The Farmer from the market (where we sell West Coast oysters every Saturday) gave me an Angel. It is a papier-mâché angel, with upraised arms, praying. He said that perhaps the Angel will bring me love and peace, and all things good. The Angel, however, has been through tough times himself. Without knowing, he has been an icon of hope and faith to the Farmer and his family. And now he has been passed onto me.
Years ago, the Farmer's son had a dreadful disease and ended up in hospital. It was a Friday morning, very early, when the doctors told the Farmer that his son had 20 minutes to live. This prognosis did not make the Farmer and his family give up hope. In fact, they waited out the "deadline". Nothing happened. They waited till teatime. Still nothing. Lunchtime came and went. And so did that weekend.
The Farmer's son somehow survived this ordeal. A miracle? Perhaps. As the Farmer told me his story, with tears in his eyes, he said that the Angel was there, in hospital, watching over them.
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