Angels Unawares

My parents had an acrimonious divorce when I was 22.  Don’t ever let anyone tell you divorce doesn’t hurt an “older child”.  It. Does.  And divorce reverberates down the decades and makes worries of little things that should happen naturally (like will Dad still walk me down the aisle?).  But I’m not here to talk about divorce – I’m here to talk about angels.

In my early twenties, I was at odds, in pain, and extremely unsure of myself.  College was behind me and I didn’t know what direction to go.  And I was lonely.  My parents’ divorce stalled me in important ways but the one thing I knew I could cling to was Saturday night Mass.

Our beautiful majestic church has always been my yardstick for churches:   symmetrical, fragranced, and acoustically perfect.  It was a weekly refuge and since I knew the service by heart, I was able to calm my emotions in that great drafty place that I had known since childhood.

One icy November night when snow came early and hard, I ducked into church late and had to take the first pew in front of the altar.  Beside me was an older woman who smiled and cheerfully moved over to make room for me.   When Mass was over and as I stepped back into the aisle, she asked my name.  Her brow furrowed as she pondered if she knew my family all the while reaching out and gently curling a piece of my long hair around her finger.  She told me her name was Anna and startlingly, she asked me why a young girl like me would be so sad on a Saturday night.  As often happens with unexpected tenderness, my eyes welled with tears.  Anna asked if she could help, if she could pray for me, and then she asked if I would have supper with her.  With trembling lips, I found myself saying yes.

I followed her in my car but felt like racing straight home instead.  The sky was foreboding in its gloaming, with a sad low moon.  I asked myself, “What are you doing“???  I remember the crusty snow banks and how I practically had to park in the middle of the street.  I carefully stepped over the ice and followed Anna into a small walk-up apartment that smelled of aged beach pine in what turned out to be a beautiful old Victorian house.

It was a homey place with a woven tablecloth on a round table in front of tall kitchen windows.  From the second floor, everything below had changed to a silvery grey from the finally risen moon.  Suddenly, it felt magical with a charming stained-glass transom above the door and a hanging prism from the table lantern which tossed sparks of moonlight.  Anna cooked us hotdogs with perfectly buttered and toasted buns and a delectable salad of greens that was lightly dressed with homemade vinaigrette.  She told me every woman with a family should have a tried-and-true vinaigrette in her recipe box.  Our humble dinner seemed like a feast.  And she followed it up with piping hot cups of tea and a generous plate of brownies.  I couldn’t remember when anything tasted so good.

Anna told me her children were older than I and that could be the reason why she didn’t know my family.  She was proud of her son who was a “fine young man” and a town fireman and her daughter, a hairdresser, who had sadly been unable to conceive children.  We talked about how she became a widow when they were small, how hard it was for a woman to find a job at that time, how she worked in an office at a factory and how the first thing she bought with her paycheck was a sewing machine so she could make clothing for her little boy and girl.  She taught herself to knit to make them sweaters and socks too. Her deceased husband’s pension had been small…but her homemaking skills in that dear apartment knew no bounds with braided rugs and crisp white ruffled kitchen curtains.

Anna never remarried because she told me her husband was her One True Love.  We talked about love that night and many other things I can no longer remember.  She was so kind and in a roundabout way she gently told me that I was very young and that life had many glorious things in store for me.  She patted my hand reassuringly and called me “dear” over and over.  It was a lovely evening and we ended it by watching an episode of Loveboat together in her darling living room where I actually heard myself laugh spontaneously.

When it was time to leave, I thanked Anna profusely and promised I would come back to see her and that I would look for her at Saturday evening Mass.  But alas, I never visited again…young people are so fickle and life soon improved for me with new jobs, apartments, churches, and a love of my own.  The wounds from my parents’ divorce, while never completely healed, softened and blurred and I was able to put some things to bed or at least to far-reaching corners of my heart.  And then life, as it sometimes does, quickened and I married and moved away.

I won’t lie and tell you I thought of Anna a lot over the years, but she did come to mind whenever I made my own vinaigrette or when a premature snowy November night brought a sharp little moon out.  But I certainly did think about her a few years ago when I caught her obituary in the newspaper.  In print, they called her “an angel” and “a steward of God” who earned her place in heaven. That gallant fireman-son was now retired and the daughter who couldn’t have children had adopted three who were all beloved grandchildren.  Anna too, was beloved…that was clear.

I never told anyone about my evening with Anna or the fact that I went to a complete stranger’s house.  I did write a note to her son after I found the obituary and told him I visited with his mother once and how much I enjoyed her hospitality.  I wish I could say he wrote back and I wish I had a different ending for you – an enlightened one of continued connection.  But this is a simple story about a somebody I had a brief encounter with on a lonely night long ago.  A somebody who showered me with love and attention when I really needed it.  And unaware to me, with all the lack of understanding not bestowed on youth, I had met an angel…

~

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for some have entertained angels unawares. ~ Hebrews 13:2

Who has not found the Heaven – below –
Will fail of it above –
For Angels rent the House next ours,
Wherever we remove –

Emily Dickinson