A beautiful reflection words can hardly capture it
There once was a woman in London who lived in bitter discord with her husband. One night, her heart faltered and time seemed to slow to honey. As she hovered between worlds, an angel in a dapper bowler hat appeared amidst mist, telling her, after measuring her deeds on a golden set of scales, that she could not yet step through the pearly gates. Have a few more days among the living, he offered, to mend what needs mending.
Drifting back into her life like a wisp of fog, she returned to her husband, a stern man who now barely spoke to her. They were strangers sharing a terrace house, and their silences lingered like rainclouds in November.
She mused in quiet bewilderment,
I ought to try to make peace. He sleeps on the settee, Ive stopped cooking for him, and now he irons his own shirts for work perhaps I could surprise him.
When her husband dashed out to catch the number 16 bus, she gathered up his shirts, soaked them in lavender soap, pressed every crease. She roasted beef and potatoes, put flowers and candles on the table, and left a note on the faded sofa:
I believe youd be more comfortable resting in the bed that once was ours. The bed where our little ones first giggled and cried. The bed where, on so many nights, we held each other close, sharing silk-wrapped fears and gentle warmth. That love still rests there, ever patient. If you can forgive my faultslets meet there tonight.
Your wife
As she finished the line, If you can forgive my faults, doubt crept in.
Have I gone mad? Why should I apologise? He came home every evening sour as vinegar, unable to find work when the biscuit factory closed. I had to make our pennies last, bear his moods. He began drinking, staring out the window for hours, shushing the children when they only wanted to play. He shouted when I pleaded for change. He broke it all and now Im to apologise?
In a rush of old grievances, she tore the note to shreds. Suddenly, the angels voice rippled through her thoughts like wind in the willows:
Just a few more kindnesses, and youll have your heaven. Otherwise, the door stays closed.
She hesitated,
Is it worth it?
Yet, she set pen to paper once more, this time letting more warmth spill onto the page:
I see now I understood nothing. I didnt notice your fear when redundancy knocked, after years of steady work. You must have been so frightened. I recall your dreams of travelling Devon together in our twilight years. I could have helped those flourish, not forced you to drive a cab you despised.
I remember the night I tore your letters and burned your canvases. It stung that you hid with your paints and poems for me when we struggled, but I should have helped display themthey were lovely, really. I was afraid, too, safe only when you were working at the factory, blind to your pain.
Forgive me, my dearest. From today, things will be different. I love you.
Your wife
When her husband stumbled home from work, his coat damp with London drizzle, he sensed something had shifted. The roasts aroma danced, candlelight flickered on the lace, his favourite jazz crooned softly, and the note awaited him on the sofa.
She entered with a steaming dish, only to find him weeping, quietly as a schoolboy. She set the food aside and put her arms around him. They didnt need words; tears were their language now. He lifted her like in a drowsy memory, carrying her to the bed where their lives began, and they loved as though time had folded in on itself.
Later, sharing supper, they chuckled over memories of their childrens cheeky adventures, forks clinking like distant bells.
While tidying up, she glimpsed the angel through the garden gate, rain swirling about his polished shoes. She dashed outside, tears shining,
Please, angel, let me stay awhile. I want to help him paint again, to rebuild whats broken. I promise, joy will return soon. Then Ill go with you.
The angel replied,
Theres no need for me to take you. Youre already in heaven. Youve earned it. Never forget the little hell you enduredsometimes heaven is nearer than you dream.
Her husbands voice floated out of the house,
Darling, its chilly. Come upstairs. Tomorrows a fresh day.
She thought,
Yes thank goodness, tomorrow is a new day.
A moment for reflection:
You, who complains about what you lackhave you thought of what you give?
You, who suffersdo you see how you may wound others?
You, who judges ignorancehave you ever judged your own?
You, who dismisses faultsdo you glimpse your own flaws?
You, who calls yourself a true friendare you honest with yourself?
You, who laments whats missingcan you see how much you have?
You, who criticises the worldhave you made it kinder?
You, who dreams of heavenwhat have you done to mend the hell nearby?
You, who claims humilityare you truly modest?
You, who condemns evildo you spread good?
You, who decries apathydo you show love?
You, who fears povertydo you use what you have wisely?
You, who blames the thornsdo you plant roses?
You, who fears the darkdo you strike a light?
You, who looks only inwarddo you care for others?
You, who feels smalldo you try to grow?
You, who dreads lonelinessdo you share your company?
You, who fears illnessdo you care for your health?
You, who longs for peacedo you work for harmony?
