Sudden Angels Part 8: Laurel
Angels were the stuff of fairy tales to me. Like unicorns, they seemed too good to be true.
Until I changed my mind.
One day while walking Maria, we happened onto nuns playing soccer. Wearing traditional habits, they ran and laughed and scored—a totally surprising sight. Their joy forced me to examine my understanding.
Life’s miracle offerings, the real angels, had always been in my sight line.
But lost to me.
I had to learn what to look for.
And it didn’t involve wings and halos.
So I began writing a series of posts called Sudden Angels.
This one celebrates Laurel, my best friend since fifth grade.
When we moved across town, my mother transferred me into the new neighborhood’s Girl Scout troop. Timidly, I walked down the stairs to a meeting room with girls staring at me.
Except for Laurel. I still see her face smiling, especially when the scout leader assigned me to her patrol. Our rhythms clicked.
We became the troop’s Tina Fey and Amy Pohler for campfire skits. Marshmallows blazed while everyone laughed at our clever performances. Our reputation spread through the council, and we were asked to perform something scout related at their campground open house. I was the First Aid Fairy; Laurel, the hapless scout needing intervention; Becky, the straight man or victim in each scenario. The crowd loved us.
For our first Christmas together, we browsed Woolworth’s. Laurel was probably trying on lipstick while I wandered toys. Eventually she found me teary-eyed, staring at a pyramid of identical teddy bears. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Someone forgot to sew on his left eye,” I whimpered, pointing to the overlooked bear. “No one will buy him.” I don’t recall her exact response, but I’m sure it was a ten-year-old’s version of her now decades-long reminder: “Karen, we can’t take everyone into our hearts.” (But she does.)
She gave me that bear for Christmas, purchased with her own babysitting earnings.
When I started writing poetry, Laurel encouraged me to submit one to the newly established teen pages of the Cincinnati Enquirer. I was intimidated. So she filled out the submission form and mailed it in. On the Saturday it was published, she simply said, “I told you it was good.”
In high school, the only boy who took my breath away asked Laurel if he should ask me out. Minutes later, she reported, “He’ll wait for you outside French class. Don’t put your head down and ignore him. Just say yes.”
During the winter of our freshman college year, my father died unexpectedly. Laurel got a campus friend to drive her through the snow to our house, so she could be with me. When my mother died, she insisted on flying in to help me with Maggie, a toddler.
Always thrifty, Laurel sewed her own wedding dress. As bridesmaids, her sisters and I wore 1970s neons, each coordinating with other wedding accessories. I agreed to match the punch, wearing lime green—a color that only looks good on leprechauns. But I wore it for her.
When I flew to Memphis for support after her divorce, she entertained me with a Southern mansion tour because she understood my love for the frou-frou of wallpaper, fringed drapes, curved staircases. Laurel lacks the wiring that would make her consider herself first. We were forty years old, and my happiness was her prime focus, not her own loss. As a gift, she gave me a keepsake book of photos. The captions are sweet and hilarious.
Her selfless spirit was apparent in high school when we decided to tackle speech tournaments. I wrote my own, but she delivered a portion of Yes, I Can by Sammy Davis Jr. The plight of a black man spoke to her more deeply than I could understand, but it became the underpinning of her service to an inner-city church. She established an after-school homework club that grew into a Wednesday night family dinner that grew into meals for the homeless. Every Christmas she rallies businesses to contribute time and money toward toys and clothes for children in need.
That is the way of angels.
And I’ve had one all along.
