Real ones. I really, really believe in angels! Furthermore, I believe their assistance is ours, but for the asking.
Yesterday, November 10, 2014 was the 13th anniversary of my husband’s death. Jim Dixon. I’ve been thinking about him. A lot. But my thinking has changed. I don’t think of him so much as a distant memory, a past. No longer am I haunted by the deficiencies of our ever-so-human relationship. We have long since forgiven each other. He is now my angel buddy.
When one of our kids is facing a challenge, I call him in and then attempt to let it go with full confidence that he will be there for them. Geographically, I am way too far from either one of them to be by their side, but he can easily join them. And he often does. If it’s something really big, I call for the entire committee: Jim Dixon, Aunt Susie (my sister) Grandpa Kenny (my dad) and Grandma Maggie (my mom). And if we are in need of a sarcastic sense of humor and aged wisdom, I add to the list my Grandma Princess, the last of the bunch to leave this Earth. They take care of us.
Nothing is too large or too insignificant for my angels. When all is said and done, I simply thank them. I give them their due. The difficult part is to trust and let go of the outcome. Accept. Not boss. I’m getting better.
This all started years ago with the book, Hiring the Heavens, by Jean Slatter. I read it and instantly believed it. I implemented the practice, successfully. And have gifted no less than twenty copies in memory of my mom, Maggie with the following inscription: “In Memory of Maggie, Angel since February 10, 2013.
I’m not sure of the process one goes through following death and into “Angelhood,” nor do I need to understand it. I just know it happens. At this point in my life, I live blessed with a husband in Heaven and a boyfriend on Earth. BF and I are legally married; I just prefer to call him my boyfriend.
If you don’t believe me about this angel stuff, let me tell you about yesterday, November 10, 2014.
BF dropped me off at the Indianapolis Airport by 7:00 A.M. I arrived plenty early hoping to secure a seat assignment for my 9:00 A.M. flight to Chicago. Apparently for flights purchased two days prior to the flight date, as mine was, seat assignments are not granted. That is unless the flyer is willing to pay $12 or $24 for extra leg room. I wasn’t. I had already paid $230 for a one-way, 40-minute flight. I have my standards.
Cozy-ed up to the American Airlines kiosk, I print my boarding pass, “We are unable to assign a seat for you at this time. Please see the ticket agent at the gate.” I walk immediately over to the ticket counter, handing my boarding pass to the attendant.
Without so much as a glance in my direction, she starts click, click, clicking the keys of her computer. She shoved the small paper back in my direction, “You will have to see the ticket agent at the gate.”
Undaunted, I accepted the unassigned-seat-sort-of-boarding-pass paper and headed to security. I was confident my angels were with me.
Just three days earlier, I had specifically hired Jim Dixon, Husband Angel to help me solve a long-running dilemma regarding a car. It was a conundrum that I had previously been unable to solve. I was now happily on my way to purchase the answer. With his assistance, and an extensive Google search: “sports cars you can drive in the snow.” I had discovered a cute two-seater sports car, Audi TT, equipped with all-wheel drive. And the dominoes fell into place. My days of attempting to bond with small SUV’s were over. I could sell my older convertible and have one year-round car—a quatro-drive, cute, sporty, convertible. Genius!
I figure if this should be my last day on Earth, and we never know when that is, I intend to spend it driving a convertible rather than an SUV. It just fits. Mind you, my son-in-law John had tried for years to guide me toward Audi and its quatro drive, but I had only seen the A series, nice cars, but I really wanted a sportier look. So I had continued to drive my 2004 convertible and used Jessica’s 2001 VW Beetle for my “winter car.” But this year the Beetle was long gone. I was facing Indiana winter with a car I couldn’t drive in the snow. BF had patiently taken me to see Jeeps and BMW’s and all manner of very nice SUV’s. I just couldn’t see making the financial investment in a car I didn’t want or like. Sport Utility Vehicles are wonderful, practical, amazing, and perfect for Indiana winter, and just not me!
So anyway, a dealership in the Northern suburbs of Chicago had “my car” for sale and I was headed to drive her home. The young, eager salesman was to pick me up at O’Hare. That is provided I secured a seat on this commuter jet!
At security, I had been randomly selected for TSA Pre-check. Didn’t have to remove my jacket or shoes. Thank you angels. I went straight to my gate, but no one was manning the desk. Too early.
I found a table at Wolfgang Puck’s with a clear site-line to my gate. I would enjoy bacon and eggs and watch for the ticket agent to arrive. Half way through my meal, I saw her. An emotionless, tired looking 50-something ticket agent mechanically walked behind the podium and immediately began her click, click, clicking on the keyboard and simultaneously picked up a phone receiver. She first seemed to be conversing with someone on the phone, but then used the same receiver to announce, “Our flight to Chicago this morning is over-sold. We are looking for volunteers who have flexible travel plans . . . “
Passenger #1 instantly presented herself. Tired Ticket Agent skillfully kept the phone to her ear and her eyes on the keyboard. Click. Click. Click. No eye contact.
I finished all that I wanted of my eggs, watching, disciplining myself not to sprint over and get in line. “Your angels are with you.” I lectured. “If you are meant to have a seat on that flight, you will.” And I listened. Mostly.
The fifth passenger in line, I tried to hear what Tired Ticket Agent was saying, but I couldn’t make it out. She seemed to barely have the energy to speak her words, much less form them with enough vitality that I could read her lips. Each conversation seemed to take a full five minutes—questions—click, click, click—and then a waiting for a response from the passenger. Finally, Passengers #1 and #2 accepted a printing of what I was pretty sure were new tickets to alternate flights. Number 3 walked away empty handed after a very short conversation.
As #4 walked up, I allowed a tiny moment of negative internal dialogue, “Debi, why the Hell didn’t you just pay the $12 when you bought the ticket on Friday? You could have saved yourself some stress here.”
“Stop it!” I told myself. “We are not going there. Worst case scenario, you’ll go another day.” Once again I called, “Angels, if I am supposed to be on this flight, make it happen.”
Number four stepped aside quickly and seemed to have been handed a boarding pass. I handed Tired Ticket Agent my “no-seat” boarding pass and with all of the sincerity and calmness I could muster, I stated, “I’m hoping you have a seat for me.” With no eye contact whatsoever, and a very few click, click, clicks, she reached over and retrieved a flimsy card that was lying on the desktop and handed it to me. A boarding pass: Group 1, Seat 1 A. I was dismissed.
I could not stop smiling. “Thank you A-#1 Angel. Thank you.”
The rest of the day was obviously angelically influenced. We landed 40 minutes early and pulled up to Gate G 1A. Not the previously announced arrival gate. I smiled.
I flawlessly made contact with the salesman outside O’Hare, a perfect stranger.  Chatting as we maneuvered through traffic toward the dealership, I knew all was well. I drove the freshly washed and waxed car and instantly loved it.  Signed and sealed, shortly after noon, I was on the road driving my shiny, black TT south. Everything came together and not once, did I question if I was doing the right thing. This is huge for me. Truly  guided.
I called again on A-#1 angel et al as I drove the I-90 around Chicago in lunch rush hour and again as I drove around Indianapolis during the evening rush hour. I never once panicked or worried about getting lost.  I remained calm.  I thanked my angels profusely when I safely pulled into the garage last evening.
I have named my TT “Tina Turner” for the double T’s and because the little car is sleek and sexy and spunky and black, just like Ms. Turner. And I will always know that my Tina is backed by my angels—especially A-#1.