Angels

Mary Jean Handley was the Pre-K Sunday school teacher at my church when I was 4. Mary Jean was tall and dazzlingly divine.  She carried her 30-year-old ethereal body with grace and her enchanting white blond hair accentuated her enormous, breathtaking turquoise blue eyes. She sang soprano solos at church, as well as for most of the funerals and weddings in town. Her voice was so clear and pure that when she sang it sounded like something astonishing from the beyond. I knew she was an angel.

I didn’t tell anyone about my revelation until one Sunday night at my grandparents as we sat around their large dining room table eating chili. I took a chance and mentioned my discovery that Mrs. Handley was an angel. Everyone laughed and laughed and laughed. In fact, they couldn’t stop laughing. Finally one of them, I can’t remember who, informed me that there was no such thing as an angel.

Besides feeling humiliated, I was crushed at the news and not completely convinced. So I vowed to myself to carefully observe Mrs. Handley for clues. I also promised myself I would NEVER share anything important with my family ever again!

The first time I actually encountered angels was when when I was 17. I had long given up trying to figure out if Mrs. Handley was a real angel. Certainly, the people around me had been clear about their beliefs, which had probably covertly influenced my indifference. I hadn’t given much thought about the plausibility of angels for years. But, when I experienced it first-hand, I could not deny the Truth.

The year before, when I was 16, my sister and I had flown to San Francisco to drive back with our brother, who had completed his studies at Stanford. It was the first time we had ever flown. In 1966 commercial airlines were just beginning to become available.

Our excitement about flying was overshadowed by trepidation. Our terror was not of flying, but the paralyzing anxiety that comes from doing something for the first time. Our comfort zone was being extremely challenged. It gave us a bit of consolation that we had each other even though we both knew that, in a pinch, if something really happened the other would be of no help at all.

We sat right behind the smoking section and I watched as a blue haze rose up around us and swirled in the sunlight coming in through tiny windows along the sides of the plane. Dust in the air floated upward toward the ceiling and seemed suspended in mid-air.

We made it to California and were met at the gate by our brother. We were never so glad to see a familiar face in our lives!

The following year—the year I met angels, I was flying solo to Rochester, New York to visit my brother and his new wife. The information I was given about the trip was sketchy, at best. All I knew was that I would have to change planes in Chicago. That information was enough to keep my stomach in knots for days. But I didn’t know anyone to ask who had flown before and might know how to change planes.

On the day of my big trip my mother was late getting started, as usual. We drove the 2 hours to the airport in Kansas City, Missouri in an hour and a half at an alarming 100 miles an hour on narrow, rollercoaster-hill roads. That alone would have pushed me over the edge if I hadn’t been so worried about the trip.

My mother drove up in front of the American Airlines departure gates and parked in a no parking zone. We literally ran inside and the stewardesses kept the door open for me as my mother checked me in without saying goodbye. I made my way to my seat at the back of the plane as blank stares from other passengers followed me. My seat, 42 F, was in the middle between an aloof young businessman in a navy blue pinstriped suit and a little old white-haired woman with a sweet, friendly smile.

Once I was buckled in, the woman engaged me immediately in conversation. I felt myself relaxing as she calmly shared, with tremendous pride, about her 2 sons and their families. One lived in Chicago and the other in New York City. She couldn’t wait to hug her grandchildren, who she hadn’t seen in a year. She was staying 2 weeks. She had lived in Kansas City her entire life. Her husband had died 5 years ago. “Oh, by the way, my name is Mildred McCrumb.”

I was SO grateful for her uncomplicated chatter, her soothing voice and her fairy godmother’s absolute love. I relaxed and sank into my seat. I even dozed a bit and when I woke up we continued talking as if we’d always known each other. Then, as pressure uncomfortably bore down on my ears, we landed with an abrupt bump and the rough pull of centrifugal force. I was in Chicago and had to change planes! My anxiety spiked! I tried to act as though everything was fine, but inside I was petrified.

Mildred McCrumb didn’t walk with me down the corridor but I kept my eyes on her like a hawk. With every step I stayed at her pace. Then I noticed other passengers were stopping at a board on a wall that showed plane arrivals and departures as well as gate information. I took out my ticket and searched for my flight number, which I couldn’t find on the board. Then I looked for flights going to Rochester, NY, but there were none going there. When I looked around, Mrs. McCrumb was gone.

The panic inside me was steadily building. I had always been excruciatingly shy and felt a gazillion times more shy in Chicago that day than ever before. How would I ever get up enough nerve to talk with someone? Would I be able to ask for help? For a while I wandered aimlessly, trying to find my confidence. I was overwhelmed by the fact that there were more people in the hallway than in the entire town of Onaga, Kansas. I felt tongue-tied, terror-stricken.

Just then, I caught sight of Mrs. McCrumb again. She had her arms around her grandchildren and they were talking a mile a minute. It felt comforting to see her.

This gave me determination to ask for help. I didn’t want to miss my next flight. I found an American Airlines counter with some women talking and laughing behind it. I waited until they noticed me and then I asked them, tentatively, if they could help me. They said they would try. I asked them how to find out which gate was mine. They asked me where I was going. I told them. They looked it up on large sheets of paper and said there were no flights leaving for Rochester, NY. Then I asked the very difficult and embarrassing question. Hesitantly, I got the words out...”Where am I?”  They looked at each other puzzled and then one said, “Why, you are in New York City.”

My heart sank. Right next to the desk was a row of chairs that were hooked together. I sat down quickly and heavily. I felt faint and my mind seemed suspended while speeding too quickly to follow. No matter how hard I tried to hold them back, large tears rolled down my face. Even if I’d had enough money to buy a ticket, I had no idea how to go about getting one.

Suddenly, I looked up and there stood Mrs. McCrumb. She wanted to introduce me to her son and grandchildren. Her son, who noticed I’d been crying, asked me what was wrong. I told him my dilemma and he said he would help.

I watched him walk over to the American Airlines counter. After waiting in a line and then having a long conversation with a young woman in a tight blue uniform, he bought a ticket for me to fly to Rochester. That particular flight left from Kennedy Airport and we were at La Guardia. He went off to locate my luggage and when he joined us again he ushered us toward his car. He was going to drive me to the other airport! This was the moment it dawned on me that I just might be in the presence of angels.

When we got to the other airport he parked his car in the short-term parking lot. Then, he got my bag from the trunk and we all went into the airport. He found out which gate was for American Airlines flight 2674 to Rochester, NY. Then they walked me down to the gate and sat with me until it boarded and I was securely on the plane. As I taxied into takeoff position I peered through the window next to my seat and saw they were all standing at the observation window watching, waiting for my plane to take off. Angels.

I Remember Her

I remember the moment clearly in a hazy kinda way. I was with a large group of girls lingering in a small gas station bathroom. Or was it just Margo Grutzmacker, Karen Bergman and me? The floor was made of concrete. Or was it dark vinyl tile. The track meet was over. Or were we on our way there? Karen was anxiously opening and closing the door, watching in case our Coach showed up. Or was that Linda Labee?

I remember the feeling of being trapped. Peer pressure pushing down, crushing my fragile sense of Self. There was a voice in my head screaming “NO!” but no sound came out. A deer in headlights had more ability to walk out that door than I did. No matter what I thought or felt, I was paralyzed.

I remember glancing at my watch. I looked down at its flat face and it stared back at me blankly. In that moment, I knew I was in this alone. Then the hand moved and I was startled and closed my eyes but I could not get away.

I even remember the name of the town: Wahoo, Nebraska. I knew my name and who I was before that day. She felt as though she was someone I might have known a long time ago. She was seventeen. Or was she sixty? Or sixteen?

I remember her as someone I would recognize in a 1968 high school yearbook. The black and white marbled background gives her a sense of place. Her hair is teased and curled up at the ends and the white crisp collar on her blouse is freshly starched and ironed. The irony between how she looks and how she actually feels is imperceptible at first viewing. But her eyes. Oh, you wouldn’t believe the sadness in her eyes. The grief of growing up wounded stares back at me with hollow emptiness.

I remember the rage behind those eyes. Childhood split in two by adults simultaneously too overly protective and too lax. I was extraordinarily immature and ill equipped for adulthood, which was just around the next unknown corner. I had no skills to deal with Vietnam War protests, street drugs, sexless faces found the next morning in dorm beds and across the room unprotected feelings breaking the heart of whoever I was becoming.

Oh, yes! I remember that girl. She was the one who broke into a run in front of the high school boy’s track team. They were all sitting in the bleachers listening to their coach’s instructions and watching me run. I took one extra lap after I’d put on my sweat pants and all the other girls had gone back to the school. For some reason I was craving attention and feeling powerful. My new leather cleats securely gripped the cinder track and I felt long lean legs under me pounding the ground rhythmically with self-confident strength. Suddenly I was flying. I was suspended, senses heightened yet too far away, as in all accidents when time stops. Feet groundless—accelerating forward movement, unstoppable as my right foot caught the edge of my grey sweat pants and pain seared my hands and pride.

I remember it took my dad a long time to pick the cinders out of my chin, knees and hands when I got home. I don’t remember much other than his annoyance and obligatory irritation with the task, really. Pain had a way, even then to lift me up above the room and stop the tears from flowing.

I distinctly remember Karen saying it would be okay. But, there was nothing in me that believed her. A quick click of a Bic, the tip lit...  I inhaled, and the rancid, repulsive heat filled my mouth. My throat closed quickly in self-defense trying to block the putrid, pungent explosion. I choked—then gagged—then felt shame and was embarrassed in front of the girls who were all older than me.

I remember each year after that trying to stop. Trying to quit. Trying to fight off the nicotine creature that ruled my life.  She lay silently lurking, watching my every move. She was cunning and crafty, a calculating, sly master of illusion. She embodied the trickster and seemed to have no feelings at all—just dangerously corrupt, sneaky deception. She loved to exaggerate and contort every feeling I had with insidious lies and a mischievous smile. She had her devious ways to easily convince me I could not live without another and another and another cigarette to cope and simply to be okay.

It hurts to remember how unconscious I was as a smoker. I didn’t care that I was hurting myself. I didn’t care that I was separating myself from the people I loved most. I painfully and desperately yearned to connect with them. But smoking was more important, more urgent. I did not notice when I threw my butts on the ground or when non-smokers were around me when I smoked. Secondhand smoke was no concern to me. No. I didn’t care about anything... except smoking. I always kept track to make sure I had enough cigarettes. I knew where my lighter was at all times. I lived for and could not wait until I could light up and feel that warm calming sensation being sucked into my lungs—even standing outside in weather 17 degrees below zero. Smoking was always at the back my mind. I knew when I would have my next cigarette. I did whatever I needed to smoke because I loved smoking more that I loved anything or anyone. I loved smoking more than myself.

I remember the last cigarette I smoked. Actually I had many last cigarettes...and honestly, the absolute last one is as vague and obscure in my mind as the first. But five, maybe six years ago, smoking stopped. One day her grip on me loosened and slipped completely away taking the addictive behaviors along with her.

I remember feeling lost without her at first. I had lots of extra time to think. Struggle. Feel. I shouted out for her to come back. I didn’t think I could live without her emotionally abusive, toxic companionship. But when she didn’t show up that day or the next I began to live my life.

I remember one day a year or so after I stopped smoking realizing I was relating to my life as an adult for what seemed like the first time. No longer a scared teenager hiding in a gas station restroom—I had real opinions, thoughts that were my own and lots of ways to express my feelings. I had a voice. I knew myself pretty well or at least I was open to learning.

I remember the struggle that young woman endured because I stayed away, crippled without the skills or support to make the leap from adolescence to adulthood. Her life lost it’s light and was clouded with overshadowing anguish. She masqueraded for years as an adult. Shrouded by hurt, as eclipsed as she was, she fought for survival with anyone or anything she could grasp onto. I am grateful to that tenacious teen for her willingness to persevere and triumph, even when life seemed insurmountable and overwhelming. Could I have made it without her sassy attitude, her tenacious drive, and her will to live? I think not.

Every day now I remember the courage in her reckless abandon, her lousy judgment, and her catastrophic mistakes. I remember the agony that weighed her down, the burdens she shouldered. I remember her potential that would never come to be. I remember how severe she was on herself and the choice she made over and over and over every day to live.

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Now I am aware of longing for the essence of her boundless energy, her enthralling imagination and the endless joy she felt when she turned everything in her life into a work of creation. At times, I remember that even though I abandoned her then, now I celebrate us both. And, that makes all the difference.