Angel on my shoulder

I know that my ambivalence about religion frustrates some members of my family—my sisters, I'm sure, and probably also my Soldier Son to some degree, and no doubt others—but whatever my thinking may otherwise be, I'm pretty sure lately I've had an angel on my shoulder.

I was peripherally aware of that Wednesday night when I visited my sister Susan Rene the evening after her home was burglarized. I was hugely proud of her strength of spirit as I heard her tell caller after caller that she simply doesn't have room in her life for fear, even as she admitted her frustration at having lost a few very precious items among the assortment of valuables the thieves had stolen. I was—and still am—pretty sure I would at least be rattled by such an experience, and while I can't think of a thing I own as precious as some of her losses, I'm sure I'd be far more groused by it than she was.

Her first response to the discovery that her home had been breached had been to call her children, two of whom were johnny-on-the-spot to help her pick up the pieces and put her home—and her life—back together again. As she began to cope with the violation of her space, she discovered that her daughter had suffered her own traumatic experience early in the day: a jerk with more time on his hands than brains in his head had gone to great lengths to express his anger at her over a decision she had made that he didn't like, ultimately following her into a parking lot and keying the entire side of her minvan.

And I was ticked off because I had been careless enough to lose a $4 lipstick out of a shallow pocket on a pair of too-tight pants.

I drove home without incident on Thursday, mulling over for a part of the way that it's really kind of nice that we are angry about and hurt by events like this because they are so rare: SR has been living in her house for 39 years without anything so scary happening, and she figures she's got another 39 coming. I think there's something in that.

Friday night I was absolutely sure the angel on my shoulder was on duty when I realized I should have been t-boned at an intersection on my way home from an errand. I don't know what sort of side trip my brain had gone on, but I had pulled to a stop at a red light that I probably had seen go from green to yellow to red. For some reason, I looked up to my right and saw the green lights there, my brain triggered "green means go," and off I started into the intersection.

I realized my mistake—and how completely stupid it was—when I realized that the car approaching the intersection from my left was turning alongside me into the street I was on. (Fortunately—or maybe not—there were no cars to my right; maybe if I had seen cars when I saw the lights I'd have registered that it wasn't my turn.) I glanced to the left to see that the other car there, which should have proceeded straight across the intersection and t-boned me, was instead making an illegal left turn into the lane behind me.

Having heard my niece's story only a day or two before, I had visions of the driver being either a cop, doing his civic duty by giving me the ticket I had more than earned, or another crazed driver determined to chase me down and give me what-for for cutting him off and endangering both of us. I popped to attention and watched for police flashers, but I didn't see any. I did everything I could to drive flawlessly for the next several blocks, alert to the potential for the other driver to make sure I got my due, but in less than a mile, that driver turned and I was on my own again. I couldn't believe it. I thought about driving downtown and turning myself in for being an idiot.

I was back on the road today to drive to an old friend's house an hour away so we could go to The Nutcracker together, and this time I turned short of the exit to her house. Except that I  had to take a few ack roads, that trip was uneventful.

As soon as I got home, I buzzed around the house in packing mode so I could be ready to fly tomorrow to Darling Daughter's for Christmas. Late in the evening,when Number One Son got in from work, I wondered why I still hadn't received anything from the airlines about our flight, so I sorted back through my email to see what I had figured out wrong. Sure enough, it's because we don't fly tomorrow morning; in fact, our flight is Tuesday evening.

Turns out my failure to double-check means I'm losing a day and a half of vacation time that I could have saved for later, but that's okay; I'm looking forward to having two whole weeks away from the grind.

And I'm sure someone's parked an angel on my shoulder.