Sometimes Angels Make People Cry

Divorce is ugly. Thankfully I don’t know this firsthand. Over the past thirty years of adulthood I’ve watched friends, relatives and more than a few clients pass through this tortuous process. From the outside looking in, it seems true north shifts as the person you set your compass by is no longer available to you. The longer the marriage, the longer the recalibration takes until you feel your life is back on course. In the meantime feelings of rejection, grief, anger, confusion, self-doubt, failure, fear and frustration surface in every permutation.

                This was the situation my friend Audrey found herself in late last year when she and her younger son moved from their waterfront house to a safe, clean, yet less than spacious apartment. On her own for the first time in over two decades, she imagined wolves at her door and wondered how she would afford Christmas presents for her teen sons after paying first, last and security.

                I met her at the apartment on the day she signed the lease. She wanted help measuring to see which pieces of furniture would fit into the new place. She mentioned another friend would be stopping by briefly. Audrey was puzzled because she didn’t know Joyce very well and she hadn’t said why she was coming, only that she wanted to drop something off. “A housewarming gift?” I ventured. We quickly worked our way through the few rooms and had a tentative plan for where the beds, sofa and television would go. We were still trying to find the right spot for the treadmill when there was a knock on the door.

                Audrey introduced me to Joyce, a neatly-dressed petite woman, carrying only her purse. Audrey offered a quick tour of her new home. I busied myself in the kitchen, not wanting to intrude on their conversation. They made their way to the far bedroom and despite staying out of the way and trying not to listen, I heard Audrey crying, then, sobbing. I wondered if I should go check on my friend. What could Joyce have said or done to make her so upset?

                I stayed in the kitchen, now with my good ear toward the hallway, and restlessly shuffled some more pans around. When they returned to the living room I was relieved to see they were smiling. Audrey was holding a plain white envelope. We made small talk about restaurants and fabric stores. They hugged. Joyce left for work.

I asked Audrey if she had been crying and if she was okay. She fanned the envelope in the air and whispered, wide-eyed “She gave me a check! Joyce and her friends make quilts and sell them and then at the end of the year they give the money away. This year they gave it to me. THERE’S FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS IN HERE!”

Four thousand dollars is not life-changing but Audrey’s gloom had lifted. She was hopeful about her future for the first time in a long time. She pulled a list from her pocket of things she had been putting off buying: a video game for her boys, a garbage bin for under the kitchen sink, a shower curtain. Fresh tears fell and blurred the ink.

An Extraordinary Ordinary Man

            On a humid morning in a congested South Florida neighborhood, John W. Parrish went to his church to drop off some paperwork.  When he got there he found the church secretary had been startled by a suspicious person who tried to follow her into the building. The elderly woman had not been harmed but was nevertheless quite shaken.

The next morning, John, a WWII vet who was nearing eighty himself, again drove to the church in his red car decorated with “In God We Trust” bumper-stickers and flags, and stood by while the secretary opened the office. He told her he was just in the neighborhood and quietly added this trip to his daily routine so she would feel safe. John made this his habit for several years until shortly before his death.

I learned this story from the priest who presided at his memorial service. John W. Parrish was my father. Although I had not heard this particular story before, it came as no surprise to me, my brother, nor anyone in the standing-room-only crowd gathered that evening. A widower since shortly before he retired, John spent his so-called leisure years giving to others.

There was more. When the service ended our family stood at the front of the room as  neighbors, nuns, a bartender, a postman, former co-workers and employers, VFW and Knights of Columbus buddies, friends new and old filed by, each with their own stories to tell. A woman who lost her father the same month told me she often talked to John instead of her own dad because she knew he would offer good advice and a kind word. A young man whom Dad had scolded throughout his teen years for parking on the grass and breaking other minor home association rules had tears in his eyes as he told us how much John meant to him.

If good deeds are ripples in a pond that spread to unseen shores then John created quite a wave. May his memory continue to inspire good deeds.

 

To begin with, I’m not sure I believe in angels. At least not the kind in white robes with feathery wings who come down from heaven and appear to us humans to make great pronouncements, rescue us from danger or take away our troubles. I’m not completely closed to the idea but just as sleight of hand can be labeled “magic,” what we attribute to angels is more likely people helping people.

We all know them. They are ordinary people who quietly go about their lives doing things for others, sometimes extraordinary things. I have been fortunate to have crossed paths with many such angels in my life. I’ll be sharing their stories here in the hope of inspiring more good deeds.

Do you believe in angels?