An Angel Comes Home
I don't think everything happens for a reason. I don't believe events take place when the time is right. I don't see -- or look for -- signs from God, or the universe, or a higher power. Which is what made this particular addition to my family all the more special.
It was a random Wednesday in October. Isn't that when signs appear, when you least expect them? At almost 8 1/2 months pregnant with baby #2, I was enjoying near constant backaches, heartburn after every meal, and the kind of fatigue that leaves you exhausted after unloading the dishwasher. You know, the fun pregnancy stuff. To add insult to discomfort, somewhere during the previous months I had lost my well-honed ability to nap. All of my adult naps up to this point were mere practice for the afternoon rests which I now really, really needed...yet suddenly I could not reach my goal of drifting off to sleep for a few precious minutes of recuperation during the long days. I was tired, I was frustrated, I was anxious with the prospect of being entrusted to raise a baby girl very soon. Trying to relax was like trying to nail jell-o to a tree.
This particular Wednesday morning I had been awoken an hour earlier than normal by both an aching lower back and a chattering toddler, so an afternoon nap seemed especially alluring. Thankfully, the toddler was agreeable and decided to sleep instead of literally bouncing off the sides of the crib. Conditions were ripe for my mid-afternoon siesta on the couch. I stretched out on my left side amid at least a dozen strategically placed throw pillows, installed the dog in the crook behind my bent knees, and finally -- finally! -- dozed off.
About an hour later, I awoke with one thought filling my mind: I had to look for Gloria again.
If you're not familiar with last year's post, Gloria was a ginger-haired angel figurine whom I had spent several years scouring the internet for. An elusive accompaniment to the vintage Sears Trim Shop nativity set my mother owned, Gloria's wings were burdened with the weight of multiple metaphors -- she symbolized a dwindling connection to my mom, so many things lost and broken, and my ongoing efforts to assemble a functional adult from a fractured childhood. I needed her to complete the manger scene I grew up with. But more importantly I needed her help in The Great Do-Over, or my quest to replace my saddest childhood memories with positive ones of my own creation and experience through my children's eyes the childhood I didn't have. In the midst of questioning whether I could handle a second child -- a girl, no less, when I myself am a motherless daughter -- I suddenly woke with the urge to find Gloria. For no reason and every reason, I needed to keep going.
I immediately picked up my smartphone and typed "vintage Sears nativity angel" into the empty maw of eBay's search bar. "I'm looking for..." happiness, eBay, thanks for asking. Your help would be much appreciated.
Among a sea of hand-carved and die-cast figurines, my eyes fell upon one special, astonishing listing. It featured a white box with an outdated Sears logo and a picture of four figurines: a guitar-playing lad, a bearded man carrying a basket of bread, an angry camel, and a ginger-haired angel in a blue dress draped with a banner that proclaimed "Gloria." The seller confirmed that all four figurines were present and accounted for, and available for the taking.
Here she was, as if waiting for me all this time. All I had to do was reach out my hands and pick her up.
More than 30 years and less than a week later, Gloria arrived. In the time between her creation and the multiple homes she probably passed through before finding her place here with me, she had inadvertently been broken; a thin but visible seam passes down each shoulder and connects across her chest. She's been put back together fairly well, but there are white scars of chipped paint in her otherwise beautiful robes. She's not perfect. But that's okay, because I was broken in the intervening years as well. Our scars are proof that we survived.
About a month after Gloria came home, my baby daughter arrived. She was preceded by almost 10 hours of labor and more than eight years of longing for the unique if distorted mother-daughter connection I lost when my mother died. She was tiny, with a head full of strawberry blonde hair and the fortitude to come to us against all medical odds.
The doctor placed her on my chest. All I had to do was reach out my hands and pick her up.
It was a random Wednesday in October. Isn't that when signs appear, when you least expect them? At almost 8 1/2 months pregnant with baby #2, I was enjoying near constant backaches, heartburn after every meal, and the kind of fatigue that leaves you exhausted after unloading the dishwasher. You know, the fun pregnancy stuff. To add insult to discomfort, somewhere during the previous months I had lost my well-honed ability to nap. All of my adult naps up to this point were mere practice for the afternoon rests which I now really, really needed...yet suddenly I could not reach my goal of drifting off to sleep for a few precious minutes of recuperation during the long days. I was tired, I was frustrated, I was anxious with the prospect of being entrusted to raise a baby girl very soon. Trying to relax was like trying to nail jell-o to a tree.
This particular Wednesday morning I had been awoken an hour earlier than normal by both an aching lower back and a chattering toddler, so an afternoon nap seemed especially alluring. Thankfully, the toddler was agreeable and decided to sleep instead of literally bouncing off the sides of the crib. Conditions were ripe for my mid-afternoon siesta on the couch. I stretched out on my left side amid at least a dozen strategically placed throw pillows, installed the dog in the crook behind my bent knees, and finally -- finally! -- dozed off.
About an hour later, I awoke with one thought filling my mind: I had to look for Gloria again.
If you're not familiar with last year's post, Gloria was a ginger-haired angel figurine whom I had spent several years scouring the internet for. An elusive accompaniment to the vintage Sears Trim Shop nativity set my mother owned, Gloria's wings were burdened with the weight of multiple metaphors -- she symbolized a dwindling connection to my mom, so many things lost and broken, and my ongoing efforts to assemble a functional adult from a fractured childhood. I needed her to complete the manger scene I grew up with. But more importantly I needed her help in The Great Do-Over, or my quest to replace my saddest childhood memories with positive ones of my own creation and experience through my children's eyes the childhood I didn't have. In the midst of questioning whether I could handle a second child -- a girl, no less, when I myself am a motherless daughter -- I suddenly woke with the urge to find Gloria. For no reason and every reason, I needed to keep going.
I immediately picked up my smartphone and typed "vintage Sears nativity angel" into the empty maw of eBay's search bar. "I'm looking for..." happiness, eBay, thanks for asking. Your help would be much appreciated.
Among a sea of hand-carved and die-cast figurines, my eyes fell upon one special, astonishing listing. It featured a white box with an outdated Sears logo and a picture of four figurines: a guitar-playing lad, a bearded man carrying a basket of bread, an angry camel, and a ginger-haired angel in a blue dress draped with a banner that proclaimed "Gloria." The seller confirmed that all four figurines were present and accounted for, and available for the taking.
Here she was, as if waiting for me all this time. All I had to do was reach out my hands and pick her up.
More than 30 years and less than a week later, Gloria arrived. In the time between her creation and the multiple homes she probably passed through before finding her place here with me, she had inadvertently been broken; a thin but visible seam passes down each shoulder and connects across her chest. She's been put back together fairly well, but there are white scars of chipped paint in her otherwise beautiful robes. She's not perfect. But that's okay, because I was broken in the intervening years as well. Our scars are proof that we survived.
About a month after Gloria came home, my baby daughter arrived. She was preceded by almost 10 hours of labor and more than eight years of longing for the unique if distorted mother-daughter connection I lost when my mother died. She was tiny, with a head full of strawberry blonde hair and the fortitude to come to us against all medical odds.
The doctor placed her on my chest. All I had to do was reach out my hands and pick her up.
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| Gloria in excelsis Deo. We are finally complete. |
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