It's not her fault you can't get - Focus on Women Magazine

Bring on the Angels!By Jaana MyllyluomaAs I write this,the news are fullof excruciatingimages of housesturned to rubbleand stories of human miseryin the aftermath of theearthquake in Haiti. Thedeath toll is reported in staggeringnumbers and the workahead to care for, feed, andhouse those who are alive isunimaginable. Like so manyot<strong>her</strong>s with whom I havespoken, my heart is achingwith a yearning to help, to dosomething concrete, to bring12 <strong>Focus</strong> on Women Magazinesome comfort. But I don’tknow what else to do, so I dowhat I can—I give money toa relief organization and Ipray.In the quiet of mythoughts, I search for somethinghopeful, a glimmerof promise that affirms lifeand goodness in the midst ofchaos and tragedy. And thenI remember angels.When I was a child, Iabsolutely believed in angels.Clothed in white robesand feat<strong>her</strong>ed wings, theysat at my bedside when Iwas afraid in the middle ofthe night. They guarded mysteps as I walked to schoolin the first grade. As anadult, I no longer believed inwinged beings, but came torecognize intuitions and occasionalurgent warnings asangel messages that shouldbe heeded. An angel messagemade me stop my ironingand run down the stairs tofind my active toddler aboutto walk into the abyss of thebasement stairwell. T<strong>her</strong>ewere many similar last-minutesaves when my son waslittle. I didn’t question w<strong>her</strong>ethe instruction came from. Isimply and gratefully obeyed.Every night I tucked in myson with “Angels are guardingover <strong>you</strong>.”Then an incident happenedthat changed my concept ofangels to include the possibilitythat an angel messagecould be an angel messenger.My family was drivingon Interstate 95 to attend a65th birthday party of a dearfriend. We were decked out inour summer finery despite atorrential rain that sent catsand dogs into hiding. I loveddriving our Peugeot stationwagon, so my husband satin the back with our 5-yearold son and practiced hismandolin for the musical giftwe were planning to give.He <strong>not</strong>iced an unusual noisecoming from the rear tireand asked me to pull over.Returning from the downpourhe reported that oneof the back wheels was heldon by only one bolt. Clearly,the shop that had recentlychanged our tires lackedquality control.Ducking back into the rainwith an umbrella, my husbandsearched the back gatefor the magical wrench thatwould allow taking one boltfrom each of the ot<strong>her</strong> wheelsand secure the wobbly one.However, it was now<strong>her</strong>e tobe found.Back inside, the air grewheated as we realized thatthe wrench had been seenlast in the hands of our sonback at grandma’s house inNew Jersey. Someone had tobe blamed and everyone wasgiven a fair share.I found a white piece ofpaper and hung it from thedriver side window in a feebleeffort to flag down help. Thiswas in the days before cellphones. Rain was relent-