It was one of those singularly unique moments, the kind you can't create or design or plan and the kind that you can never hope for again. It happened after the pope's Mass in Yankee Stadium Sunday in New York.
Karen, The Boy and I had finally made it through an immovable crowd that at times seemed as if it would keep us stagnant outside the gates of the great ballpark in the Bronx forever. But finally, the crowd thinned and we made our way to the 161st St. station. Plenty of people still lingered, many filled souvenir shops, others merely meandered about talking with one another, strangers and friends alike.
We walked down the stairs to the subway platform and noticed a group of six or eight young men clad in the black frocks of young seminarians. They were all smiles, all fresh-faced and jovial and helpful and when the train door came open they of course deferred to everyone else before they themselves boarded.
The doors whisked shut and one of them pulled up next to me and sat down. His name was Andrew and he and his brother, who he pointed to, were both in the seminary together which he said delighted mom and dad to no end back home in Ohio.
We talked a little more and then something caught the attention of the seminarians coming from the front corner of the train, which was about 75 percent full.
And then I heard it:
SALVE REGINA, Mater misericordiae. Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.
For a moment I thought, oh that's nice, someone's singing.
But soon enough they all were. All of the seminarians plus whoever in the corner started it all.
Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae.
I had no idea what they were singing but it was becoming clear that these guys had grabbed hold of everyone in that train car.
Ad te Suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle. Eia ergo, Advocata nostra, illos tuos
misericordes oculos ad nos converte.
The more they sang their Latin prayer, the quieter the car became. No one spoke. Not a soul. Everyone just sat and listened.
Et Iesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui, nobis post hoc exsilium ostende.
And on the faces of everyone in that train, serenity. Peace. Some people brushed back tears from their eyes as they realized they were involved in a moment that was so pure and spontaneous as to defy adequate description. Where it all came from ultimately, there was no doubt. There was a presence in that subway car that day, a holy feeling you couldn't necessarily see, but you could certainly feel. By the end of their prayer, the car was totally quiet but for the sound of the singing seminarians.
O clemens, o pia, o dulcis Virgo Maria.
Then it was over. And the entire car erupted in applause and cheers.
I shared the story with a friend who asked me if the response on the train was such because everyone had just come from a Papal Mass. Without question that was the case.
Such a spontaneous subway event may or may not happen 150 blocks away in the financial district, or in Queens after a Mets game. But it happened to the people who were blessed enough to get on that particular train with the singing seminarians from Josephinum College in Columbus, Ohio. And we're all better for it today.
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