An angel came to me while I was laboring at prayer. Yes, laboring. That is likely a problem itself, but we’ll leave that for another day. I was in the woods near the church, fingering my way through my rosary. Ten beads for the Shema, ten for people in our church, ten for this, ten for that. My mind was filled with the numerous categories of language. People placed into one group or another. Actions lumped together and called by a single name. Everything classified not only by type, but also called sacred or secular, good or bad. Joy, pleasure, pain, heaven, hell, things done and things left undone. All of these were in my mind.

While I worked my way from bead to bead I noticed, with a start, that an angel was sitting across from me. It looked at me with a pleasant smile. I stood up, respectfully.

“Greetings,” the angel said.

What exactly do you say to angel? Is there a protocol for this? Not knowing what to say, I said nothing at all.

“Mortal, scoop up a handful of what covers that path.”

I reached to the earth, eyes still on the angel, and grabbed at whatever lay at my feet.

“Now open your palm and blow on it.”

I did, and an assortment of leaves and bits of plant floated away.

“What would you call what is left in your hand?”

“Grit maybe? Gravel?”

“Grit and gravel?” the angel said indignantly. “Each particle in your hand has a unique history, and all of their histories are older than the oldest memories of humankind. Each one has a name. Did you know that?”

I brought my palm close to my eyes to look at what lay there. Wanting to say something in keeping with the angel’s attitude toward my handful of gravel, I said, “The pinkish one is nice.”

“Sit down mortal, and I will tell you a truth.”

I sat on the ground and looked up at the angel.