Avery and I are watching a DVD called “Handel: the Messiah Choruses,” which is music accompanied by still photographs of the Benedtictine Abbey Church, and the surrounding countryside in Bavaria (Yuletide Naxos Musical Journey, 2000).
He sits in my lap, head resting on my chest. I can feel the rise and fall of his breath. I can feel his heart beat. The photographs come and go, marble pillars that look like columns of ice cream, jewel-toned frescos, sunlight streaming through high windows. Everywhere, there are angels.
People sometimes say Avery is an angel. I am studying him now, curious to learn what he thinks of the seraphim.
He is unimpressed.
When we see the farmer with his cows, Avery claps. Bright blue sky, he claps. Again, for the pink fuscias cascading from a window box. But when we return to the interior of the cathedral, Avery begins doing the hand movements to “Itsy Bitsy Spider.”
I’m not sure if Avery is an angel. I’ve come to understand the phrase as a sign of support–people want me to know that they recognize Avery is different, and that they accept him by telling me he is not of this world, but a better one.
But the Avery I know is very much of this world. He is a little boy, with likes and dislikes, his own thoughts and feelings. I worry his angel-status removes him from the world of the here-and-now.
And yet, there is something about Avery that reminds me of God. I haven’t figured it out, but I have learned to stop denying it. Maybe it’s simply the way all children inspire us to our better selves, our highest ideals.
Avery is watching angels, and I am watching him. He is not impressed with the gold, the jewels, the monumental cathedral–all man-made. He loves the cows, and the sky, and the flowers–God’s creations.
There is a lesson here, one I will continue trying to learn.