Angels Among Us

Some people might have a problem with the concept of ethereal beings, graced with beautiful white wings, seen in glowing bright rays of sun and known as angels. True, it is hard to accept, at times, but I submit to you that they do exist. How do I know? Because, kind people, I am one.

Sent to places and people not of my own choosing, to give comfort and show compassion for the pain and suffering that they feel. Sent to help them survive and start to recover. Sent to make sure that they can stand up when they need to stand, and provide a cushion when they fall. And they do fall. Hard. And I am there, waiting to catch them.

Holding hands that are dying and hearts forever. Bearing witness to the hurtful journey to Ever After. Offering words when I can, comforting silence, or a simple song. Quietly, consciously bringing about inner peace where there was turmoil, kindness and caring where there was indifference, and love in the absence of any sense of feeling.

I never know when the next person might appear, or what tragedy has befallen them. I sometimes don’t even realize I have been sent to help until it is all over. Since I am as human as you are, I have also had my own feelings crushed in the process of doing what I was sent to do. I have truly loved the someone I was sent merely to help. I have seen them die, in spite of my help but then, I do not write the plan. I am an instrument of that greater plan; a human with frailties that do not allow me to see the whole picture.

Bringing joy and sunshine to a man for months, not knowing I was sent there. Until after his death, when his daughter told me that my visits were the highlight of his days for the last six months of his life. Being mentioned in an obituary as the family’s “angel” during their mother’s last days. Holding a mother as she sobbed after watching her own little angel leave this earth.

I took the aptitude tests in high school: I was considered to be “mechanically inclined” and creative. In the sixties, that correlated with being a seamstress. I don’t remember any questions about compassion, or empathy, or being an angel. I wasn’t an angel then. I hadn’t earned my wings yet.


I don’t know why I was chosen to be an angel. Whoever made the decision has been there since the first day I set foot in nursing school. I was visited by an angel on my first day of nursing clinicals. To everyone else, she looked like a patient, suffering from incurable cancer and failing fast. To me, she was sent from above: she gave me the courage to do what I needed to do to be her nurse for that day, and she taught me things that cannot be learned in a class: to be an angel you must have acceptance, kindness, respect, and an open, loving heart.

If you think I am bragging, or full of myself, please consider the job description for being an angel. I suffer, every day, with others. I hurt when they hurt, I cry when they cry, and I serve as a verbal punching bag when they are angry with the situation, and I hug them and hold them for hours. I use my wings to encompass them and make them feel secure. I also use my wings to soar above the pain and suffering and gather more sunshine.

I have my moments, too. I am so weary and sad that I think I cannot function. I think I cannot do my angel thing any longer. I am down, and out, and crying. And just then, an angel is sent to help me.