Glory, glory.

I've been thinking a lot about angels lately.

The word, and its meaning. Who they are, and who we think they are.

I think about the Christmas Pageant at church. About those beautiful children. Angels. Curly blond haired mops and sparkling blue eyes.

How sweet those four and five year olds are. How the Christmas pageant needs that abundance of angels.

To tell the story, and to bring the joy of the Christmas spirit.

It abounds from them.

Angels.

We don't know what they look like. And biblically speaking, they take so many different forms.

They sing and they worship. They protect and warn. They cast out demons and scatter plagues. They bring God's wrath and overwhelming love.

In truth, I think all I know of angels is that I believe in them.

I believe in them on earth, and in heaven.

And I think that with this season of impatience and peace. Of waiting for the
Christ child to come. We cannot hope without expectance.

And with our expectancy, there is the inevitability of Jesus' sacrifice on the cross.

He is coming to save us.

And I think about heaven.

I think about how a tiny baby was brought into the world, to die and be brought into eternal life.

For me.

And I think about the angels.

I think about seeing them.
And seeing him.

An entire lifetime of Christmas joy.

A world full of Christmas pageant angels.

All that He has done. All that I am.

And we will all be together,
praising God, in heaven.

So I think about the prayers in the mornings here in Haiti.

All of the children are given the opportunity to pray, the majority of whom are unable to articulate any words.

But they are called, and they pray.

Given their different personalities,the prayers are as varied as the angels.

Some prayers are whispered into palms.

Some prayers are bold and guttural. Their hands spasm and they throw back their heads, shrieking and moaning.

Some children use all the energy down to the depths of their toes to wrap their tongues around one noise and simply expound any prayer at all.

Their eyes roll back in their heads and they laugh, in a choking, manic exuberance.

Some prayers go on and on. A child drones, their voice undulating. They roll their head from side to side, listening to the noises wash over their teeth.

One child screams and kicks. He stomps his feet, throws back his head, his laugh is an eruption. It contorts his face and ripples through his body. He doubles over and slaps his hands together. Together and against his forehead. Against his chest and clasped together again. He breathes in with all his might and the laughter that follows is thrown with the force of a fit of coughing.

I think about all the languages in the world.

I think about how God knows our thoughts before we know them ourselves.

How he knows every strand of hair on our heads.

And I think that this is what it means.

When I am told, God knows my prayers, even when I do not- or better yet-

When I pray, but my heart is asking for other things. God knows that too.

But more importantly. When Joyze wraps his hands around his ribs. When the veins in his neck bulge and his eyes roll back. When the screeches coming from his throat are strangled and compulsive. When words are smothered by his tongue as air gargles up through his lungs.


Jesus hears that prayer.

And God knows, I do too.

The angels are singing in heaven. And we are all going to be there.