One Sunday in the middle of December, I took the T to the Macy's at Downtown Crossing. I was searching for some dishes that my mom wanted to give to my aunt and I picked up a Boston sweatshirt for my dad, from the same cart that I've visited every December since I can remember. I had just stopped at Starbucks for my favorite holiday drink to enjoy on the train ride home. I got on and after a few stops the entire Harvard marching band entered my car. They must have been coming from a holiday parade of some sort. They were decorated in Santa hats, their crimson blazers were dressed up with red and green accents, and one guy even wrapped himself in twinkling, colored lights. The band members awkwardly tried to manage their instruments as they walked about the moving train seemingly discussing some sort of plan. From what I gathered, they wanted to play, but didn't have the courage. After some more quiet planning and encouragement from each other, the band moved into position (the tuba came to sit right next to me). One short, bank geek type boy gave a count and the band began. It started out slow and soft, but soon the music swelled into the most beautiful version of Mariah Carey's All I Want For Christmas Is You I have ever heard. Passengers were smiling, swaying, and tapping along. When I got off the train, the driver stuck his head out and asked if I enjoyed the concert. He asked as though it had made his day. I was grateful for the music that afternoon, but also took pleasure in watching a group of people take a risk and enjoy it's results.
The weekend before Christmas I lost my keys in a snowbank. I was trying to be a good neighbor and shovel the sidewalk in front of my building and somehow in one swoop dropped and shoveled them into a mound of snow. I had just spent over an hour digging out my car and didn't have the patience to look very hard. Luckily, I had left my front door open and could enter my apartment by punching numbers on the keypad. I had spare house and car keys, so the loss wasn't that urgent. I couldn't get mail or do laundry, but I figured I could live without that for as long as it would take me to either find the keys or get new ones. Everyone I told kept urging me to go look for the keys. It was starting to get annoying. For some reason I didn't feel a need to do this. I did email all the people in my building asking them to keep their eyes open for my keys as the rain predicted for the next week would begin to melt the snow away. One resident suggested I locate a metal detector, another recommended that I pray to St. Anthony. People were on this case. I left for the holiday with only my spare keys, thinking that if I had to I would work on getting replacements made when I returned. But, as I knew all along, the keys were found. My mom called it a Christmas miracle. At 7:30 on Christmas morning my phone rang. It was someone ringing my doorbell (it is connected to my phone). When I answered, my downstairs neighbor reported that she found my keys and wished me a Merry Christmas. The call was the best present 0f the year. Not because it saved me the hassle of getting new keys made, but because it restored my faith in my gut. I believed all along that my keys would be found even if others were worried that they wouldn't. When my beliefs start to waver in the upcoming year, I will remember the keys. The real key is listening to my gut and believing it is right.
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