When I found her in Atlanta and brought her to my home there, I showed her to some friends who’d stopped in. “She needs a name,” I said. “Thelma!” Sandra immediately offered, then instantly regretted it. “No,” I said. “That’s perfect!” Thelma. I thought of the Thelmas I had known (both of them). Thelmas were solid, immovable, stalwart, and a little wild. They could tell stories to raise the hair on the back of your neck. They weren’t afraid of aging; the years rooted them, widened their vision as well as their girth. They could spit.
An angel named Thelma is not your average angel. She most definitely is not among the current rage of angels depicted as ephemeral, fragile, benign beings who look like they wouldn’t hurt a flea. She hangs out with the sorts of angels we find in the Bible. Hardly benign, these angels were messengers of harsh news and bearers of surprising invitations. They might come with comfort, but they always came with a cost.
An angel named Thelma is what I need in this season: an uppity angel at my shoulder. Someone who can breathe fire. Who will remind me that being nice won’t sustain me through the labor. Who will cry out with me in birth pangs. Who will dispatch the dragon who waits to devour what is struggling to be born.
Reprinted by permission of United Church Press from Night Visions. Copyright 1998
by Jan L. Richardson.
