I've never held much brief

for angels, as beings that watch over us and guide our

footsteps, religious art notwithstanding.

But sometimes things happen

that defy cold reason. I was recently the target of a

joke that may have begun something like this:

The Angel Illumina,

assigned to keep an eye on me, was bored. My life is not

exactly exciting, and she wanted a subject that requires

occasional deliverance from the brink of a waterfall, or

at least a caution against lasciviously craving a diamond

bracelet.

Unfortunately, the only

protection I usually need is from tripping on phone cords

or grocery carts running amok, and my material lust leans

toward replacing 15-year-old carpet and a nearly defunct

kitchen stove, neither in the budget until we recoup from

buying a boat last spring.

My life is dull and my sins

unspectacular. But I may have piqued Illumina's interest

with a smug little sermon in Sunday School several weeks

ago. We were reading the creation story in the first

chapter of Genesis, and members of the class were

explaining what each verse meant to them. At verse 29, I

fell to temptation.

"Permit me to point

out," I said, no doubt in that lofty tone I employ

when I'm sure I have a genuine "gotcha" to

deliver, "that here where God creates and instructs

humankind on the purpose of things on earth, we find a

mandate for vegetarianism."

And I read, "Then God

said, `I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of

the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed

in it.

They will be yours for

food...'" That verse is followed by one clearly

saying that to all the living creatures on earth, to

"`everything that has the breath of life in it, I

give every green plant for food.'"

Nowhere does it say we

should be eating our fellow creatures, I concluded

sanctimoniously.

So I can see why I'd be

mighty tiresome duty to any angel bent on righting the

really bad wrongs of the world. If I even believed in

angels. But to go on with what may have happened that day

in Heaven:

"I'm bored with this

assignment, Lord," Illumina whined to the Almighty,

and immediately regretted doing so. The burning eye of

the Creator of the universe fixed her in its beam, and

she covered her face with her wings and cried,

"Forgive me! How quickly I forget that you chose my

name because I am to enlighten others, not to engage in

heroics. Give me a little time and I'll tailor my skills

to her needs - that will keep me from boredom."

Well, I think Illumina laid

out for awhile, because my life turned awfully sad for a

couple of weeks. Remember those lines from "The Song

of Hiawatha," comparing an accumulation of troubles

to a gathering of vultures?

Never, Longfellow says,

does just one vulture spot a dying animal but that he is

followed by another and another, descending from nowhere,

"First a speck, and then a vulture, Till the air is

dark with pinions.

"So disasters come not

singly; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one

another's motions, When the first descends, the others

Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise Round their victim,

sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the

air is dark with anguish."

It had been a tough week,

the air dark with anguish, the pain of friends receiving

dreaded diagnoses and of others losing a grandchild. It

was the kind of week that makes you wonder if there's

anything to smile about in what our forebears called

"this vale of tears."

But it came at last, not

just a smile but a belly laugh, and proof positive (as if

there was ever any doubt) that God has a sense of humor.

A wicked sense of humor,

actually, if one dare ascribe wickedness to God, even in

1990s colloquialism.

(Is it for God as it is for

us, that God laughs to keep from crying?)

My Sunday to read the

lesson in church was approaching, and when the printout

arrived, I laid it aside. Yesterday I opened it. My first

thought was, "I can't read this in church. Everybody

knows we're vegetarians. Whose idea of a joke is

this?"

That's when it began, first

a tickle in the tummy, then a snicker and a burst of

sound, and at last a howling peal of laughter. I laughed

until the tears came, trying to picture myself at the

lectern reading with a straight face the letter of Paul

to the church at Rome:

"Welcome those who are

weak in faith, but not for the purpose of quarreling over

opinions. Some believe in eating anything, while the weak

eat only VEGETABLES."

I'm beginning to think

there may be something to this angel thing. Someone

- with the blessing of the Lord of Joy - had

found a way to make me laugh.

I'm tempted to use another

translation, one that makes it clear Paul is writing

about those whose faith is weak, and how important it is

not to cause them to be led astray by offensive

practices.

Or put this way, while one

beer won't hurt me, seeing me drink it could cause an

alcoholic to go off the wagon. I don't know why Paul

didn't just say that. But he didn't, and Illumina

arranged for me to get this reading.

At least she had the wisdom

to know that, instead of embarrassing me, it would make

me laugh.

Got me!