I’ve written about how my father was both a physicist and a poet. I’ve written about the tremendous richness involved in growing up in the space between his two worlds, between the logical and rational and the inexpressible and infinite. He was a man with a PhD in Engineering who read (and annotated, in fountain pen) the Bible and the collected works of John Milton. This duality was expressed in many ways. My sister Hilary, in her remarks at Dad’s memorial service, spoke about his bookshelves in Cambridge, which housed (and still do) books about World War II, America’s Cup boats, and dense historical tomes in German as well as a collection of gilded angels. That paradox, which defined my father, is the space between, and it’s where Dad lived.
Dad loved angels. I don’t know that he fully believed they were real, in the sense that there were babies floating in the ether, but he loved them with an affection that I have to think correlates with some kind of trusting. I guess it’s no surprise then, that I feel his presence in the strangest moments now that he’s gone.
A few weeks ago, on a Saturday afternoon, Mum asked me if Matt and I could change some lightbulbs in her house. Of course, I said, just tell me where. The light in Dad’s office and the light in the front hall both needed new bulbs. I made a mental note. The next day, I picked her up early to go to the airport. As we drove to Logan, she turned to me, “Oh, I forgot – did you change the light in Dad’s office yesterday?”
“No,” I said. “We were going to do that sometime soon.”
“Well, it’s working now.” She shook her head and looked out the front of the car.
Strange.
Then, that same week, I noticed one of Dad’s business cards in the passenger door well of one of our cars. The business card was worn, like it had traveled in a wallet for a long time. I am frequently a passenger in that car and I’ve never noticed the card there before that day. Dad had literally never been in that car.
Strange.
It’s not that different than the way Matt keeps hearing What a Wonderful World (his father’s favorite song, and played at the funeral) everywhere he goes. I choose to let these small coincidences (I’m a logical thinker on some level, too, and I recognize that these are likely random occurrences) reassure me, to see meaning in them, to feel my dad near. I guess part of me has inherited my dad’s love of, and belief in, angels.
Comfort!
I feel you on this one, Lindsay. I have had many such occurrences since my mom and mother-in-law died. I often feel my mother’s spirit in the form of bluebirds, which enter my life at unexpected times. When I hear Billy Joel’s “My Life” I think of her; I listened to it the morning she died, and it gave me the eeriest feeling. My mother-in-law’s spirit has been around, too, like the strange bird that showed up on our doorstep the first Christmas Eve after she died — a bird in the dead of winter, that huddled in our doorstep all night and was gone by morning. Strange, as you said. I think these experiences ultimately bring us comfort and remind us that we’re not alone.
I’m keeping an eye out for angels these days, too. The quieter we are, the more we hear. The closer we look, the more we see. Perhaps the angels are everywhere. I want to believe that. Thanks for sharing yours. xo
Someone who is truly loved is never truly gone.
I love this. There is a local mom who lost her son to cancer when he was ten. They had a thing about collecting dimes. Now, she posts on FB every time a dime shows up in an unusual place. I don’t think you’ll be surprised to know that she tends to post a few times a week 🙂 Here’s to angels!
I love this. When I was pregnant with Grace I swear I saw a penny on the ground almost every single day. I called her my lucky penny baby. I really do believe in this stuff at the very least, I find it very comforting.