I managed to wrangle my winter-clad, overheated self over to the church bazaar table selling the eclectic, only to spy a smug face that after 20 years still finds me.The smug glare means, “Only my truth exists, and not yours.” I recite to myself, “Rise above. Rise above. Please rise above. Let the injustice go. Smile, say nothing. Be that person.”
What’s that on the table? There’s a face two inches from mine. “How’s your mother?” “Aging but funny,” I reply. We both found ourselves in a corner of the church interlocked in a Christmastime conversation about the vast experiences of both our families’ staggeringly difficult process of caring for our parents with all its guts, glory, and learning curves, i.e. sharp angles.
Tara’s now telling me of her mother, bound for home in an ambulance, with angels descending into the ambulance, lighting up the place and asking if she was ready to go with them. “Well no, I am not! NOT NOW. I am on the ferry boat going home.” I, of course, am crying by now.
Here we stood together, in our earthly existence, realizing the work ahead was not going to be easy. Smug would be the gift that keeps on giving. We had found a deeper friendship through our talk.
Those angels though, with the humor of surprise, love of light, and apparent quick availability, have been a real gift for the holidays. Plus it’s getting lighter now.