Here’s the thing about angels. They don’t like me. I shouldn’t be surprised. Why would any angel cozy up to a spiritual-but-not-religious, non-churchgoing heathen like me?

I wish I could talk to my sister Rhoda about this, but she died in 2009. She was a lot like me spiritually. Chalk it up to Catholic school education, with Mass six days a week, for many years in Latin. I got sprung from Catholic school after fifth grade. Rhoda stuck it out through high school, but I think that had to do with the cute guys in her class.

Rhoda and I both believe in God. We’ve just never connected with him or her in church on Sunday.  Give us a forest, a mountaintop, a starry night on the beach. That’s where we find our God. Or even in a baby’s smile or the sweet tenderness of a puppy’s soft, downy-pink belly.

Anyway, back to the angels. Rhoda loved angels. She collected them. Lots of them. Ceramic angels. Wooden angels. Crystal angels. Angels formed of wire and tin and papier mâché. And when she died and I inherited the primary responsibility for settling her estate and distributing her belongings, I had all these -- angels – to deal with.

I kept a few, gave some to family members I knew would like them, and sold the rest in a yard sale. Maybe the angels were offended. Maybe I priced them too low. Maybe they didn’t appreciate being separated. But really, there were just so, so many of them, and I had a lot to deal with. Sorry, seraphim. Really, I am so, so sorry.

Here’s how I know they don’t like me: one of them took a nose dive off the top of my Christmas tree. Her head exploded. Seriously, an angel suicide. Another gave up her halo. Her tiny, golden glass halo, just inexplicably came off her little head.

I try not to take is personally. I mean, it could be considered hypocritical of me to even have the angels, right? I mean, wouldn’t they be better off on someone else’s tree? Someone who goes to church, someone who knows the correct words are “angels we have heard ON high” and not “angels we have heard ARE high.”

But then I gave in and actually bought an angel! For four days I have lived with a tree that is fully decorated, bedecked with angels and Santas and snowmen and random souvenirs of various vacations, glass balls and Christopher Radko collectibles and lots of crystal doo-dads. But it was naked on top, its pinnacle bare in homage to the gilded martyr now buried in the trash can.

It just didn’t look right. I kept moving ornaments around, seeking the perfect balance of bauble and beads. And then it struck me, it needed an angel on top. So when I saw one on sale at CVS, where I stopped to stock up on buy-one-get-one Osteo Bi-Flex, I threw her in the cart and brought her home.

She’s beautiful, with a white flowing robe, a harp, and golden-glittery wings. But you know what? She doesn’t fit. She won’t stay put. She lists to the side, and threatens to fall, bringing snowmen and Santas and even the Mr.-Potato-Head-dressed-as-a-toy soldier with her!
That’s the thing about angels: they just don’t like me. Just sayin.

 

 

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