Opening the Door to a Stranger

Several years ago, I was asked to sing at a midnight service on Christmas Eve in a church some distance from my home. I was living in West Hartford at the time.

The invitation came at a time when I wasn't singing regularly, and I missed it.  I knew that I could work this one-evening commitment into my busy life — nurse five-month-old Laurie, leave the house by 10:30 p.m., get to the church for a brief rehearsal, and be back in time to get a few hours sleep before she woke up for her 6 a.m. feeding. 

It seems odd to me now that I would make this trip, in virtually the middle of the night, to a church I didn't know.  But I wanted to sing, and I was flattered to be asked. 

On the way there, it was bitter cold, and I lost my way.  I found myself on a four-lane highway.  At this time in my life, I was in baby mode, and my world was circumscribed by the tiny and tender.  The traffic on that highway, sparse though it was so late on Christmas Eve, seemed to crush in on me.  Cars in a hurry.  Trucks in a hurry.  People in a hurry.

Everyone was rushing.

I stopped by a lonesome payphone to double check the church address; it was long before we used cell phones.  I felt the bright bite of snowflakes on my nose and inside my collar.

When I finally arrived at the church, I stepped into a glorious, light-filled foyer, aglow with candles and flowers.  The rehearsal was nearly over, but I knew this music.  I donned a choir robe, and I was ready. 

Slowly, as the congregation assembled in the pews, the vaulted ceiling filled with the happy sound of holiday greetings.  We in the choir made our way up the aisle in a candle-lit procession, our voices echoing throughout the sanctuary.  We sang "Angels We Have Heard On High" and the harmonic peals of the "Gloria in Excelsis Deo" swirled around the church and beamed off the stained glass saints. 

I was so glad I had come. 

Afterwards, I got in the car for the long, cold drive home.  It was 1:30 a.m. on Christmas morning.  Still sated with the glow of music and warmth, but very tired, I coasted back toward home.  I knew that my baby daughter would be up with the dawn.  All I could think about was how good my bed would feel. 

Just before I turned onto Homestead Avenue in Hartford, in a part of town where I sometimes lock my doors, I noticed a car ahead trying to avoid something in the road.  In the middle of the street, on a patch of ice, lay an old coat.  No.  It was. . . an injured dog? 

Oh my God.

It was a body.  Was he dead?  As I watched another car swerve around him, I was stunned that anyone could ignore this human splayed on the pavement.  If he hadn't been hit already, he would be soon.  Someone would be driving too fast.  Someone would be too tired, or too drunk, to swerve.

I stopped in the middle of the road, directly beside the body.  The lump of fur staggered to its feet.  It was a woman, in high-heeled boots, slipping hesitantly along the ice.  Two more cars rolled past.  As I opened the door of my husband's leather-seated car, a voice inside my head whispered, "Is this safe?"  I ignored the voice.

The woman came over to the passenger door, and the smell of alcohol preceded her.  She nearly tumbled in.  She was coherent, and she was grateful.  "Thank you," she said.  "I'm so cold." 

She told me she'd had an argument with her mother, and had gone out for a drink.  She was about my age, maybe younger, looking older.  I drove her home that 2:00 a.m.  It was no more than a couple of miles, but it would have been a long, painful walk in the freezing wind, wearing spike-heeled boots and a fake fur jacket.

I brought her to one of a long row of attached homes.  I lived nearby, but I had never seen these streets, just a few blocks from where the Governor of Connecticut has a mansion.

I wondered why she was there and I was living in my snug little home with my two daughters and my husband.  I knew that no argument could be harsh enough to send me out to a bar on Christmas Eve, leaving me to stagger home alone in the bitter cold.  I felt wonderment that I was blessed with so good a life; so full a life; so happy a life. 

                              * * * * *

      I have thought of her many times since that Christmas Eve.  I have thought about what she gave me.

      Awareness.  Gratitude.   

      I believe I gave her something too.  I believe I gave her a moment of grace that lifted her out of harm's way. 

      And I believe that the ending of this story might have been very different… if the next car to come along had not brought me, soft and warm with singing and a nursing babe, willing to open my door to a stranger on Christmas Eve.

Patrice Fitzgerald is a weekly columnist for Westport Patch.