The Lessons of the Flower Angel
For more than thirty years and as a Christmas gift to his family and friends, Father Skip wrote original short stories as his Christmas homilies. We hope you will accept this whimsical gift from 2008 in the spirit in which it is offered.
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There’s a lot of background to this year’s Christmas story.
First, since my father’s death more than a decade ago, my family has been blessed by what some might call “a stalker.” My mother, however, refers to him or her as “the Flower Angel.” On every significant occasion – Christmas, New Years, their anniversary, mother’s and daddy’s birthdays, Easter, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving – flowers appear at Mom’s front door – always with the same message – “For Mrs. Flynn in honor of Mr. Flynn” on scraps of paper, a torn envelop, a greeting card, a piece ripped from a grocery store paper bag. And always in a different handwriting.
Second, my mother has saved the report card proof that I once failed Religion. And the story about failing deportment and conduct – TRUE.
Finally, let me point out that one of my father’s favorite priests and a special friend of mine recently participated in the unauthorized ordination of a woman priest. He has publicly advocated for the ordination of women as a matter of Justice and Rome has threatened to excommunicate him – something that will happen any day now, if it hasn’t already. When Father Roy Bourgeois returned to Louisiana to inform his family of what he had done and Rome’s reaction, he was moved to tears by the supportive response of his 92-year-old father, who said that Roy was doing what he thought was right and God would take care of them.
And so, with this background:
Mikey was in trouble. Big, big trouble. Just how much trouble was clear when his best friend, Roly, leaned over and whispered, “Wow, Mikey, are you in trouble now!”
Mikey was in trouble so real, so big, so intense that the three pieces of paper and the envelope to which they were stapled and he carried in his back pack made him feel as though he were bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He had been in trouble before – like the time in fifth grade when Sister Marie Anita – known in several states and on at least two continents (but never within her hearing distance) as “Attila the Nun” – flunked him in deportment and conduct. To make matters worse, she wrote a long explanation on his report card: “Talks constantly, cannot stay in his seat; always bothering other students by offering to help them with their class work.”
Now, two years later, Mikey still remembered his mother’s reaction when, timorously, he presented her with that fatal document of doom. How, with one singular movement that would have been the envy of professional tennis players from Arthur Ashe, Jimmy Connors, and Chrissy Everett to John McInroe, Bjorn Borg and Venus Williams, she swept her arm back to the dresser beside her bed, grabbed her favorite hairbrush, and in a perfect smashing forearm broke that hairbrush over his rear end and uttered the most terrifying words of any language: “If you think that’s something……..WAIT ‘TIL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME.”
Actually, Papi had been surprisingly nonplused by the report: “It just shows how smart he is,” Papi said. “He’s bored. Maybe they need to teach him something new.” And so it was that Miguelito survived the Attack of the Hun Nun. Survived, but never forgot.
But now. This new document. He already knew the content of the envelope. It declared that not only would he flunk Religion – maybe for the year – but the ideas he expressed on the attached pages were dangerously close to heresy and, if he persisted in his erroneous thinking, he might be expelled. He was not to return to school after the Christmas holiday without the letter - signed by both parents – and presented to Sister Mary Paraclete – known as “the parakeet” or “la parajita.”
Like a would-be great attorney, Mikey attempted to plot – I mean plan – his defense. “It was a mistake.” Nope. That would never do; it was clearly his handwriting.
“I didn’t mean it.” Forget that one. He already knew what Papi would say: “If you didn’t mean it, you shouldn’t have written it.”
“It didn’t come out the way I meant it.” Mami wouldn’t buy that one for a minute. “Then you should have rewritten it.”
He considered one defense after another. None would pass with his Little Havana jury.
“Chuck,” thought Mikey. “That’s it. I’ll blame it all on Chuck.”
And so, step-by-step, Mikey outlined his defense. It all started with Chuck, he’d tell Papi. (Papi might almost believe that.) Chuck read a report he in fourth grade and told him he had the “potential to become a real wordsmith.” A wordsmith. Fancy that: a wordsmith. “Of course,” Chuck added, “You’ll have to do a lot of reading and really develop a much more powerful vocabulary than you have now. Read, study good literature, pay attention, start thinking, watch The History Channel. Get an education; that’s the secret to being a read wordsmith.”
Mikey was convinced. He consumed vocabulary lists and crossword puzzles for children and whenever he was home the television was set to The History Channel – a development that pleased and puzzled his parents. And he wrote, and he wrote, and he wrote…. until he convinced himself that he was, indeed, a wordsmith.
That’s it, Mikey decided. As his defense he would blame Chuck.
Of course, he’d also have to wait until just the right minute to spring his exonerating defense and alibi. But Mikey also knew he’d never get through the holiday break with this secret hanging over him. And, good news, Abuela was cooking tonight – ropa vieja and moros (shredded beef and black beans and rice) and her coffee-can flan - and Papi would be in a good mood. It was going to be like pulling off a band-aid - the best way is quick. No sense dragging out the pain.
With his parents still sobre mesa (sitting at the table), the burnt caramel taste of Abuela’s flan still at the back of their throat’s, Mikey produced his own indictment: “I had a religion exam last week. Sister Parakeet, I mean Paraclete didn’t like my answer. I can’t go back to school unless you sign the letter she wrote. But it’s not my fault… It’s all Chuck’s fault.” The words gushed out.
Papi rolled back his chair. “Chuck, quien es Chuck. No conosco a ningun Chuck. Chuck. Who’s Chuck. I don’t know any Chuck.”
“Sister Charles Borromeo,.” Woops. First mistake. “I mean Sister Charles Borromeo. Some of the kids call her ‘Chuck.’”
Mikey knew what he’d hear next even before he heard it: “Not in this house. If all the other kids jumped off the roof of the school, does that mean you’d jump off the roof. Basta con Chuck. Y, ademas, como es que la Hermana Charles es la responsible. Enough with this Chuck stuff. And besides, how is it that Sister Charles is responsible for this.”
“Because she told me to think. To read and listen and watch History Channel and to think for myself. So, when Sister Parakeet – I mean Sister Mary Paraclete gave this exam, I did what Sister Charles told me to do: I thought for myself and wrote what I thought. Here, Papi, read it.”
And Papi read, first the question: “Name the different types of angels and describe how angels are involved in the Christmas story.”
Bien. Okay.”
Then Mikey’s answer: “I don’t believe in angels. If we consider the zeitgeist and the sits en lieben….
Papi was already confused: zeitgeist and sits en lieben?
“The idea of heavenly creatures surrounding the throne of a supreme monarch was consistent with the experience of a cultural phenomenon in which powerful leaders were surrounded by sinecures and syncopates. Thus, angels around a heavenly throne of an all-powerful god.”
The Internet and Google and cut-and-paste are wonderful things, thought Mikey, his chest swollen with the pride of a wordsmith.
Papi was lost: “sinecures” and “syncopates.” He didn’t know whether to stop and ask or pretend as though he understood.
So, he took the path of least resistance: “Miguel, explain to your mother what you are saying here.
“It’s easy, Mami. Sister asked us about the angels at Christmas and I said that I don’t believe in angels – at least not with wings and clouds and floating around God’s throne. Those ideas come from a time when powerful kings, emperors, and dictators were always surrounded by Yes men – people who just did whatever they were told to do and never questioned. And they all thought that, if God was the most powerful leader and up in heaven, then God had to have really special Yes men.
“On the History Channel I saw about Buddhists. They don’t think Buddha is God but they have all kinds of Buddhas – laughing Buddhas, crying Buddhas, warrior Buddhas…
“You know how Father Mark keeps telling us that St. Francis said, ‘Preach the Gospel all the time, with words when necessary’? [EDITORS’ NOTE: St. Francis never said that.] And how Father Mark keeps saying that the angels were the first to preach the Gospel?
“In my test I said I didn’t believe in churchy angels and statue angels… But I believe in angels that are more like Buddhas and what St. Francis said.
“Did you ever think that when Jesus was born and even though they didn’t even have a place of their own to live in Mary and Joseph might have done something nice – something kind – for the owner of the stable or that they might have welcomed another homeless family into the stable. And they became angels – they went out and told the shepherds about Jesus and Mary and Joseph. That when the Wise Men came, Mary cooked for them and Joseph maybe gave up his bed for them – the way you make me give up my bed when Tio Jess comes to visit. And they went out and told the world the news of Jesus – the Wise Men Angels.
“There’s all kinds of angels – we just never think of them that way. The Jewish nurse who works on Christmas so other nurses can spend time with their families. She’s a nurse angel.
“The soldiers and Marines in Afghanistan and Iraq who are kind – who give candy or school books to kids or build schools for them or send them to America to have surgery to take care of wounds or birth defects. They’re soldier and Marine angels.
“The kid in Tampa who died last year and, when Make A Wish asked him what he wanted, he said he wanted to build an orphanage for street kids in Nigeria. The orphanage builder angel. Or Tim Tebow from Florida, who won the Heisman Trophy and still goes on medical mission trips to help poor kids in Central America. The quarterback angel.
“The teacher who stays after to help a kid or who buys pencils and notebooks with her own money. She’s a teacher angel.
“The lady who every month bakes cookies to send to soldiers and Marines in Afghanistan. The cookie angel.
“The cashier lady at Publix who smiles no matter how people treat her. The smiling angel.
“The cancer researcher angel, the children’s doctor angel, the teacher and coach angels.
“The man who gives blood every other month for the past twenty years because he has something special in his blood that they use for newborn babies. Bleeder angels.
“Mother angels and father angels, foster parent angels. Adoptive parent angels. The gay man in Key West who adopted black foster children and gave them a safe and permanent home – The Gay Adopting Father Angel.
“See, Papi, see, Mamita… If the role of angels is to proclaim Good News of Great Joy… We don’t need church and statue angels. We have angels of flesh and blood who preach the Good News every day, always… and never use words.
“So, I don’t believe in angels because I believe in angels.
“And Sister said that I flunked and that I can’t come back to school until you’ve signed my test paper – the one with the F.”
Papi said nothing. He pursed his lips, rubbed his forefinger and thumb just under his nose, and moved his chair away from the table. But, as he walked past him, he tussled Mikey’s hair mumbling, “Miguelito, Miguelito… Oh, Miguelito.”
Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday… Neither Papi nor Mamita mentioned Mikey’s F or his paper or the letter from Sister Mary Parakeet (I mean Paraclete). Nothing was said all day on the 24th. But when he went to his room to dress for Noche Buena Mass Mikey spied his F-paper on his bed. And, when he picked it up, he could hardly believe his eyes. It was covered with notes, in different colored inks and different penmanships, some strong and masculine, others delicate and feminine; some firm and vibrant, others with the telltale shakes of advanced age:
Felix Pascua y Prospero Ano Nuevo – Papi Angel
Merry Christmas, Sister. Happy New Year – Mami Angel
Happy New Year, Sister. – Abuela Angel
Felix Dia de los Tres Reyes Magos – Abuelo Angel.
And notes from tios and tias angeles – aunts and uncles angels.
Because, you see, we are called to be angels – to bring tidings of great joy to all the people, to proclaim, with words when necessary – in places great and small – in the most insignificant ways – today, every day that into us is born our Savior – Wonder Counselor, God Hero, Father Forever, Prince of Peace – Christ the Lord.
Merry Christmas