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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Rhoda would tell you that you're not supposed to sell angels, you're supposed to give them away, the way they give of themselves to people who need them. And that it's not a matter of angels not liking you, it's a matter of you not using enough duct tape and wire twist-ties to keep the angels on the tree, 'cause they're wily shits. Look who they have to keep up with. :)
flamingsword said...
March 15, 2013 at 2:14 AM