I don’t know. I want to get my writing for my blog done early, take my time editing, but every week I seem to wait a little later, a little later to sit down and get to work. Last week I didn’t really dig in until after 10 pm Thursday night and that’s just too late. Handsome Supportive Husband needs his beauty rest. He makes an effort to stay up with me in case I need his editing services and I don’t want to be responsible for him losing his looks.
But I don’t have an idea for my blog post this week. The idea just hasn’t come. Or last week, or the week before that. I mean, I wrote about what was on my mind. I shared. But it wasn’t as easy as it usually is. No angel visited and dropped an idea in my thoughts. It was all very menial.
One of my sister’s California friends is an actual, published children’s book author. He very generously read a novel I drafted and shared his thoughts for improvement. We exchanged e-mails and letters for a bit and the best piece of writing advice I’ve ever received came from him.
“If you aren’t at your desk every day, you won’t be there when the angels come.”
But I’m sitting here…ready to be a channel to whatever story wants to swoop in on heavenly wings…and not even a flutter. Frankly, I don’t usually have to sit at all; the idea comes to me on a walk or at work or while I’m driving.
But not the last several weeks.
Patience is a virtue, but I can’t call it mine.
My sister tells this story about me. I was three-ish, maybe four. She always tosses in how I was this cute little thing with blonde curls, but modesty prevents me from repeating that part. Anyway, I must have been in charge of dressing myself that day because I was looking for a pair of socks. Apparently, I was rooting around in the dryer (conveniently located in the kitchen) looking for a pair of socks. Unfortunately I got hold of a pair of those confounded leotards Mom used to stick me in. I pulled and pulled and then in an exasperated voice I said, “Where in hell’s the other sock?!”
I hung out with my Dad a lot, who spent a lot of time fixing things…and swearing at them as he did so. He got the blame for the salty language I picked up, anyway.
I don’t know why I thought of that story. I guess because I’m sitting here at my desk – way before my work is ‘due’ – like a responsible writer and considerate spouse and all I can think is, “Where in hell’s my angel?”
“What a ridiculous thing to think, you privileged little snot,” is my next thought. “Who is in your life BUT angels?”
This is true. And yet. How do I say this? I believe we can be angels to each other, our bodies temporarily commandeered by a higher power to help. Yes.
Sometimes I want more.
Not more help. (Well, actually, that too. I do need that story idea.) But I mean I don’t want to have to always be satisfied that heavenly forces are at work all around me in subtle ways.
I want to see an actual angel.
I want to have awareness in the moment that I’m in the presence of a heavenly being. While I’m alive, and awake preferably. A dream visitation would be almost as cool.
Proof is not the issue. Just want to be clear on that. I believe.
A couple decades ago, I was standing in my Mother-in-law’s kitchen in New Jersey. A flash of red outside the sliding glass door caught my eye. A brilliant cardinal in the holly tree!
Of course, a cardinal in New Jersey is about as rare as a chickadee in Maine. She was startled when I screamed and pointed and jumped up and down saying, “A cardinal! A cardinal!”
I knew they existed. But it was sure nice to finally see one.