—–For Kay. You are now beautifully and perfectly whole.—–
After my sister, Kay, was murdered, my family accumulated gifts of angels.
We received porcelain figurines, backyard angels, rock angels, angel trinkets, cards with fluffy feathered wings, and angel Christmas tree ornaments.
They were lovely, comforting, and completely appropriate.
They were appreciated and exhibited.
Saint Shirley and I displayed several of these angels in Kay’s garden where we could sit, pray, & reminisce.
“Look, that big angel is from the Fagan family. Chester’s mommy gave us the cat angel with the collar. The round stained-glass stone was given by Tia.”
And so on…
It’s odd, but I began to observe some of the wings were cracked and chipped from my angels at home.
Were the cats knocking them from my shelves, or was the breeze blowing them over because of the open windows?
What the sam-hell was going on?
Why were my angel wings breaking off from their bodies?
One afternoon, I noticed the sister angel Kay had given me for my birthday was missing half her ceramic wing.
Yes, there it was lying on the wooden floor.
Just lying there bruised, broken, battered.
“Noooo!” I screamed. “Not the angel from Kay. Shit, Shit, Shit!”
I super-glued the wing back on, but I could still distinguish the crack.
Two years later–
After the fog and wine and dreamlessness and sobbing and sharp claws, I had an epiphany about the wings.
Okay, I finally understand.
The wings represent us, symbolize us.
You and I, dears.
How we are all broken in one way or another.
How we need to be superglued back together from time to time.
How we are left with cracks and scars and jaggedness.
And sometimes, we are sprawled out on the wooden floor unable get back up.
…but we do.
How we spend our entire lives desperately trying to become whole, polished, unstained.
How the fractures and imperfections make us into the human beings we were meant to become.
Empower us. Give us hope. Offer us purpose. Help us find God.
How, in the end, we will recognize that we will never be completely whole—
But it doesn’t matter a damn.
Because we are still abundantly beautiful—
….. even in our brokenness.
—Dear, Reader, Did you know you are beautiful? You. Are. xx