Angels Unawares

I don't know why I've been thinking about angels a lot lately.  I suppose partly because my parents are angels, partly because I pray for angels to attend my missionary daughter, and mostly because in seminary I've been teaching about the restoration of the gospel which involves a whole cast of angels.  The most comprehensive doctrinal dissertation on angels seems to be Elder Holland's October 2008 "The Ministry of Angels."  His broad definition of angels includes those living and dead who minister to the needs of others.  I remember one living angel in particular.  I never knew his name or really very much about him at all; I'll just call him my New York City angel.

When I was a little girl, my family lived in a Connecticut village about a 40 mile train ride to Grand Central Station.  My parents were pretty intrepid about taking their enormous brood into town at least a few times a year.  This was the 70's when you never entered Central Park without mug money (you could hide the bigger bills in your shoes,) the subways were covered with graffiti, and Time Square had almost as many X rated theaters as it did Broadway theaters.  Still, from the time we walked into Grand Central's cavernous Main Concourse and looked up at the ceiling twinkling with constellations, until we sleepily dozed off in our parents lap on the trip home -- we were in awe.  That is overall...of course sometimes our feet hurt from all the walking, and the boys complained about the amount of time spent at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but still they had the Yankee and Shea stadium to be excited about and my Mother had Bloomingdales and Madison Avenue, and my Father...well, he was in his element -- NYC was his boyhood home.  I remember one night my little sister and I were all dressed up standing with our mother outside of the Metropolitan Opera House.  Our parents had treated their two youngest to a special jaunt to see Hansel and Gretel.  It was early December and the city was decked out in all it's Christmas finery.  This time we had driven in.  Father was bringing the car back and we were waiting out by the fountain.  Just then some fluffy snowflakes began to fall as if on cue. Magical.  I silently vowed to live in this city full of wonder and surprises at least one time in my life.

Flash forward about a dozen years.  Summer 2001.  Dream come true -- my little family and I were headed to New York City for my husband's three year podiatric residency.  Sure, we would work and live on Staten Island instead of Manhattan -- but we were just a ferry ride away.  With three children in tow and the prospective three years ahead of us, we made a deposit on a fixer-upper but sturdy post-war townhouse across from a park aptly named "skyline park."  If we couldn't live in the heart of town, at least we could look at it!  We dubbed our little townhouse "light on a hill" and looked forward to loving it up and making it a home.  I couldn't wait to bequeath my inherited joy of discovery and excitement towards The city to my little ones.  Then, reality set in.  Hard reality.

The previous tenants of our townhouse were squatting and wouldn't leave.  We were homeless until some sort of agreement could be brokered.  Our kind bishop mentioned that the church owned a property which was awaiting demolition for a new chapel to be built, and until that time, for security reasons, it was good to have a family stay there.  In fact, a family in residency had been staying there the past few years and just had to leave.  This sounded like a win-win situation for the interim.  We couldn't afford to pay for a hotel for who knew how many days or weeks.  Thanks bishop!  We didn't know that two other families from the ward were also in a state of transition, and had taken up residence in the big old house as well.  They had recently immigrated from Ecuador.  They were very sweet and each family sort of took a story of the three-story house.  It was a roof over our heads and it was temporary.  We were grateful, and I could manage to muster and share some magic as I watched the children explore the overgrown garden as if they were characters in a Frances Hogdson Burnett novel.  Needless to say, however, we couldn't wait to have our own space.  So almost the day the previous owner finally succeeded in paying off the squatters, we moved in.  Home sweet home.

We had known it needed work, but somehow it seemed worse than we remembered.  We'd moved out early to have time to work on the house, but that time was now passed and my husband's first day of work was upon us.  The trips to home depot were fun at first:  picking paint colors and carpet samples...Our friendly neighbors lent us the perfect tool to scrape off the old linoleum.  I had the easier job of cleaning, painting and playing with the children.  Carlos was burning the midnight oil cutting tile, hanging cabinets, bombing cock roaches, and changing out light fixtures.  One night we were working together trying to remove decades of dust and random treasures from in between the slots of our steam radiators when you could see the rose colored dawn at the horizon.  Carlos had to be at work in a couple hours, and he hadn't yet slept a wink.  Then on a hot Saturday, when it seemed there weren't enough gatorades in a costco palette to quench our thirst, some set-back occurred with our renovation.  I don't even remember what it was, but my husband was reasonably irritable and to give him space, I took the children across the street with me to play at one of the main reasons we picked this townhouse in the first place -- skyline park.  

The children looked happy, but I was worried and frazzled.  This was not what I expected.  We were going over budget and the sleep deprivation had taken it's toll.  Was this really a good spot?  A good investment? Were we going to be able to find some happiness here?  I almost didn't notice the gentleman sitting on the bench behind me at first.  Because of the fantastic view of downtown complete with the towering world trade center, some people frequented the park just to gaze. At first, I didn't know if he was talking to me, or muttering to himself (some people do that in the city, you know.)  Then I turned and smiled.  My New York City angel was a 50-something casually dressed African American with a shining white smile and kind eyes. He said something like, "Amazing isn't it?  This city?"  I must have had an "I'm new here" sign plastered on my forehead.  "I'm from Georgia myself.  One day I'll go back home.  But this place teaches you things that you can take with you,...I mean where else can you get on a ferry for free and walk less than a city block to a world-class museum which is also absolutely free.  The Smithsonian's National Museum of the Native American is steps from the ferry terminal and it is a beautiful place.  Think of the opportunities, amazing!..." That did it.  He brought the magic back.  His recommendation resurrected the attitude I had lost.  It was a ministration of sorts.  He started speaking to me in an understanding tone and then crescendo-ed with an infectious enthusiasm.   Angels are out there.

Of course, I took the children to said museum shortly thereafter.  As far as the house goes, we never could afford to make all the improvements we had dreamt of, but it cleaned up nicely.  Carlos hung up new shutters and flower boxes which made for a cheerful welcome.  We were home.

Then, tragedy struck that September.  The gloss of the city was more than smudged.  I wondered if the magic was shattered for good.  It would take longer this time, but in new ways, I saw that my angel's assessment stood.  We don't need to let other people steal away our willingness to wonder and explore this great world, and to share that wonder with our children...whatever city we live in.  The magic could be resurrected, eventually.  I'd seen it done before.