THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:
I watched you as you picked up the note I put on your car. I watched when you threw the unopened package in your garbage can. I watched as your eyes darted left and right when you were sitting with your friends on the beach. And, then I watched you…
(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)
If it weren’t a sin, I’d envy archangels like Michael and Raphael. It would be easier to watch over nations and principalities than mortals bumbling through their years in the flesh. But the angelic hierarchy is fixed and eternal, and guardian angels like me are at the bottom of the heap, closer to man, yet blessed to be of service to God.
I watch you brush away the early-spring flowers from your windshield, my fragrant mementos to remind you of renewal and to guilt you into going to an Easter service you planned to skip.
As a child, you always loved Easter, not for the rabbits or bonnets or eggs. You loved it because it was the day when Death was defeated. But this year, it falls on your son’s birthday. You’d bought him the gift he needed most: a warm coat. Now, you throw it in the trash and curse God because you can’t find him.
No mother should have to poke through rancid alleys in search of her firstborn son.
Even though you can’t feel my presence — or God’s for that matter — I am with you. In my own way, I hold you; I hum the notes of your favorite hymn. I’m not sure your heart can hear me until you jump from your bed and race to retrieve his birthday present. Even though the gift is hidden from sight, lying in a garbage bin, it is still there — just like hope.
You get into your old car. The transmission is shot, but we guardian angels do have some automotive expertise. After my tinkering, you are able to start the car and drive through town, looking for your boy again. You know where he often hangs out, lolling on street corners like a day at the beach.
Your eyes dart left and right. Your mind becomes facial recognition software — it has to, or there’s no way you’ll find him. There will be new scars since the last time you saw him, both on his face and etched into both of your hearts. Scars are funny things. They are reminders of wounds so deep they cut into your soul, but they are also reminders of the power of healing. God himself has scars on his hands.
The night is unusually quiet. Addicts form jagged conga lines to hand over money on one corner, then pick up what they crave on another. Police rarely drive through this part of town. If they did, the denizens would simply relocate, chasing what would never bring them peace.
You see a half-dressed girl sitting in a puddle of her own urine, counting one-dollar bills, talking to no one in particular. You wonder if her mother is looking for her; I wonder if her guardian angel is. And if he is, he’s very late.
That’s the thing about guardian angels: they have agency in fulfilling their divine duties. After all, the devil was an angel once, too.
I hum “Amazing Grace” until you join in. I’m an angel, yet this place has me doubting if heaven is too far away.
At first, you mouth a word or two.
“Help him,” you say.
I know God hears all prayers. I am proof of that. He is listening, I promise. I pray with you, hoping you remember whom you are surrounded by and feel the warmth of faith rekindling.
Then they finally spill out of you, all the prayers from your youth, straight from the heart — not only the ones asking God for help with a wayward child, but just as many thanking him for the tender mercies.
You turn the corner just in time for your broken-down car to break down again. Weeping in a stalled car, you spy a solitary figure. He’s pale, sickly, leaning against a brick wall.
“It’s him,” you say out loud, trying to convince yourself it’s true.
You grab the gift-wrapped present and open the driver’s door, just as flashing lights and squealing tires turn onto the street. The lonely soul doesn’t move. The headlights from the squad car fall on his face. His eyes are glassy and red, but they are not your son’s. You’re not sure if you are relieved when you see the officers escort the stranger into the backseat of their vehicle.
A pre-dawn fog slowly rolls in as the lights and sirens fade into the distance. You have a peaceful look on your face as you walk by your useless car. You are lost in the past, reliving your son’s milestones before his progress was damned. Counting his tiny toes. Losing his first tooth. Hitting a home run.
I walk by your side.
For the first time, you seem to know where you are heading. Each turn is purposeful and confident. I’m amazed at your resilience, so much so that I lose sight of where we are going until we find ourselves back in the presence of the poor defeated girl, still counting and recounting the few dollars she has.
You hand her the perfectly wrapped gift and tell her that her mother loves her.
It turns out that not all guardian angels are angels after all.
