The Arms of Angels

Until recently, I lived my life with a 'don't look back' mindset. I'm not sure why it is, but these days I often find myself standing near the empty chasms of the burned and left behind, but never forgotten, bridges of my past. I don't stand there pondering the viability of trying to bridge the gap in the dizzying depths of life, but I do sometimes creep nearer to the edge in an effort to catch even the smallest glimpse of the people that I have loved. This morning I received a rare and beautiful gift and I would like to share it with you.

My earliest memory is difficult for me to define in terms of my age, having no children myself, it is a little difficult for me to say how old toddlers are when they are still toddling but have just reached the stage when they are ready to wear hard shoes. Is there even a difference today? At any rate, I was still small enough to walk across the kitchen table. We were visiting my Uncle Buck and the grownups were talking about how connected we were because I was born on his birthday. I was sitting in my father's arms at one end of the kitchen table and my Uncle Buck was sitting at the other end of the table, he smiled at me and opened his arms and I scampered up and made my very wobbly way into his arms. The details of that short walk on the kitchen table in the basement house we would one day own are so vivid that they must be true memories. I can remember how strange the hard shoes felt on my feet and how much I loved the noise they made on the hard surface of the table. I cannot recall how many other people were sitting at the table but I know there were hands there, ready to catch me if I fell and I remember coffee cups hastily moved out of the way. I don't believe I looked at anything but my uncle as I walked toward him. I could not take my eyes off his face; it was the face of an angel. He was light; his complexion was very fair, he had pale hair with just a hint of red and his eyes were as deep and true and sparkling a blue as the heavens themselves. When I tumbled into his arms, he held me as if I were as fine and rare as Fairy Dust and twice as likely to blow away. My uncle had acquired a devotee and me my second conquest (after Daddy you know).

Tragically, my uncle, Albert Hartman, died a few short years later of cancer at a very young age. I believe he was in his early to mid thirties. He left behind a wife and three children.

What a precious gift for me to hold onto tight the next time a migraine forces me to become violently ill and I hear Gollum's voice in my head saying, "You don't have any friends". I hope I can remember that an angel once held me in his arms, and he loved me.

There is always hope.