Silver ones… gold ones… small ones… big ones… glass ones.
One by one they caught my eye as I looked around the small room, now only my dad’s place as mom had passed away two months before.
Delicately, I gently cradled the small glass one cupped in my hand. My mind travelled back in time as it took me back to a place many years ago in a city hospital, late, late one night, cupping my hands gently around the same angel.
As I gently placed it on the side table, smelling of hospital cleaner beside my moms bed, she didn’t notice it that day, but days after her 13-hour surgery that almost took her life, she let me know how much she had cherished it.
As my thoughts brought me back to the present, I realized as I stood here, angel cupped gently in my hands, how many moves over the years this tiny gem had survived. It had been special to her and now it had a special in my heart as I felt a piece of her with me as I stood there in the small dimly room.
The sounds of John Denver and Rita MacNeil Christmas, along with many others, crooned from my mom’s tape player, now by my dad’s bedside, lulling him to sleep most nights this Christmas season.
“Angels We Have Heard On High” came next on the playlist… how fitting it was in this moment.
Gently I placed the small glass angel back in its rightful spot alongside the rest of the eclectic array of Christmas angels on the small 80’s wooden shelf on the wall. I looked at the small room, single bed ready for me to spend the night, now a weekly routine now that mom was gone. Her appliqued queen size duvet waiting patiently for me to crawl under… but sleep was far from my mind this night.
I quietly made my way down the hall to the cozy living room now lovingly decorated for the season with all that said “Mom” by those who took care of my dad day in and day out. I nestled into mom’s white cozy corner rocker, left vacant too often now that she was gone, hoping to feel her close again.
I closed my eyes to the now faint Christmas music flowing gently from my dad’s room. But just before my eyes closed completely, another angel caught my eye. There on the miniature warmly lit tree hung an array of crocheted Christmas angels… crisp white with a red bow to complete the look, all handmade by my mom.
These angels had been a part of my memory for a number of Christmas’ by now, but this night, entering the first Christmas season without her… they seemed to burn a new sense of Christmas spirit into my heart.
My mind wandered to the last Christmas with Mom and a small box of delicate glass Angels gifted to me that now filled my tabletop tree in my dining room. Eight of them representing my growing armful of grandchildren by now.
These angels seemed to fill every corner of my mom’s life over the years. She loved them. They had special meaning to her, especially through the tough times in her life. And tough times there were.They represented a comfort to her. She knew the Holy Bible told her we all have an angel assigned to us as born-again believers by our God whom she had served since her acceptance of Him at the tender age of five, as she had shared with us many times over the years.
As a few warm tears trickled slowly down each side of my cheeks, my mind couldn’t help but wonder how amazing and utterly glorious it could be as I thought of my mom, now walking closely with her guardian angel among the multitude of angels Singing…
“Glory to God in the highest, peace, Goodwill to all men”… words she had sung for 73 Christmases on earth for so many years.
Her journal entries in this last year had alluded to her longing as she wrote… “What a day that will be!! No more sorrow!! No more sadness!! To God be the Glory forever!!”
My heart could hardly contain my imagination of what she was experiencing now. A hope we can all have if we but give our hearts to God and become His children and accept His free gift of eternal life.
A hope I too yearn to experience someday when I’ll meet my mom and so many others, along with my Jesus… forevermore…
beyond the crocheted angels❤️