The Christmas Angel Project

by Melody Carlson

  “We’re gonna move in before Christmas,” Holly said as she came back to stand with them. “We’ll have our own tree and everything.”

  “Yeah.” Ginny nodded eagerly. “We had a rough Christmas last year.”

  “That’s cuz we were moving. We had to stay in Aunt Lisa’s attic.” Holly made a face. “There were rats up there.”

  “Not rats,” Ginny corrected. “Mice.”

  “But you could hear them chewing at night,” Holly said dramatically. “And they chewed up my kitty.”

  “The mice chewed a cat?” Grace felt slightly horrified.

  “A plush cat.” Ginny frowned. “But that was before my dad parked the old travel trailer there for us to stay in. We’ve been in it this past year.”

  “It’s got mice too,” Holly informed Grace.

  “We set traps,” Ginny told Holly. “The mice are all gone now.”

  “But it can get awful cold.” Holly pretended to shiver.

  “Well, I’m sure you’re going to love your new home.” Grace forced a polite smile. “And I’ll do all I can to make it comfortable for you.”

  “Mommy’s favorite color is green,” Holly told Grace. “But I like purple. Hannah likes pink.”

  Grace nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “We’ll be thankful for anything,” Ginny said quickly. “Any color that you think is good will be much better than what we’ve had before.” She shifted Hannah to the other side. “She’s worn out. I should probably get going. It’s just that a worker was still here as I was going home, and I asked if I could take a peek.” She chuckled. “We’re not supposed to look at it once the designers start their work.”

  “I saw the bed in my room,” Holly chirped. “It’s beautiful!”

  “But we won’t peek anymore,” Ginny promised.

  “I’ll lock up when I leave,” Grace said as Ginny tugged Holly toward the front door.

  “Thank you for all you’re doing,” Ginny said. “We really, really appreciate it. I can’t even say how grateful we are.”

  “Yeah, thank you!” Holly shouted as they went out.

  Grace got the other items from her car, setting them in a corner of the living room and then looking all around. Although the space was relatively small compared to living rooms she usually did, it looked awfully empty right now. Suddenly, she wanted to do whatever it took to fill it with wonderful, beautiful things. Not because of her reputation now, but because she wanted to give Ginny, Holly, and Hannah a delightful place to live. Somehow she had to get it together for them.

  Although she’d dressed carefully and meticulously rehearsed her introductory speech, Louisa wasn’t prepared for her first art therapy class on Thursday. Nothing could’ve prepared her for all the emotion that surfaced shortly after she finished explaining the basic concept behind art therapy. Despite trying to appear self-assured and ready to lead these troubled people away from their problems, she was like a fish out of water.

  Instead of getting into the drawing project like she’d hoped they would, the small group of people sitting at the big round table only wanted to rehash the grief that they couldn’t seem to get past. Finally, at what should’ve been halfway through their class time, Louisa knew she had to speak up and change the direction. Either that or go home and have a pity party of one—and she didn’t intend to do that! But before she opened her mouth, she said a silent prayer. Actually it was more like a desperate cry for help.

  “I realize that you’re all working through some fairly serious losses,” she began carefully, “but I want to remind you that you came here today in search of healing. We want to start moving on. And, as an artist, I believe that art can be very therapeutic to the hurting heart.”

  Even as she said this, she seriously doubted her own words. She hadn’t been able to pick up a charcoal or a paintbrush since Adam passed away nearly a year ago. And when Abby died, Louisa had been determined to give away all her art supplies and call it a day. Yet, here she was—standing before seven total strangers stuck in the midst of their own grief who were looking at her with doubt and mistrust—acting like she had all the answers. It was perfectly ludicrous, not to mention humiliating.

  “That might be easier said than done,” a young woman said.

  “I’m aware of that,” Louisa muttered, wishing she’d never volunteered for this impossible class.

  “Have you ever taught art therapy before?” a middle-aged woman named Cindy asked skeptically. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

  “Well, to be honest, this is a new experience for me too.”

  “Just like the teacher who started this class last year,” Cindy said a bit sharply. “She didn’t know what she was doing either. That’s why the whole thing fell apart. I don’t know why I bothered to come. Except that I like the idea of becoming an artist.”

  “I used to paint color-by-number,” an elderly man named Bruce said quietly. “I thought maybe I’d take that up to help me get over losing Ruth this past summer. But I suppose I could do that by myself at home.”

  “Give Louisa a chance,” an elderly woman said sharply. “Maybe she knows more than she’s letting on.”

  Suddenly Louisa’s confidence plummeted even lower. She was painfully aware that not only did she know very little about art therapy, she’d never really worked outside of the home before either. Her last real job was waiting tables to help pay for her college tuition, and she’d been lousy at that too. What did she think she was doing?

  “I’m sorry,” she told everyone, holding back tears of frustration. “You’re probably right. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I apologize for wasting your time.” She started to gather her things, ready to bolt for the door, to run from the building and never come back again.

  “Wait,” the elderly woman said. “You can’t give up like that. You must’ve come here for a reason. Something made you think you could lead this group. Tell us about yourself, Louisa. Tell us why you’re here.”

  Louisa blinked, setting her large canvas bag down on the table with a clunk. “Well, I—uh—I’m an artist. That’s about all I’ve been in my life. And I used to enjoy painting and drawing and creating—almost on a daily basis. But then my husband, Adam, passed away . . . last January . . . after that, well, I found it difficult—”

  “You lost your husband too?” Cindy looked surprised. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  “Oh . . .” Louisa frowned. “Yes, I suppose I should’ve mentioned that earlier. One of my dearest friends also passed away recently. Right after Thanksgiving. I’m still working through that as well.”

  “And you think painting really helps?” Bruce asked hopefully.

  “The truth is, I’ve been unable to paint or draw or anything. I’d hoped that doing this class would be as therapeutic to me as it would be to all of you.”

  The room got very quiet now and Louisa wondered if they were as ready to give up on her as she was to give up on herself.

  “But you really are an artist?” Cindy asked.

  “Yes,” Louisa said eagerly. “I brought some of my paintings.” She pointed to the stack on the nearby counter. “They’re over there.”

  Suddenly everyone was on their feet, and Louisa began showing them the samples of her work. To her relief, they seemed to like the pieces she’d brought, seemed to appreciate that she actually did know a thing or two about art. Finally, she began to confess to them how much she missed the process of painting.

  “Something happens when I paint,” she told them. “It’s as if part of me disconnects from the world, and my focus goes into whatever I’m working on. If I was troubled by something when I started to paint, I usually forget all about it for a while. And I might even have some fresh ideas for resolving it by the time I finish. Sometimes it feels almost miraculous.”

  She led them back to the table, knowing that their time was limited now. Just the same, she went around and gave them each a piece of drawing paper and a pencil.
>
  “This is what I want us to do.” She removed an old pale blue pitcher from her canvas bag. It had been her mother’s and was decorated with roses and leaves. She set it in the center of the table with a clunk. “Draw that.”

  “It’s cracked,” Cindy pointed out.

  “I know.” Louisa sighed to remember the day she’d dropped the pitcher, then glued it back together. “It’s broken. The same way we’re all broken. But go ahead and draw it as it is. And don’t worry about what your drawing looks like, or how good your drawing skills are. Just do the best you can. It doesn’t matter if your picture looks nothing like this pitcher. The important thing is to simply connect with what you’re doing. Think about the lines you’re putting down. Pretend that it’s only you and the pencil and the paper—let yourself go and don’t stop drawing until I tell you to stop. And I’ll warn you, we don’t have much time left in here today.”

  Some of them went straight to work. Others sat there staring at the pitcher and then down at their blank pages. Louisa quietly worked her way around the table, offering encouragement and some very gentle suggestions—mostly to get them to put the pencil to the paper. Then after about thirty minutes, she called, “Time,” and asked them to lay down their pencils.

  “Now let’s go around the room and share what went through our minds as we drew,” she announced. “And, please, don’t feel you need to come up with any correct answers. There is no such thing in this group. Simply explain how you felt in the midst of your drawing.”

  The first one to share was a young man named Rod. Louisa knew that he’d lost his older brother in a motorcycle accident, but he’d been fairly quiet until now. He held up his sketch, which was actually quite good, but mostly he spoke of feeling intimidated about drawing, worried that someone might make fun of him, pointing out that his parents had pressured him into coming today. “I really don’t see how this can make anyone feel better.”

  “Were you able to disconnect with your worries as you drew?” Louisa asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “Then perhaps it wasn’t a complete waste.” She smiled at him. “And I can see that you have real artistic talent.”

  His face lit up slightly before he looked back down at his sketch.

  “I’d like to go next,” a younger woman said. By now Louisa knew her name was Claire and that she’d lost both her parents in a tragic fire while she was away at school. She seemed a sweet and sincere person. “I found myself obsessing over that crack. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.” She held up her drawing, which was rather interesting—one side was light and the other was dark. “I wanted to get the crack right. As I was working on it, I decided that it was kind of like my life.”

  “How is that?” Louisa asked.

  “The crack runs right down the middle. Like my life was cut right down the middle when my parents died. Like this was my life before I lost them.” She pointed to the lighter side of the drawing. “And that was my life after.” She pointed to the darker side.

  “I actually like the shaded side better,” Louisa said honestly.

  Claire nodded with a slight frown. “I sort of do too.”

  “It looks more real,” someone else said.

  They continued around the table, listening as each artist shared their work and their experience. They were barely finished when Louisa realized that the two-hour class had gone overtime.

  “That was really good,” she told everyone. “I feel like we all learned something valuable today.” She smiled with satisfaction. “And, just think, this was only our first class.”

  “Will we meet again next week?” Bruce asked eagerly.

  “We will,” Louisa assured him. “But not the following week because of Christmas. Although I’d like to meet the week after Christmas if everyone wants to. I have a feeling I’ll need it by then.” To her relief, they all seemed eager to meet as often as possible. As they packed up their things, Louisa felt that, despite her shaky start, she might be able to manage this class after all. And perhaps in time she would actually understand the real workings of art therapy—or else she’d keep making it up as she went along.

  9

  It wasn’t until Grace was driving through town, coming home late from work on Thursday, that she remembered she’d offered to host the angels’ meeting tonight. One week ago, she had been all excited about having it at her house, thinking she’d have her Christmas decorations up and even some baking done. She’d even imagined preparing some small gift—something like Abby had done—to give to each of her friends.

  But in reality, not a single decoration was up, she hadn’t baked in ages, and her house needed to be cleaned. She glanced at her dashboard clock, deciding she had enough time to stop by the Harvester Bakery. Of course, when she got there, after parking across the street and running through the rain, she discovered they had just closed. Seeing someone inside, she even banged on the front door. But the woman scowled at her and disappeared into the back.

  Soggy and cold, Grace continued driving home, hoping that she might have a package of store-bought cookies in her pantry. As soon as she parked in the garage, she dashed into the house, hoping that she could wrangle Joel into helping her do a whirlwind cleaning. “The angels are coming tonight,” she yelled at him as she ripped off her damp coat. “I need your help.”

  “What?” He looked at her like she’d lost her mind.

  “The book group. They’re meeting here.” She started grabbing dishes out of the sink. “Why can’t you ever put a dirty dish in the dishwasher?” she growled as she shoved a grimy plate in without bothering to rinse.

  “Hello and good evening to you too,” he said in an offended tone.

  “I need you to help me clean up. After all, this is your mess.”

  “My mess?” He rolled his eyes. “Then let’s leave it where it is. I like my mess.”

  “Joel!” she growled. “Help me now! They’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Why not let your friends see how we really live?” Joel taunted her. “Show them that you’re not as perfect as you pretend to be.”

  She held a coffee mug in the air, ready to hurl it at him, then realized she’d simply have to clean up the broken shards. “Get out of here,” she yelled angrily. “Go hide in your stupid man cave!”

  He simply shrugged, then made himself scarce while she continued throwing the dishes into the dishwasher, knowing she’d need to rinse and rearrange them later. She put on the teakettle and started a pot of decaf, and while the coffee was brewing she wiped the kitchen counters. In the pantry, she dug around until she unearthed two packages of cookies, which she quickly arranged on a pretty plate before setting out cups and napkins.

  It was a meager offering compared to Louisa’s spread last week, but it would have to do. She was lighting a vanilla candle to set by the cookies when she heard the doorbell. Though she paused to smooth her hair and compose herself, she knew it was useless. Everything in her wanted to scream—she was not an angel and she never would be! Instead, she went to greet her guests. As she passed through the living room, she heard a crackling sound and was surprised to see that the fireplace was glowing warmly.

  Joel had built a fire—and she had bit his head off.

  Feeling like a heel, she opened the door to see that it was Belinda. “Right on time,” Grace said a bit briskly. “Come in.”

  “Am I too early?” Belinda asked apologetically as she came into the foyer, peeling off a damp leather jacket. “I came directly from work.”

  “No, you’re fine,” Grace said as she hung up the jacket. “I’m the one who’s running late. I totally forgot about tonight—until I was almost home. I guess I’m a little rattled.”

  “Sorry about that. Is there anything I can do to help?” Belinda sounded genuinely concerned.

  Grace heard the teakettle whistling. “Come get yourself something warm to drink. Isn’t it miserable out there?”

  “Yes. I wish it would snow instead of
rain.” As Belinda poured a cup of decaf, Grace filled the creamer and set out some sugar.

  “I’ve had a rotten week,” Grace confessed as she made herself a cup of tea.

  “I’m sorry.” Belinda peered curiously at her. “I always imagine that your life is sweet perfection, so organized that you’ve got everything running like clockwork.”

  Grace laughed. “I’m sure I try to make it seem that way. But really, I think I’m losing it. More than ever now that Abby is gone. I can’t believe how much I miss her.”

  “Me too.” Belinda put a hand on her shoulder. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Grace realized this was the second time Belinda had said this—as if she really meant it, not like she was merely being polite. “I—uh—I don’t know.” Grace felt a lump in her throat. “Sometimes I think I just need someone to listen to me. A sympathetic ear, you know? Abby was like that.”

  “Well, here I am. All ears.” Belinda sat on one of the stools by the island with an expectant expression.

  Grace stared at Belinda, wondering if she could really open up to her the way she used to with Abby, but before she could make up her mind, the doorbell rang again.

  “Maybe we should schedule a coffee date,” Belinda said as she stood. “Let me get the door for you, Grace.”

  As Belinda went for the door, Grace attempted to compose herself once again. Somehow she needed to get through this evening without breaking into tears. It wouldn’t be easy. She could hear that both Cassidy and Louisa had arrived now. Soon they had gotten their hot drinks and were seated in the living room where the crackling fire was surprisingly comforting. Grace would have to thank Joel . . . and apologize.

  “I’ve had the most incredible week,” Louisa began in a cheerful tone. She sounded happier than she had in more than a year—since losing Adam. She began to tell them about starting an art therapy class and how great it had turned out.

  “I honestly didn’t know what I was doing,” Louisa confessed. “And at the beginning it was not going well at all. I was so embarrassed, I was ready to bolt and run. But then I prayed.” She chuckled. “It was a pathetic and desperate prayer—but it was heartfelt. And then it all started to turn around. It was truly amazing. Almost miraculous.”