The week before Christmas, I rode Metra into Chicago, my old hometown, to run a few errands before the winter weather set in. I had no idea that on my day trip, I would receive a message from the universe.
Messages from the universe are quite rare, and because they are rare, and because they arrive unasked for with suddenness and clarity, I tend to believe them, or at least I pay close attention to them.
When I arrived at Union Station, I found myself to be a bit jittery, as if something was amiss, and so to calm myself, I had breakfast there. As I ate, and then as I made my way to my first destination, I noted how the faces I saw seemed blank and gray. Was it the early hour, the state of my thoughts or the state of the world?
A week earlier, I had received a letter from the secretary of state's office informing me it was time to renew my state ID, and so I headed for the state of Illinois Building on La Salle Street.
While the two gentlemen who initially reviewed my documents and who took my photograph were efficient and professional, the employee who officially checked my documents — the "gatekeeper"— was brusk, if not rude.
As I left with my temporary ID — was it going to be that kind of a day? — I looked back at long line of faces of the other people waiting for their respective services. Just like the faces at Union Station and on the street, theirs were at best blank, at worse, glum.
To attend to my errands, I had to walk on La Salle, State, Randolph, Wabash, Dearborn and eventually back to Jackson where I had started the day. As I made my way through the heart of the Loop, I was dismayed at how grimy State Street looked, Wabash too.
And all the closed stores. And how there was no sense of energy, vibe nor beat. And all the blank faces. Passing the Christkindlmarket in Daley Plaza, I saw it was packed with ... more blank faces, the children's, too. Not a smile in the manger.
My last errand took me to Harold Washington Library, as I wanted to reread parts of a book from my past. Finished, the morning over, I headed back to Union Station.
While sitting on one of the benches on the lower level, I kept noting the faces of those walking or scurrying past me. One wouldn't think it was the week before Christmas.
Suddenly, there were some smiling faces belonging to a gaggle of drunk, college-age guys and gals who had just arrived from the 'burbs. At the base of the escalators, one of their bags fell open and their empty beer cans tumbled out.
Their braying laughter only heightened my own sense of gray gloom that had accumulated that morning.
And then the universe sent me a message, one that was brief, yet startling in its clarity.
She was about 4 or 5, and she wore a puffy pink winter coat. Her hair had been threaded through long strings of clear plastic beads crowning her small head in sacred silver.
Her skin was chocolate brown as were her eyes, and we had locked eyes as she came toward me from my left, with her mother holding her left hand. Her very young smile was as bright as Christmas Day, and she nodded up and down as she smiled, revealing missing baby teeth.
The effect upon me was immediate! Despite the gloom of that morning, I found myself smiling back at her. How could I not? When I did, her own smile glowed with intensity, and she continued to nod happily.
And then she did something that stunned me. She raised her free right hand and gave me a thumbs-up!
Before I could remember how to breathe, she and her mother continued on to my right toward the ramp leading to the side of the station where the ticket vending machines are located.
Before they ascended, the girl — that messenger from the universe! — looked back at me, smiled and gave me another thumbs-up.
And then she disappeared, into her future and into my heart, and hopefully, yours as well, assuming you understand the message.
Merry Christmas!
John Vukmirovich is a Chicago-area writer and book reviewer.
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