Thursday, February 18, 2010

Angels

“You hurt?” she asked.

I stopped, turning to see who spoke to me. She looked out of place sitting at the small table with several children’s books in front of her. The small Asian woman was dressed in a back suit and pretty white blouse. Pearl earrings hung at her ears. She reached out placing a hand on my bandaged hand. I looked at my hand as if I had seen it for the first time since my surgery then back to this stranger.

“Surgery,” I replied. “It doesn’t hurt.”

She continued to look at me with concern. A sweet woman I did not know, a woman with stilted words embracing a language not her own for some unknown reason touched my hand as if to comfort me.

A look of concern crossed her face. “You get better soon.”

I looked at the hand on my pile of bandages and into this angel’s eyes. “Thank you.”

The bandages are off. My hand looks as if I’ve been in a sword fight taking a blade across the palm. My story should be so dramatic. The bandages are gone. Still I cannot put aside the sweet lady who touched a stranger’s hand. Why she was sitting in the children’s section of the library was strange as no children were in attendance. She seemed to be sitting there waiting for me. My own angel.

Maybe we are all angels. Maybe we are all supposed to be randomly placed where we can do the most good or at least plant a seed of good intent. We are the keepers of all mankind.

My kids will vouch for the fact that I talk to everyone. I’m not afraid to ask someone in stress or with hands full at the trunk of their car, if I can help. I have hugged many people I do not know. But never before had someone I didn’t know reached out to me for no reason other than to connect with a stranger whose hand was fat with gauze and tape.

Angels come without wings. They walk among us. Mine spoke a language foreign to me but with tenderness I recognized.

1 comment:

  1. I talk to everyone, too, and somehow people know that they can talk to me. One of my friends doesn't like to walk with me anywhere where street people accumulate because they always try to talk to me. I have a hard time turning away from them, because I know they must have some dramatic stories to tell. Sadly, sometimes they are too locked in their own private hells to say anything coherent. But I always remember that verse in the Bible about how we could be "entertaining angels unaware."

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