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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
I’ve never had occasion to wonder about angels until I met one recently.
I swear I did.
This angel was buckling with the weight of the world on its stooped shoulders when I first encountered it. In watching it doing its work, I learned that an angel’s duties can be crushing. They are not immune to despair.
The setting for this mystical event was outside a shawarma shop, on a street corner near Bathurst and St. Clair in midtown Toronto. The angel took the form of a man in his mid-40s with a bounty of blond hair concealing a halo.
The angel gently cupped the head of a man passed out on the sidewalk. The mortal could barely breathe. He looked like he was fighting for his life. During rare moments of lucidity, there was fear in his eyes.
The angel took great care in ensuring not a strand of the mortal’s mane would touch the sidewalk. This dedication struck me as heroic. The angel’s forearm shook with the strain. Try suspending a watermelon an inch off the ground for 15 minutes.
The angel was whispering gorgeous and munificent words. Anything to keep the mortal on this earthly plain.
“Your hair is magnificent,” the angel said. “C’mon, stay with me, I need to see your beautiful eyes.”
Instead, tears welled up in mine. This utterance was so kind and so loving.
The angel’s comments, sadly, had limited effect. But they did keep the mortal clinging to a reality that he was presumingly trying to avoid. His eyes responded to the angel’s every syllable.
While the angel’s left hand was cupping, the right hand was slapping the mortal’s face, conjuring consciousness, while being ever so careful not to inflict pain. This balancing act was sublime and divine, confirming the angel’s status in my skeptical mind.
“You can do this. Look at your beautiful lips. Talk to me brother. We need you.”
Beside me was a woman in her late 20s already on the phone with the paramedics. They’re on their way.
I started relaying info to the dispatcher.
“Yes, he’s breathing.”
“No, I don’t know what he’s taken. He has a 40-ounce bottle in the pouch of his hoodie.”
The angel kept at it. It told the mortal that help was coming. The mortal tightened his grip on the bottle. The prospect of its loss spurred him to alertness.
Undeterred, the angel’s wings barely fluttered.
“Don’t worry,” it said. “I won’t let them take anything from you.” This calmed the mortal. We waited.
A curious young woman happened on the scene sporting a baseball cap with a glittery gold cannabis logo. Her neck was tattooed with daisies. She was garbed in pitch black. She spoke two sentences that changed the alchemy entirely.
“Darcy, you’re a warrior. You got this!”
We had a name. Darcy perked up. So did we. Now we knew who we were fighting for. Instantly, we transformed into a community, with an angel at its apex. The young woman seemed to be struggling herself, trying to reconcile her own compassion and anger.
She erupted.
“You know,” she bellowed, “There are a lot of reasons that man is lying on the ground. This is more than just homelessness.”
I tried to take the wind out of her sails. This wasn’t the time.
“You look like quite the fierce warrior yourself.” This diffused her.
The paramedics arrived. They were the picture of calm. They have seen this scene a million times.
Seeing the responders, the angel finally released its grip, exhausted. It just walked away with its shoulders sagging, making its puffy jacket appear too big.
I called out: “Hey, excuse me!” The angel kept walking, already 25 metres away. I jogged up and beheld a broken being.
“That was so sad,” it murmured. His spirit was broken and its eyes drifted to another realm. My sense of awe got the better of me, “Just who are you?”
No response.
I persisted, “Your words were beautiful and brilliant and you kept Darcy with us.”
It ignored the kudo. But it did offer up its pain.
“My dad died two days ago.”
At this, I arced my right arm in a half-circle, inviting a hug it was reticent to accept. It relented. Its ashen cheek was soaked with emotion.
It was my turn to whisper in its ear. The angel taught me how.
“Your dad was with you today. How proud he must be.”
At this, the angel collapsed to its knees, dusted off its wings and flitted away, disappearing in a gentle rain that was impossible to distinguish from its tears. I never knew its name and it was too distracted to care about mine.
Just who are angels? I always imagined them to be gift bearers, awash in the lightness of existence. I learned, however, that levity is not their currency. Burden is.
What I witnessed that day would resolve any debate in a philosophy 101 class that altruism is merely attention-seeking in disguise. An angel needs nothing back for its efforts. It’s messy work to navigate the foibles of humanity. It saved one soul that day and elevated mine.
Steven Gottlieb lives in Toronto.