Angels Walk Among Us

Learning the true meaning of Christmas after an unexpected encounter with a stranger

A chance encounter with a stranger teaches one woman the true meaning of Christmas.

Last year was a different kind of Christmas for me. After a significant cross-country move, I was making the transition to life on the West Coast. No snow, but plenty of rain. My familiar Christmas decorations were preserved in my storage unit far, far away. I would share the delight of a tree and lights with my grandson Colby but was aware of the absence of friends and familiar customs.

I also found myself without the resources to send meaningful gifts or thoughtful Christmas cards, and was challenged to remember that I am loved even when I felt that I had little to give.

That day, my focus was on a potentially awkward gathering of family members. The wind and rain lived up to the weather warnings and my umbrella inverted more than once after I’d parked my car and walked down the hill, through the puddles to meet everyone. I wondered if the wild weather was a premonition of things to come.

The meeting place was a neighbourhood coffee shop, filled to capacity with an assortment of characters. I glanced around and guessed that conversation would not be possible amid this café chaos. I sauntered out front to sit on a patio chair, reminiscent of sunnier days. Under the protection of a broad awning, I waited and watched in all directions for the family arrivals.

I didn’t see her coming. She was not who I was expecting. She was a tall young woman wearing a hooded jacket and she had intense eyes and dark, curly hair that encircled her face. She wore thin shoes, not suited for

the rain. I can still hear her teeth chattering. “Can you spare any change? I’m really hungry.” I offered some feeble response about having only a large bill and no change. She looked deeply into my eyes and declared again that she was oh so cold and very hungry. She hadn’t eaten all day. She was hunched over, her back to the wind and rain. I made no move to do anything. I was caught up in my own anticipation of the family drama I expected to soon transpire. She spoke for a third time—and I woke up. Woke up to the present moment. This young woman was hungry and asking for help.

I invited her into the café as if it were my own home, as if I were the innkeeper. I had seen the generous-sized muffins behind the counter display and drew her closer to choose one. She eyed the blueberry oatmeal muffin but declined a warm drink, even after my insistence. She kept saying thank you, thank you, long before the muffin was in the bag. No— two muffins I decided, and left her with the change.

We walked to the door where I was about to offer a hug and some sort of motherly endearment. My brother appeared just then and my eyes followed this young woman out the door of the café where she disappeared into the crowd.

I greeted my brother. We agreed that a change of meeting place was in order and welcomed the arrival of daughters and cousins. The visit was ordinary and exceptional, easy and awkward all at the same time. And when it was time to say goodbye, we parted from the same café, heading off in differ- ent directions into the dark, rain and wind.

I believe that there was a specific reason this hungry young woman appeared that day. Amid the ordinary and chaotic scene of the city café, she hoped for little more than some nourishment and kindness but her “visitation” so to speak, opened my heart. Her growling stomach and chattering teeth prompted generosity within me.

When it comes to the story of Christmas, I understand how hard it would have been to believe that a holy child was to be born in such an ordinary place, under wild and messy conditions and in the company of such a rowdy crew.

It led me to muse about this young woman. Where was she coming from? Where was she going? I wouldn’t have been surprised if her name was Mary, as in the Christmas story. It was after some later reflection that I realized that she also reminded me of another young woman I know, both in looks and age, whose name is, ironically, Angel.

I have learned to watch now for angels in the most common of places. I watch for the “angel” within each of us and acknowledge random angelic moments of my own. I want to thank that young woman again and again for her gift to me, for bringing the meaning of Christmas to me. I still pray for her wherever she might be now.

And so, I shared this story with my family and friends as my one and only Christmas gift to everyone—the only gift I had to offer. I did so because I almost missed her— I almost missed the deeper meaning of Christmas when it stood right in front of me.