dark angel

I don't remember much about that day, but I must have been looking at my feet a lot because I remember wearing brown leather sandals that made my feet stink and jean shorts. I also remember that Sal had stuck playing cards in my spokes and that half way there I stopped to take them out. The sound was annoying me. I also remember going to Nugget Market and selecting a small carton of Dreyer's coffee ice cream, my grandmother's favorite. I remember going to the deli area and asking for a plastic spoon and thinking how smart I was to think ahead. I looped the plastic bag on my handle bars and headed to the nursing home. My big green eyes could barely see over the countertop as I told the nurse I was there to see Helen Gray. She handed me a clip board to sign in. I looked at all the fancy cursive signatures and clearly printed mine. I bet they don't get many 11 year olds around here, I thought. The nurse smiled at me and said, "do you remember which room, sweetie?" I hated when people called me pet names like that. "Yes, ma'am." I remembered to say "ma'am." My parents would have been happy.

I know now that she was terribly emaciated and that her organs were failing, but the only thing I remember making note of was her lips. They were so dry and stuck to together and she struggled to part them. I was thankful it was hot outside because the ice cream was soft enough for my plastic spoon and soft enough for her to eat. I gave her one bite and she laid her head back and closed her eyes. I put the lid back on because I thought she had fallen asleep. She turned her head back towards me with open eyes and mouth. I smiled. She looked like a baby. This continued for a long time until she had eaten the entire small carton.

After she finished her ice cream, I didn't know what to do. She was staring at me and I felt awkward. I saw a Bible sitting on the table next to her bed. It was heavy and had a red cover. "Do you want me to read to you?" I think that's what people do when their loved ones are in the hospital. She didn't respond. I picked up the big Bible and opened it toward the middle. Puh-salms? No, I think the "p" is silent, I coached myself. I wasn't a Christian yet, but I did like to read. I started reading aloud until she fell asleep. I left and found my bike propped up outside where I left it. It was my idea to visit her, but I was thankful I could go play now. I rode home with a fury. My grandmother died shortly after.

A few years later, I learned about the Holocaust. Many kids in class, myself included, exclaimed that if we were those Allied soldiers we would have brought pizza or at least given them our food. The teacher then explained that when someone is so emaciated like that, they can't just eat a ton of food or they might die. She explained that it would be too much for their bodies' to handle. Oh no. It hit me. That's what I did with my grandma. I killed Grandma Helen. My parents assured me that I did not kill her, but that I gave her a wonderful going away present. I still felt weird. I shouldn't have done that. Why didn't the nurses say anything? Her body couldn't handle it. I killed grandma. I'm like that boy angel on Touched by an Angel that nobody wants to see because he's the one that "carries them to heaven." My teenage mind whirled.

I know enough now to know that I didn't kill grandma and that the nurses didn't stop me because they knew she was going to die soon anyway. I've dealt with death on many accounts since then and sometimes wonder why. I've had a very sick toddler die in my arms. I've witnessed a still birth and was instructed to handle the baby's crushed skull gently as I prepared it for burial. I've been to hospitals where children go to die and where the line between life and death is very fine. I've visited a woman bound to her sick mat in a small hut who died a just a few days after I prayed over her. She told me she could see angels. I cried. I cried a lot. Some people thought that maybe I couldn't handle the sadness of someone dying. Truth be told, that's the first time I've been in a situation like that and cried. Most of the time I worry why things like rows and rows of tiny beds holding tiny dying bodies doesn't bring me to tears. I hate injustice. I hate death. I hate disease. I once asked that God would break my heart for the things that break His and He did. But I know that with that broken heart, comes strength and boldness. I'm not afraid to go near death. I'm not afraid to take the time to find a spot on a child's skin that isn't covered in an open sore so that I can touch him there, skin to skin. Being surrounded by death and dying has caused me to live in a position that tries to balance God-given brokenness and strength. And I think that's exactly where He wants us.