The first angel I ever met had hairy arms.
In fact she was the hairiest woman I’d ever seen. I was working at a Christian gift store and the first thing I noticed about her was her arm. She’d placed it on the counter in front of me and I looked up from the register to see long thin, black hairs, wrestling for a spot on her skin.
She was no beauty by earthly standards. Interwoven hairs snarled all over her tiny frame. Her eyebrows and mustache followed the same pattern, and her countenance was otherwise plain. But there was something sweet about her, something that told me that she had sunshine buried in her heart. She wore a grey denim jumper and bounced on the balls of her feet as I made small talk and rang up her purchases. Her hair was a long black curtain, sweeping her lower back as she bounced. The woman had a little one with her too, who rested her chin on the counter and stared curiously up at me with big chocolate marble eyes. She seemed to have inherited the woman’s wholesome, bouncy sweetness.
I ripped the receipt from the register and mumbled a perfunctory “have a blessed day,” as I handed the woman’s bag across the counter. She returned the sentiment then suddenly stopped. It was as if the sum of her energy, and all of her bouncing and smiling paused at once to meet at this point. She looked me in my eye and took my hand. Her speech was a fawn stumbling to its feet for the first time…