Just a quickie here; it’s past everyone’s bedtime, especially mine.
I’ve never been an angel person; just don’t see it, really. I think it was having to read some sort of tract in college about whether angels had gender that blew it for me. St. Jerome, maybe?
A little too head-of-a-pin.
Anyway, a few years back we were tramping (carefully) through an old cemetery a few miles north of here, enjoying reading the headstones (“Killed in the explosion” being a favorite) and we came across some quite aged and scary angels carved into the stones, quite primitive and not at all your cream-cheese-scarfing Victoria’s Secret type angels. I sketched the faces of a few of them and one became this:
Her hands are joined together so she can clasp the top of the Christmas tree (which we haven’t exactly gotten around to getting yet) in her arms. In our low-ceilinged old house, it’s easy to boost her up there. Even Second Child can reach the top of the tree now.
Her hands? His hands?
Paging St. Jerome . . .