Calling All Angels

 

Train's popular song "Calling On Angels" begins with a universal cry for help:

"I need a sign to let me know you're here... 

...I need to know things are gonna look up"

It's no wonder that the song struck a chord with so many. You don't have to be Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, spiritual, or religious to cry out for help in the darkness for someone to help you in your moment of need or feel the need to have someone assuage your worries, you just have to be human.

And we've all been there. (I was there this morning. And last night. And five minutes ago...). Sometimes I don't know who or what I am talking to when I cry out into the darkness,  but I do it anyway. "Just help me get through the next five minutes."

"Help me get through this tough conversation."

"Help me get through this job."

"Help me get through to my daughter."

"Help me be a better mother. Friend. Writer. Wife. Daughter."

"Help me be better."

"Help."

And though I often cry out into the ether, more often than not, I actually call on my arsenal of angels here on earth, too. My husband. My parents. My sisters. My best friends. My neighbors. Other parents. And I know I am not the only one. What's fascinating to me is that when I ask people who their angels are (not "if" they have them or not, which seems to go without saying), no one needs more than a second to reply:

My mom.

My sister.  My husband.

My grandmother.

My best friend.

My dog.

Many, however, will have difficulty choosing just one. (I know I couldn't). They could sit and talk with me for hours about just how many of these angels they've had in their lives, or how one in particular changed the entire trajectory of their life. Now mind you, many will tell me their angels are still alive and well. Others will say, "My grandmother passed away, but I know she is with me and watching over me."  The term angel simply means that someone touched them profoundly, deeply, and transformed them in some way. And what I find fascinating  is what they don't call the people who they seem somehow indebted to.

Oh that daughter of mine, she is my mentor.  

Oh that husband of mine, he's my guide.

Oh that BFF, she's my hero. 

That EMT was my Savior.

No, the word they use to sum up someone who saved their life or steered them back on course during a difficult struggle or stood by them during moments of despair or have just been a steadfast presence in their life is quite simply: An angel.

And let's face it, we all have them. There isn't one person on the planet who doesn't have someone whose got their back or had their back at some point. (Whether we choose to acknowledge it is up to us, not the angel(s).) None of us is alone or gets where we are in life without them. In the beginning, the angels are our parents. Our mothers, in particular, who carried us in their wombs and who brought us into the world,  and the ones who fed us, and cared for us and made sure we slept, ate, and were changed. These seemingly simple acts ensured our survival,  for that alone we owe a lifetime of gratitude, despite whatever transpired between that birth and death. Then there are all the people, the siblings, the grandparents, the cousins, the teachers, the playmates, the coaches, the infinite number of people who affected us in someway on our journeys to adulthood. I think of my friend P.J. in kindergarten. I still remember her approaching me in the mock mini-kitchenette of Mrs. Roach's classroom and suddenly feeling all the anxiety and fear of starting a new school and being away from my mother for the first time in my life dissipate with her friendly smile. Her twin boys are about the same age now that P.J. and I were when we first met and I have to say, whenever I see pictures of her boys and see their smiles, which are all hers, I can't help but feel gratitude for their mother's friendship. I think of my third grade teacher (also my Kindergarten teacher), Mrs. Roach, and how she read my essay aloud to the class and cracked up laughing while she did it and said, as she handed me the paper back, "Good job." It is because of that angel, I kept writing. And then there are all angels that came into and out of my life--far too soon--and left holes and giant, full-body-not-just-heart-aches, but who I never felt far away from, even when they were gone. Somehow they lived inside me anyway. Their voices guiding me long after they were gone from this earth. And I think of all the ones who came in not-so-benign forms. The ones that yelled, cajoled, and forced me into uncomfortable spots, who pushed me, and made me tougher, stronger, more resilient--not because they were mean, but because they loved me and knew what was best for me when I was too far in the dark to find my way out without them.  I think of all the second chance angels, who despite my worst days, my lowest lows, opened their arms and let me back in. Gave me a second shot. Forgave me. Loved me. There are merciful angels who I never got their names, but they pulled me out of smashed cars, let me hitch rides, wrapped my wounds in ERs, sewed me up in ORs, resuscitated me in ambulances, held my hand in lonely waiting rooms. Sometimes their actions were as small as letting me and my wailing baby cut in line at the grocery store so I could get home to feed him. Sometimes their actions were as monumental as driving all night to get me in my darkest hour. Sometimes they were anonymous. The bearers of  500 singles in an unmarked envelope left at my door so that I could pay my rent and avoid eviction. The maker of a sandwich left at my doorstep when I was pregnant and hungry and had no money for food. Sometimes they were all but invisible--the missed traffic light, a moment's hesitation, that helped me avoid a wreck. Sometimes they were the wreck, the lesson learned. Slow down. Pay attention. Be better.

And maybe that's why I wrote Proof of Heaven, and then Proof of Angels. Maybe, I have always known that I would be nothing without them, and I could spend my whole life saying thank you, thank you, thank you to all of them,these angels, and it would never be enough.  No book would be enough. No blog post would be enough. And in the end maybe that's the point. Or maybe it's so I take a moment every day to not only say thank you to an angel, but to be an angel to someone else as well.

And so I ask who are your angels? And what kind of angel are you?

Comment below. I will pick a winner at random next week to receive a free copy of my next novel: Proof of Angels.

A New Home for MaryCurranHackett.com

Welcome to the new home of MaryCurranHackett.com!

Today is my first official day posting to the new website. (I hope you like it. I did it all on my own. Yes, I can hardly believe it myself.) The years since I wrote my first book and launched my first website have been life-changing, and so I thought it only appropriate I change things up a bit here as well.

And now for my true confession:  While I typically write every day, it is atypical for me to do it in such a public forum (Facebook/Twitter notwithstanding). And I am scared to death to do it. What if no one reads it? What if everyone I know reads it? What if I say something I'll regret (Not impossible...)? What if it interferes with my other writing? My parenting? My life?  What if I fail? 

So here goes nothing. My blog. I know it won't be completely unlike the times  I begin to write a novel or  attempt to build a website or try out a new camera. It will be ugly at first. F-bombs will drop. Tea will be sipped in mass quantities. I will sit up at night obsessing over just the right angle, the right word choice, the right picture. And most of the time I will have no idea what I am doing. But, like all those other things I seem to figure out eventually, I know that I will only know how to do it, if I just start. And the best time and place to begin is right here and right now. No safety net. No operating manual. No outline. No end destination in mind. Just me. A keyboard. An idea or two. And place to share them.

Here goes nothing.