Holy Night

I slung my well-worn backpack over my shoulder and stepped onto the escalator that leads down to the baggage claim and public transportation area of the Minneapolis/St Paul Airport. The good news was that my flight had arrived early. The bad news was that my next flight wasn’t for another six hours. An early arrival was far from helpful today.

Last step of the escalator glided to the bottom floor of the airport. I walked off and into the direction of the light rail train stop. If I ever have a long layover at MSP, I’ll typically take the train to the Mall of America and Ikea. But let’s be honest. The only reason I go to the mall is because the train terminates there. I walk through it on my way to Ikea and those tasty little meatballs and stunning pre-fab furniture. It’s a great way to blow an afternoon before the final leg of a trip.

But as I strode past the luggage claim carrousels, a man pulling a roller-bag caught my eye. He wore a black overcoat and halted at a baby grand piano not far in front of me. Certain airports strive for interesting and fun ways to create atmosphere and culture. And MSP has several pianos. Sometimes a busker sits and plays, attempting to sell albums, and sometimes the pianos lie vacant. Such was not the case today.

I walked past him, not wanting to become the audience and, to be honest, not really caring too much about whether I heard him play. But I soon froze where I stood as he struck out the first notes of “O Holy Night.”

I turned and found a seat. He clearly knew what he was doing with the piano. He played and improvised on the old, old tune and extracted from it every ounce of Christmas. No sheet music sat in front of him. But off to his left side stood a phone, recording a video.

His music warmed the soul of this weary traveler. So when he finished, I clapped and walked over to introduce myself. He was an expat living in Quito, Ecuador. The medical work he did kept him busy in South America doing pro bono surgeries for children in need. This, the very embodiment of the post-haunting Scrooge, was on his way to Colorado for Christmas with his family. His adult daughter was on the other end of that video call, listening to her father play her favorite Christmas hymn.

Not every person celebrates Christmas. And not every person confesses Christianity. But for those of us that do both, Christmas gives us an opportunity to come together in common purpose: to live in kindness, love others, and spread a song of hope found in a Savior born to save. For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn and each soul captured by the appearance of the Christ has felt its worth. That leaves us with nothing to do but to fall on our knees in awe of such a holy night.

Merry Christmas,

anthony forrest