Why I Believe in Angels
My sisters and I started collecting
angels many years ago. We each have a large curio cabinet loaded with them and,
in one form or another, they are present in almost every room of our homes. Our
fascination with angels puzzles other people, including some of our children,
but it’s no secret to us.
We were well acquainted with at least
one angel. We never saw her wings . . . and we finally understood why. They
might have gotten in the way of the heavy cotton sack she pulled every day for weeks at a time. Our angel worked
constantly, cooking on a woodstove, stoking a heater with chunks of black coal,
scrubbing clothes on a washboard, and sweeping floors. There was no running
water or central heating, and sometimes no electricity—none of the things that
have made our lives so much easier. In the wintertime our clothes would often
freeze by the time she got them pinned to the line.
Times were hard but we never knew
hunger. We always had chickens and fresh eggs and in the spring and summer she
raised a garden full of tasty vegetables. Those chickens and that garden were
life to us, for we would have gone hungry without them, and without the
hundreds of canned goods she put up each year.
In spite of all the hardship she
endured, our angel gave us the most wonderful memories children could want. She
was a wonderful cook and she made the best biscuits, gravy, and fried chicken
we’ve ever tasted.
At Christmastime her delicious pies
and cakes were made from scratch, without the assistance of an electric mixer .
. . and all baked in a woodstove oven with no thermostat. To me that’s a
miracle. And that is what angels usually bring . . . miracles.
by
Hazel (aka Hays) Williams
