The Torah Teaches Us Angels Are Messengers, But In Our Case, They're Also Bodyguards
Doris and I are early risers. The first walk of the day for my adopted 3-year -old Terrier/Jack Russell mix is 6 am. It is dark at the hour. There are security cameras on several buildings, a handful of other dog owners, morning exercisers, and autos.
I don't count on the cameras or other folk for protection. I have my own trio of angels.
According to the Torah, angels are messengers from God. But my specific angels -- my father, husband, and brother -- have in my imagination elected to swap that role and instead become my personal predawn bodyguards.
My father Irv died in 1958. He was young, 48. Dad was overweight, diabetic, and smoked several packs of Camels a day. And his usual protest against reform was, “If I can’t eat, I’d rather die.”
Dad was a swimmer. He'd remind us, "the same YMCA as Johnny Weissmuller." It’s this muscle building sport that gives me confidence his spirit will ward off any bad guys. He called me his princess. I can't imagine him letting a little thing like the distance between heaven and earth prevent him from watching over me.
Tommy, my second husband, struggled with Frontal Temporal Degeneration in the last three years of his life. But that’s not what killed him. He had been a 3-pack-a-day smoker. He quit before I met him. But the long-gone habit settled in and waited to emerge as lung cancer, the diagnosis that ended his life in 2012 at the age of 73.
Fortunately, till his last breath, Tommy was in great shape. He was a regular at the Lakeview YMCA, had muscles under taut arms, ran marathons, and played golf like a PGA champion.
Tommy thought I walked on water, which contributed greatly to our happiness in the 14 years of our marriage. And he was an animal lover. When we met, his beloved cat and dog had already died. He fell for Sasha, my Golden Retriever, before me.
I know telepathically that Tommy was happy I adopted Doris in 2019. He would never want me to be without a dog. And because Doris sleeps on the side of the bed that once was his, my pet provides protection and solace he would wish for me.
My brother Ron, three years older than I, died in 2018. He was 83 and lived in Kansas City, MO. The distance, and his difficult first wife, made the miles feel even longer.
A divorce brought a second wife who wove us back as a family. But it was his illness -- liver cancer -- that melded us from diagnosis to rest in peace.
Ron, a bissel zaftig for a part of his life, was diabetic. He slimmed down and brought his disease under control. My brother was a swimmer, like Dad. He traveled miles on an indoor treadmill, and actually walked that measurement on the giant lot of the Toyota dealership he worked at until the fatal diagnosis.
I live across the street from a tony health club. In my vision, my three angelic bodyguards, aware of the vital job they have assigned themselves, want to remain tough guys. So, at 10 p.m. after the club is closed for the night, they easily ignore the empty front desk, then split to their favorite spots.
Dad picks up a towel in the men's locker room. He heads for the large outdoor pool that will be empty of the diehards. Because he is not mortal, the weather doesn't bother him. Ten laps is his usual routine.
Ron runs on the track. Four times around is a mile. He checks his image in the glass windows and gives himself thumbs up. He smiles as he views himself in a tank top, with his former logo, Ronnie's Speed and Custom Auto Shop printed in red across his chest.
Tommy puts on his weight lifting gloves and bounds for the barbells. I see him viewing his posture in the mirror to be certain of his form.
The guys will work out for a couple hours. Then they'll go to the Grill area and get a nosh. They'll share a table for three, and catch up on each other's activities.
Tommy will check his watch -- I have the actual one-- and decide it's time to head for my apartment building. They'll be waiting in the lobby.
Doris, like all other pets, has keen senses, and offers a welcoming bark when she feels their presence.
Then, it's off we go. The streets are quiet and dark. Doris and I are fearless.