle of the car—something from Handel’s Messiah. It was past midnight as quiet descended and people drifted off to sleep.
I can’t remember now which part of the Messiah closed that impromptu concert, but I’m reminded of that magical night each Christmas. The passengers in that car shared the unexpected gift of the joy and peace of that first holy night and, by the end, we were no longer strangers.
Blind River, Ontario