The Feast Day of the Guardian Angels

Once upon a time there was a baby girl born on the Feast Day of the Guardian Angels. She had hair as white as snow and eyes like blueberries (her father told her so). And after she was born she was taken to her father.  He already had two little boys and even though he loved her right away, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with a little girl. Then they whisked her away to the nursery. Her father waited and waited to see his wife emerge from the delivery room, but he saw nothing but doctors and nurses running in and out. Finally, he stopped one of the doctors and asked if there was something wrong. The doctor said that the new father should not hold out very much hope for his wife’s surviving the birth. The placenta was attached to the lining of her uterus and would not expel. She was experiencing excessive bleeding and was in danger of toxic shock from the placenta. 

 

Inside the delivery room, the mother was surrounded by nurses who began to pray. The mother feared death, but not for herself. She feared leaving her husband alone with three small children and a new baby among them. So she prayed to the woman she thought might have the power to help her. She called upon Mary, the mother of Jesus and promised her that if she survived, her daughter would love her. She dedicated her daughter to Mary and vowed that a small piece of her daughter’s heart would always belong to her and her son, and that her daughter would teach people about him and his way of peace. And then, the mother prayed what might have been her final Act of Contrition, a petition for the forgiveness of her sins. After repeated attempts to reach a surgeon, one was finally contacted. He rushed to the hospital and extracted the placenta surgically. The new mother survived. Throughout the hospital the news spread that a new mother had almost died that night.

 

And the baby girl grew into a child. And she loved Church more than anything. She loved the smell of Church; the light; the music; the mystery. She loved the saints; St. Agatha, St. Joan and St. Anne. One night, when she was seven years old her mother took her to Sunday Benediction and she sat very close to the altar and was swept away by the beauty of Church on a cold New England winter’s night. The candles, the music and the magic enthralled her. She was hypnotized by the priest’s gold and red vestments as they swirled around the altar spreading the smoke of incense. Round and round the altar he moved. And the little girl thought to herself, “He is dancing with God. I want to do that. I want to dance with God.” And the mother watched the little girl and nurtured her love for Church and God.

 

Throughout her young life the little girl heard of the night of her birth and how her mother almost died. She was glad that her mother hadn’t died. That would have been too heavy to carry. It would have hurt too much. And her brothers might have been mad.

But she wasn’t told about the promise.

 

It wasn’t until the girl was a woman of 34 that her mother told her the rest of the story; of the prayer and vow she had made to Mary on that night; the Feast Day of the Guardian Angels.

And the woman is a teacher.

She does not swirl around an altar, but in a classroom.

And yet, she dances…