I am living close to the angels. I must be, or I wouldn’t have the strength to go on. None of us would. Perhaps the search for the real Self is simply a matter of looking up and sensing the angels assigned to us.
Those of us who have lost children know their names and how deeply they affected our lives. Sometimes a total stranger will say they feel angels around me and I am made happy for a moment.
Everything is momentary in this spider-web world. Every dew drop a mere promise. Every gray hair a memo on the inevitability of death.
So the angels are vital in the grand scheme of things. They, in their beauty and power, stand with us at the midnight hour.
They wipe our tears with rose petals and manifest as normal human beings if that is what it takes to keep us going for another day.
My writing often takes on the tone of a message from higher worlds and I am grateful for that.
One of my angels is a cherub (my daughter) and one is a fine looking male (my husband), who travels the worlds and manages to drop in when I need him.
The ways of God and angels must remain a mystery, though, until we shed our mortal skins and become light again, like them.