There are angels all over my houses because people have been giving them to me for years. Folks evidently think I need all the help I can get, and they’d be right.
Bruce has given me an angel of some kind every Christmas for nearly a quarter century. They are made of everything from metal, ceramic, and plastic, to cornhusks.
A tiny white angel, given by a friend, is seashells glued together. There’s a crocheted angel potholder, a couple of refrigerator magnets, and a lace doily with an angel pattern, and three little cherubs doing tumbling tricks. A framed counted-cross-stitched angel was made by my ninety-year-old cousin shortly before her death. She had vision issues and arthritic hands, but was determined to finish it for me.
A cowboy angel lapel pin represents my dad, in my mind. Countless times, I’ve felt him riding alongside on the ranch, and warning me to stay off the ridges in a thunderstorm because horses draw lightning. Not sure how scientific that is, but I know his advice was generally based on wisdom gained by experience. A few close calls when my horse swapped ends just ahead of a lightning strike convinced me that Dad had grabbed the reins.
My current angel favorite hangs on the fridge. She’s a redhead, with pink wings and a purple robe. Her golden halo stands out against a blue sky. Her feet are firmly planted on green grass, which tells me that, with the help of angels, we’ll see some green on the hills yet this spring. I’ve given names to some of my angels and this one is called Hope.
Hope came to me from a ten-year-old great granddaughter who lives in Montana. Pretty sure she gets her artistic bent from her Grammy, who is my only daughter. Olathe, and her brother Cinch, often send us artwork and notes. Grandpa’s pictures are usually fish related, since he’s known to them as the fishing guru, and mine are often angels or butterflies.
I believe in guardian angels too. Besides Dad, my personal one is named Casey. She wears Wranglers, loves black coffee, a bowl of spicy chili, blue sky, wild roses, dogs, and the smell of horses. Oh, and she’s a sucker for a man in a black cowboy hat. Don’t ask how I know. Perhaps her personality is catching. Like a host of other aspects of life, we’re supposed to take our angels on faith.
I don’t know how many of you have a clear idea of your guardian angel, but I’m convinced you have an angel, even if you aren’t. It’d be a good thing to get better acquainted with him or her, is what I think. You wouldn’t get in a car with your best friend and drive to Denver without having a conversation, would you? It would be rude, to say the least, and you might miss out on some good advice.
Charley Pride sang about kissing an angel good morning. There’s probably an angel in your house who’d like a kiss, even if it has four legs. Try it. I promise your day will go better.