“Angel of God, my guardian dear.” This is the opening line of the first prayer I memorized as a child. My mother taught me the Angel of God and I recited it at bedside each night.
            The second of October is the Feast of the Guardian Angels. It is also my dad’s birthday.  Before I ever recited that childhood prayer, my father taught me that the heart of prayer is simply reaching for God. The lesson coincides with my earliest memory of him: his strong hands lifting me up to touch the crucifix on the wall above my crib.
            I suspect the routine played a part in the nightly chore of putting me to bed.
            Today, that same cross hangs on the wall of my bedroom and touching it is once again part of my daily devotions. A renewed appreciation for angels has also return to my prayers. My mother would be proud. She can thank a young a boy named Seth.  
            Two years ago, Seth and his family—his mom, dad and three brothers—paid a visit to my ranch. As we ate dinner, six-year-old Seth glanced up and exclaimed, “Look, an angel!” Sure enough, silhouetted against the wall—above a hunting bow and a bovine skull—loomed the shadow of a robed figure flanked by two wings. We all marveled at the sight. Since that evening, a prayer from the Liturgy of the Hours has taken on new significance for me: Lord, we beg you to visit this house….  Send your angels to dwell here to guard us in peace.
             I visited Seth’s family last Sunday. The date was October 2^nd, but angels had nothing to do with my visit...or so I thought.
             Seth’s father, Joe, is a close friend. The previous week, his brother, Tim, age 46, died unexpectedly. This was the reason for my visit.
            After I greeted the family at the door, Joe motioned me aside. We sat at the dining room. Soon, he began sharing stories of boyhood adventures with Tim and reflections on their journeys to manhood. The mood was somber. The shock of his brother’s death had overwhelmed him.
            During a pause in the conversation, Seth walked up and tapped my shoulder. He wanted to know if the angel was still appearing on my wall. 
            “He keeps asking when you’re coming to visit,” I said.
            Seth smiled. Then his face grew serious. “They know when we’re sad.”
            His words hit me like a punch. I glanced at Joe who was looking away, wiping a tear. I turned back to Seth and gave him a nod. He nodded back, then returned to play with his brothers.
            Joe turned and took a deep breath. “We might not have angels on our wall, but we got that cross.” He pointed toward the front door. “Recognize it?”
            It took a minute, but then I recalled giving the family that cross on the day when Beau, their youngest, was baptized.
            “Ever lift Beau up to touch it?” I asked.
            “All the time.”

                                                                     ***
           
            Angels and crosses. Life and Death. The hope and longing for Heaven. These mysteries dwell in our souls. They also inhabit our homes in the shape of angel wings, wooden crosses and the whisper of children reciting their prayers.
            Some people dismiss such things as sentimental, but faithful parents know these symbols point to an epic adventure. And they call them sacramentals.