Angel With A Broken Wing

                                            Angel With A Broken Wing

         I picked up the small white angel from the nightstand, and it looked the same as I remembered it from childhood. The glass figurine has gold-painted trim outlining her robe. Her hands are folded, and her eyes are closed. Her head is bowed in prayer. The tiny smudge on her little sharp nose is still there just as I had remembered.

         The angel was a gift from my daddy when he returned from a business trip years ago. I must have been about five years old. For as long as I can remember, the angel’s left wing has been broken. I do not recall the first fall it took, or even how many times the wing was glued back to its base. The severed wing was broken in one single piece, and it has always seemed to lie beside the angel on my dresser throughout my childhood and even during my teenage years. Several times after futile attempts to reattach the broken wing, I thought about discarding the angel. For some reason, I never did.

         At some point in high school, the angel was safely packed away with other special mementos that I thought I had outgrown. Many years later, however, the angel found its way back into my life.

         I retrieved it from the top of my closet packed away with other glass valuables in an old hat box hidden behind mounds of shoe boxes. The wing, wrapped in old yellowed, crumpled tissue paper, lay loosely beside the blond-haired praying angel. Now as I slowly unwrapped the angel, it created an even more special meaning than ever before. It is not that age has increased its value. My angel is not worth any great monetary value. Actually, by today’s standards, it is just an inexpensive figurine. But, as I unfolded the crinkled tissue paper, my angel with a broken wing took on deep and significant meaning to me.

      I placed my precious angel on the nightstand in my baby’s room. Little Daniel has undergone three open-heart surgeries in his short lifetime to correct several major defects primarily affecting the left side of his heart. Despite these three attempts to completely rebuild his imperfect heart, I thought about my glass angel with the broken wing. Was my figurine any less precious to me because of her handicap? Hadn’t I once thought that she was worthless after impatiently trying to restore her to her original state? Yet, at the same time, hadn’t I done everything to keep her safe?

         My husband, having silently wondered why I had not fixed my angel with the broken wing, gave another attempt to restore her. When I first realized what he was doing, I felt protective and did not want him to proceed. Then, I thought about Daniel’s imperfect little heart and how the doctors have tried to correct his defect. The scars etched across his tiny chest will always serve as a visible reminder of imperfect life, yet unconditional love. My angel, with her newly reattached broken wing, will be a constant reminder of life’s imperfect treasures. Daniel and my angel with her broken wing have much in common.

         They taught me not to give up on those important things that may be imperfect. They taught me to patiently put the pieces back together and to go on with life. After many years, what a wonderful time to fix my angel with her broken wing!