Calling all Angels

Being a thrift store junkie from my teenage years, I would often pass by the vast array of ceramic angels on the shelves. Their wings outstretched, beckoning me to look closer. I would wonder why people collected such things.

Then there are the songs about angels. The one in my recent memory being in one of my favorite movies, “Pay it Forward”
"Calling all angels. Calling all angels. Walk me through this one, don’t leave me alone…”

Angels were always something mysterious to me. I sang in the choir about them in church. I had friends that collected them, believing deeply in their existence. I so wanted to believe in their presence among us. Around us. Looking over our shoulders in the library like the movie “City of Angels”, sparing us from harm, reading our thoughts; opening the curtains to the entrance of heaven just enough to let us know there is something beautiful on the other side.

 September 3rd of this year marks seven years my oldest child is gone from me. He was only 31 when he died of an accidental overdose. Found dead with his six-foot three-inch frame curled up on an old couch; my three-year-old grandson finally awake and despondent. Jumping on him, yelling his name, trying desperately to wake him up. Jonathan died holding the only thing that he held precious in this world. His son.

I have survived six other “Angel anniversaries” as some people call them. The days leading up to that day coming up on the calendar become more somber and more reflective. Thoughts of my Jonathan Page and his life; beginning with my eyes opening in the morning light and ending with the flood of tears in the darkness, when the day is done and I can finally take off the mask.

 This year it’s hitting me harder. Like the cracking sound of a heavy hitter echoing through the ballpark. I hold back the painful tears of the missing of my child. I still ask the same questions. The questions with impossible answers. What was it all for? Lord, why would you use me as a vessel for life at 17, only to take him away after such struggle? One of many questions that I can never settle. No words or answers or perceived epiphanies ever bring me comfort.

Last night as darkness fell, I did as I sometimes need to do. I took one of his favorite shirts from the closet and laid down, draping the shirt in such a way that the arm of it was over my shoulder as in an embrace. My body beginning to convulse with the familiar sobs under the red plaid shirt. I hold my breath to try and make it stop. Tears soaking the shirt he once wore, when he was larger than life itself. I failed him. My child. I failed him.

And in that familiar darkness that often ended only with the exhaustion that tears bring, I felt a presence. This time was different. I was visited by something otherworldly. It was a solace I could feel lying beside me and covering me with something tangible. It wasn’t with a glowing or light. It wasn’t accompanied by harp-song or the sound of  trumpets or a chorus. It was quiet and unassuming. And it covered me with comfort. Like wings.

I thought to myself, this must be it. This must be why I sometimes see the vast collections of angels lining the shelves at the Goodwill store. All the talismans that stand in wait for the real thing to arrive. For believers to take them home as reminders of what is yet to come when our bodies give up our spirit.

I hope that was what it was like for Jonathan. I hope an angel came to comfort him and take him home. Back to the embrace of the one most holy.

I believe now.

I believe in angels.