I have had a few angels in my life. I have some right now, I suppose.
I imagine that the loved ones I have lost must be very, very busy in the next life. It’s rather ridiculous to imagine they have time to notice what’s going on in the old one, but, every now and then, it’s clear, they do. I wonder how that works. I wonder if I will understand it when it’s my turn.
I hope I can be one of those. I hope I can somehow arrive at just the perfect, most needed moment, and say the right words. I hope I can somehow arrange a smile on lips otherwise trembling with tears. I hope I can be that space where you know you are okay, that someone genuinely sees you, whole and utterly accepted even in the mystery that you are. I hope I can be the arms, always open, that somehow hold you, making no demands. I hope I am that place where whatever love you bring, no matter how disguised or disfigured, is always enough. I hope I can be the infinite love that was always there even when you couldn’t feel it.
Because the angels — they have done all those things for me.
I suspect the next life is just as busy as this one. I am not in the camp that supposes there is a lot of lounging around with harps on clouds. No, it’s busy, it’s full, it’s beautiful, it’s creative, because how could it be less than this life?
Evidently, though, it’s somehow even bigger. Because I know the angels are there. They’ve made that apparent, transcending space and time and dimensions I don’t have the capacity to imagine. I am grateful. And I am trying.