Angel practice
Our rabbi asks us about our homework assignment. 鈥淲hen was the last time you blessed someone?鈥�
No one in the congregation raises a hand.聽
鈥淟et鈥檚 practice,鈥� he says. 鈥淭urn to the person next to you. Look into their eyes, and open yourself to being a messenger for the blessing that person needs. Begin by saying, 鈥業 want to bless you.鈥欌�� The exercise makes us squirm. Aren鈥檛 blessings what we ask of God?聽
My good friend pivots to face me. I am already deliberating about a blessing for her. She鈥檚 worried about her son, a college student far away. It occurs to me that I might be describing the very blessing that I most need.
Our blessings are stiff and rehearsed. 鈥淜eep practicing,鈥� our rabbi says. 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 get good overnight.鈥�
Then we sing of the angels who trail us home on the Jewish Sabbath. As I head out into the cold night, I imagine I hear the whisper of angels鈥� wings. I picture angels pinching my coattails, sweeping with a gust into my home. I wonder how I might keep them here, a presence I might always feel.
The next week, my daughter and I get into a conversation with an Uber driver about his work in his church. He asks about my job and my daughter鈥檚 advanced studies. Then, to our surprise, he asks permission to pray for us.聽
鈥淣ow,鈥� I tell him. 鈥淚鈥檇 like to pray for you.鈥� I begin in the traditional Jewish way, acknowledging God and the blessings in my life before I offer a prayer on the driver鈥檚 behalf. I pray that this man will continue to serve families who need his help. I pray that his own family will be healthy, their lives full of joy.
鈥淎men!鈥� he calls out.
That was a year ago. I wonder if he is still employed, if his family is healthy. How could I have possibly known what he needed? We were strangers.
Here鈥檚 what I am learning about blessing: You have to somehow gauge whether a person will be OK with the intimate moment they haven鈥檛 exactly asked for. I have walked away from more than a few people feeling the blessing didn鈥檛 go so hot. It鈥檚 definitely easier to bless someone whose injury is obvious, a cast or crutches: 鈥淚 want to bless you with a swift and complete recovery.鈥� This is generally well received. And it sounds more sincere than 鈥淕et better soon.鈥� I feel that a blessing should overwhelm me, like those rare moments when, caught up in inspiration, I furiously scribble the words that come to me as though I鈥檓 taking dictation.聽
Today, I鈥檓 in the grocery store. My husband is recovering from surgery. A child is still anguished. I choose flowers for myself: pink roses, the petals edged in green, like a prematurely picked fruit.
I hurry through the checkout line and head to the cafe counter. A man with a long ponytail takes a big step back when I zoom up with my packed cart.
He waves me ahead. 鈥淵ou go first. I have all the time in the world.鈥�
Before ordering I ask him what he鈥檚 having, and I pay for his drink. I thank him for his kindness.
He shrugs. 鈥淛ust basic courtesy. Easy stuff.鈥� There is something of the free spirit in his mellow demeanor, his groovy ponytail. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 your name?鈥� he asks.
鈥淐濒补耻诲颈补.鈥�
鈥淧leasure to meet you. I鈥檓 Angel.鈥�
鈥淎ngel? That鈥檚 a beautiful name.鈥�
鈥淎s is Claudia.鈥�
Then, without thinking, I say, 鈥淢ay you be an angel to everyone around you.鈥� He closes his eyes and nods slowly. Did I just make him sad? 聽
鈥淚 try,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 try.鈥�
鈥淎nd 鈥︹�� I hear my voice crack. 鈥淢ay you find yourself surrounded by angels.鈥澛�
An ache rises from my chest to my throat. Do I tell him I have been waiting for an angel? That some of my people are hurting, and I can鈥檛 take their pain away?
鈥淭hank you,鈥� he says, accepting the mocha from the barista. Angel turns back to me. 鈥淵ou have a grateful day now.鈥� And he walks away.
A grateful day.聽
Maybe it wasn鈥檛 a blessing in return. Just a goodbye. He is still sauntering away. He did say he had all the time in the world. His pant leg drags on the ground, trampled by his heel and crusted with snow.聽
Grateful. My husband is safely out of surgery. But a child is in pain. My love does not feel like anything close to enough. But my child is loved, and I am loved. Wildly, wildly loved.
A petal slips free in my hand, the pink sunrise of the rose splattered by the foam of my latte. The petal is drenched, but silky and too lovely to dump in the garbage. I cup the petal in my hand, hold it high above the slosh of melted snow as I bump my shopping cart through the parking lot. In my hands, the sun rises on a new day.
