Angels Everywhere

I'd decided to come to the shop early, and I felt a rush of pleasure when I opened the door. The room danced with color from the morning sun catching every facet of the stained-glass angels my best friend, Pam, and I had hung in the window to greet us and our customers each day.

We made this place so beautiful, I thought, sinking onto the couch we'd bought as a homey touch when we opened in 1995. So welcoming. But it doesn't feel that way any longer.

Pam would be in soon, and I needed some quiet time to prepare myself for another day with her. So much had changed between us. Pam and I had been friends for many years, and only a few months ago working together had been a delight. But we'd become like strangers, barely speaking during business hours.

I clasped my hands, trying to pray. It was my fault our relationship had fallen apart. How could I ever set things right again?

Pam was recovering from thyroid cancer. Her illness had shocked me, and I'd pulled away from her upon hearing the diagnosis. I'd never known anyone with cancer; I didn't know what to say. I felt awkward around her, and began avoiding her. Pam could die, I kept repeating to myself. I knew I couldn't cope with losing her.

We'd called our shop Angels Everywhere, and Pam and I had seen to it that the place lived up to its name. I looked around at the dozens of colorful figurines, the angel books and jewelry we'd lovingly arranged on the table, the paintings on the wall—symbols of God's real angels we both believed in.

People felt comfortable in our shop, and they often prayed with us, sharing their problems and needs. It had been so easy to offer kindness to customers I hardly knew. Why hadn't I been able to do the same for Pam?

The shop had been Pam's idea. Our children were grown, and we wanted a new focus—something with purpose. "We'll have fun," Pam said. We had no experience or much start-up money. But we discovered an affordable space, and ordered angels at a wholesale gift market. To our joy, people came and spread the word. We made just enough to pay our rent and our bills, and keep a decent inventory.

Three months after we opened, Pam began to have trouble swallowing. Finding a lump in her neck, the doctor scheduled surgery. Pam continued to come to work, cheery as always. But when the lump turned out to be cancerous, it meant more surgery, radiation therapy and a long recovery.

"I'll manage at the shop," I told her, but I wasn't sure how. We didn't have the money to hire someone else. Friends volunteered at first, but before long I was working six days alone. I worried about fulfilling our lease. And, of course, I worried about Pam, but I was never able to tell her.