Admittedly it's a commercial. In it a baby's mother died, and her heart was donated to someone whose own organ was failing. A string of people tried to comfort the child, but no one was able to. Then the recipient of her mother's heart picked her up, and she recognized the beat. The one she memorized for months in the womb. She smiled and reached up, sensing her mother's presence. The face wasn't familiar, but the resonance of love was stronger than such distractions as these packages we call bodies. The baby stopped crying, but I took up where she left off. 

 

A friend told me about how he experienced his mother's presence after she was gone. Someone who was born around the same time that she died grew into a young woman, and he felt a surge of affection that came through her, rather than from her. He wondered if she was even aware of being the conduit for affection that could not be stopped by a veil as thin as death. 

 

Another friend believed that she was visited by angels in the form of wild animals. Once a deer and her fawns paused to look at her. Really look. It came at a time when she could not see how she would provide for her children, and the visitation calmed her in a way that words failed to. 

 

My own parents find imaginative messengers for conveying their support to me. Twenty five years ago my father used to send me as many dollars each week. He called it Mom's Mad Money. The notion was to help me believe it was possible to splurge, to indulge in small ways without taking funds away from the bills. It had a big impact on my thinking. Instead of being weighed down by continual frugality, I could say yes to a bouquet of flowers. A lunch with a friend. It helped me let go of self pity. 

 

When Dad died the cash flow ended, of course. Except that it didn't. Money abruptly came my way from another direction, and the amount was almost identical. 

 

My mother, too, has shown up in subtle ways. One time I was shuffling through old Christmas cards, when I came across her familiar script. The message was as pertinent as ever. 

 

My own daughters are currently packing for Europe. They will be gone in less than a month. I have no delusions about forgetting them, or outgrowing my commitment to their well being. 

 

Do I fancy myself more faithful than an angel?