In times like these, everyone can use
A Cup of Comfort.
Home Page
Read The Intro
Share Your Story
Read a Selection From:
A Cup of Comfort
A Cup of Comfort for
Friends
A Cup of Comfort for
Women
A Cup of Comfort
Cookbook
A Cup of Comfort
Mothers & Daughters
A Cup of Comfort
Inspiration
A Cup of Comfort
Christmas
A Cup of Comfort for
Courage
A Cup of Comfort for
Teachers
About the Contributors:
A Cup of Comfort
A Cup of Comfort for
Friends
A Cup of Comfort for
Women
A Cup of Comfort for
Mothers & Daughters
A Cup of Comfort for
Inspiration
A Cup of Comfort for
Christmas
A Cup of Comfort for
Courage
A Cup of Comfort for
Teachers
The following story is excerpted from:
A Cup of Comfort for Inspiration
Uplifting stories that will brighten your day
Angel Wings
I answer the ringing phone. "Hello?"
"Hi, darlin, it's Patty. Haven't seen you in a while. How're you doing?"
It's not a rhetorical question. Patty knows I've been struggling recently with mood swings and insomnia as my hormones adjust to the approach of menopause.
"Pretty good today," I answer. "How about you?"
"Fine, as ever. Can you come over tomorrow around noon and change a phone number for me?"
"Sure."
She closes our conversation with her signature phrase: "Angel wings around you!"
Patty's friends number in the hundreds, and she keeps tabs on all of them. She's part of an interdenominational prayer circle that covers a great swath of western Washington. Just let slip one word about an ailment or a child having a crisis, and you know your name will get added to the list of folks needing mention in prayer.
As I walk down the block to Patty's house the next day, I feel a twinge of guilt. It should be me calling up to check on her, I tell myself. But life gets so hectic, and every day finds me rushing about to get all the needful things done.
Patty doesn't do any rushing around, although I joke with her about bundling her up in bubble wrap, sitting her on a skateboard, and pushing her down the street just to get some fresh air.
I walk into her room. Angels, wings spread, cover all the walls, beaming down on visitors. Angel paintings, angel sculptures, even a teddy bear with wings—they're all gifts from her friends. Beneath one of the angels is a framed certificate citing Patty's counseling credentials.
"Hi, darlin!" she says from her hospital bed. She's in her usual semireclining position.
I turn off her television.
"First, can you straighten out my right hand?" Patty asks.
I uncurl her fingers and tuck her hand back into place. The humming pump at the foot of the bed keeps the air mattress inflated.
"Now, raise the tray just a bit."
I circle around to her left side and adjust the control on the tray's support post. On the tray sit the tools of Patty's life: a Bible; two phone books crammed with names and numbers of family, friends, and acquaintances; and a specialized telephone.
"See the slip of paper on the big black phone book?" she says. "That number needs to go in position five."
The telephone holds twenty programmed numbers. Patty can turn the phone on by blowing on a puffer switch positioned by her mouth. Then she waits until the blinking light cycles to the phone number she wants. Another puff on the switch and the phone dials out automatically. One of the programmed numbers summons the operator for calls to people not on the list.
I dig the telephone's instruction manual out of the drawer, find the right page, and punch the sequence of buttons to change the number for Patty's grown daughter, Jenny. Jenny's family has just moved to Boise, Idaho, where the job prospects are better and the cost of living lower than in the Seattle area.
"Jenny says there's a Mormon church on every corner. She says, 'Mom, the Mormons are gonna get me!'"
I laugh. Patty knows I'm Mormon. She and Jenny are Lutheran, and Patty's husband and young son are Catholic, but we have all the most important precepts in common. We all believe in God and angels and the power of prayer.
The phone rings. "Hello, hello!" Patty says. Her phone recognizes the command and turns on the speaker. A sad voice pipes up, and Patty goes into counselor mode. Who better to advise and comfort newly diagnosed multiple sclerosis patients than someone who knows the disease inside and out?
I look at family portraits on the bureau, while Patty talks with an acquaintance in distress. In one sense her world has shrunk to the four walls of her room, yet in another Patty's touch has spread to anyplace a telephone can reach. Anyplace in our town, in our state, in our country.
"Angel wings around you!" she says at last and puffs to disconnect the phone.
"Would you check the calendar for me?" Patty asks.
I detach the calendar from its clip on the refrigerator and bring it back to Patty's side.
"What birthdays are left this month?"
"Linda on the twenty-fifth," I say.
"Already done."
Another friend comes over regularly to address birthday cards. You can guess what greeting gets inscribed in each and every card!
"Matt on the twenty-seventh."
"Already done."
Someone else keeps Patty stocked up on greeting cards. Another friend does her Christmas shopping. Each person who renders Patty some small service finds the deed a small thing in comparison to the ministration of love and care she gives in return. I often leave feeling humbled. If Patty can bear her trials with such grace and strength, how petty am I to complain over lesser problems?
"Gerene on the twenty-ninth."
"Already done."
Patty doesn't need the calendar off the fridge. She's got a better one in her head. Birthdays, anniversaries, names of children, details of the trials of family and close friends—she remembers them all. Her memory is nearly photographic.
Sure, she'd like the use of her arms and legs again. But since multiple sclerosis has shut down most of her body, Patty makes good use of what she has left: her voice, her mind, her heart.
I put the calendar back in place, and we chat for a while about my two grown daughters. When it's time to go, I turn on her television and say good-bye.
"Angel wings around you!" she calls after me.
Angel wings . . . invisible, unseen. As I close the door and walk outside, I feel them around me already. And I know that angel's name.
—Joyce Holt