From across the street, it might look as if the corner bakery, dark and silent late on a chill November night, suddenly begins to glow faintly. However, no one is watching. At least, no mortals.
Inside the bakery, the Angel of the Church in Holland materializes out of the eternal realm and flutters their wings a bit to settle all their feathers back in place. Moments later, the Angel of the Church in Grand Rapids appears. More fluttering.
“Holland, my friend!”
“GR! Hey, good to see you!”
The two angels attempt to embrace, requiring the awkward poking of arms around wings and the usual gentle bumping of haloes.
“Have a seat!” Holland pulls a wooden chair out from a tiny café table and gestures for GR to sit, then scoots around to the other side of the table to perch on their own chair. Much adjusting of wings from both parties so as not to catch feathers in the slatted chair backs.
“Ugh, I hate these flimsy chair contraptions. How do humans sit on these things? Don’t they know about poofy cloud sofas!” Holland finally gets situated, pauses, then gives GR an earnest look. “So….”
“Thanks for meeting me,” GR breaks in.
“Of course. Of course, friend. Sooooo…. tell, tell! How is the sabbatical going?”
“Oh, you know. It’s good,” GR shrugs. “Spent some time up at ‘Serk.’”
“The Schism Recovery and Renewal Center?”
“Yeah. It’s nice. Some of the others were there: Nashville, Chicago, Montreat.”
“Hunh.” Holland ponders this for a moment. “I imagine Nashville is still raw from the Methodist schism, but Chicago and Montreat?”
“Yeah, some of the more experienced A of Cs show up to make presentations and do one-on-ones. That sort of thing.” [Editor’s note: “A of C” means “Angels of Churches.”]
“Nice. What do they say?”
“Oh, well, the usual stuff: grief takes time, comes in waves, you did your best, humans have a tendency to ignore your best advice and your most urgent scolding, get a new hobby while you wait for reassignment.”
“Get a new hobby??” Holland scoffs. “Like what?”
“Well, don’t laugh, but I’ve taken up gardening.”
“Gardening??” Holland can’t help but giggle—then looks sheepish. “Sorry.”
“Nah, it’s OK. I really like dahlias.”
“Dahlias? Not tulips?”
“Ha ha. Anyway, I’m OK. Actually, I’m in a better place now, you know? Having ‘Angel At Large’ status for a while isn’t so bad. It’s nice to be away from the rancor and fighting and maneuvering and the millions of painful meetings I had to observe.”
“Yeah.” Both angels fall silent for a moment.
Holland suddenly leaps up—knocking over their chair of course—and heads toward the dark doorway leading to the bakery kitchen. “You know what we need? Scones! And tea!”
“You’re going to make a mess, aren’t you?” groans GR.
Holland rummages around in the kitchen, scanning the sheet pan racks. “Aha! Ooooo look! Cranberry walnut—with white chocolate chips!” Holland appears in the kitchen doorway carrying half a dozen scones, then ducks behind the retail counter. “OK, how do I start this hot water thing? Ow! It’s still hot!”
GR watches as Holland flips switches on various machines, grabs two mugs from the clean dishes shelf, rifles through the teabags on the front counter racks. “Ginger peach?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Holland finds a tray and arranges plates, scones, mugs with steeping tea bags, napkins, and several forks and spoons, balances the tray on one palm-up hand, and sidles over to the table, laying the tray down with a little flourish. “Ta da!”
“Thanks.”
Holland rights their chair, sits, rearranges wings again. The angels each grab a scone, then boop them together. “To life after schism,” Holland exclaims.
“Hear, hear.”
“Mmmh, theether yumph! [swallows] These are yummy!” The angels chew for a bit. They try to sip their tea, but of course it’s too hot.
“Alright,” Holland says, still chewing a bite of scone. “I’ve gotta ask. Any news about reassignment yet?”
“Nah. We were told at ‘Sirk’ that these things can’t be rushed, take the eternal perspective yada yada. Apparently, it can take years for things to shake out. Meanwhile, you’re encouraged to look in on your people if you can bear it.”
“Wow.” Holland fishes a limp teabag out of their mug and plops it on a plate. “So, now that you’re back, have you checked in on your exiled remnant churches?”
“Yeah, I stop in. They’re doing pretty well, I think.” GR fishes out their teabag and sits up a little straighter in their teetery chair.
“Well, that’s down to your training. The remnants are carrying forward what you taught them.”
“Maybe. Thanks. I think they’re trying. Anyway, they’re finding each other. And they’re finding others, too. The Uncertainty Support Team has helped them a lot. Nice to see some of them starting up projects with Cleveland’s people and Montreat’s—and yours, too!”
“Yeah, I noticed that!” Holland polishes off the last bit of scone number one and licks their fingers. Then, in a lower voice: “What about… you know… the Ones Who Stayed? I know they’re not under your jurisdiction anymore, but have they been assigned a new A of C?”
“Don’t know.” GR’s wings droop and their halo slides ever-so-slightly askew. “Honestly, it’s too painful to look.”
“I get it. And anyway, it’s not your problem anymore. That’s for the Almighty and the Assignment Office to handle. You did your job and finished that tour. No more tours of duty for you with those particular folks.”
“Yeah. I’m just keeping an eye on the remnant, checking in on whoever is left at the university, but the remnants are still mostly under UST care.” Another moment of silence. More chewing. “You know, with all this free time, I’ve been hanging out with some of the big guys a little bit: UCC, ELCA, Presbies. Even… even some of Rome’s people. You know, just … hanging out. Making friends. They’re fun!” GR looks up at Holland, clearly hoping for approval.
“You know what? Good for you!”
GR looks relieved. “And you won’t believe this, Hol, but I’ve been asked to present at AngelPAC this spring!”
“No!”
“Yes! I’m on a panel for a session called ‘Small Churches, Big Impacts: Carrying Legacy After Disaster.’”
“Wow, that’s great! Yeah, I hear the theme this year has something to do with apocalypse.” Holland rolls their eyes
“Again, right? The organizers are obsessed with apocalypse. This year’s theme: ‘Is the End Near?’”
“Oh, for crying out loud. How many times have they used that theme? Well, AngelPAC isn’t till April. What are you doing till then?”
“Oh, this and that.”
“Listen, my offer still holds. You’re welcome to stay with me. I’ve got room! We’d have fun! It’ll be like the old days!”
GR looks stung. “By all that is holy, let’s hope not!” The angels share a knowing look. Then burst out laughing and slapping the table so hard that the silverware rattles and their feathers shimmer.
Finally, they calm down, wipe their radiant eyes, and take a swig of tea.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about transience lately,” GR finally blurts out. “How quickly things change for these mortals. So much change, so much loss and grief. They live these short little lives and they’re bewildered all the time. How do they deal with it?”
“Well, mostly they deal with it rather badly. We try to help, but … well, we feel the losses, too, yeah? They live in time, so they can’t ever go back. Which means, we can’t go back, either.”
“No. And I’m OK with that, but I don’t want to lose all the good stuff. It’s like they’ve rescued photo albums and books and treasures from a burning building, and everyone grabbed something to save, and now it’s all dispersed among the remnants.”
“Right.” Pause. “So think of it like seed dispersal. The wind blows those seeds where it will, and who knows where the seeds will land and what will grow from them? For the moment, I think you’re onto something. You and I need to focus on making new days, new friends. We A of C’s should get together more—I mean, even Rome’s crew!”
Both angels smile quietly for a moment, pondering the implications.
“You know”—Holland drops their voice to a whisper—“I’ve heard rumors about major restructuring in the A of C system.”
GR leans in, whispers, wide-eyed, “Me too!”
“Anyway, for the time being, all of us A of Cs should urge our people to work together. There’s plenty to do. So much holy work that needs doing.”
“Always. There’s always plenty to do at the end of the world.” GR picks up their second scone, considers it for a moment, and then holds it up, poised for another scone-toast. Holland grabs scone number three and raises it: boop.
“To new days, new friends—and old friends not forgotten.”
“Hear, hear.”
*****
Note: The Reformed Journal is not responsible for angel opinions, stated or implied. Also note that angels are non-gendered, hence they/them pronouns.
For previous angel adventures, see here, and here, and here.
Image credit: eatchofood.com
