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[IP] Angels among us

To those of you who have not read this classic by the Dallas 
columnist Paul Crume, allow me to reprint his article of 1967.

      Angels are among us, on this day and every other.

A man wrote me not long ago and asked me what I thought of the 
theory of angels. I immediately told him that I am highly in favor of 
angels. As a matter of fact, I am scared to death of them.

Any adult human being with half sense, and some with more, 
knows that there are angels. If he has ever spent any period in 
loneliness, when the senses are forced in upon themselves, he has 
felt the wind from their beating wings and been overwhelmed with 
the sudden realization of the endless and gigantic dark that exists 
outside the little candle flame of human knowledge. He has prayed, 
not in the sense that he asked for something, but that he yielded 

Angels live daily at our very elbows, and so do demons, and most 
men at one time or another in their lives have yielded themselves to 
both and have lived to rejoice and rue their impulses. 

But the man who has once felt the beat of an angel's wing finds it 
easy to rejoice at the universe and at his fellow man. It does not 
happen to any man often, and too many of us dismiss it when it 
happens. I remember a time in my final days in college when the 
chinaberry trees were abloom and the air was sweet with spring 
blossoms and I stood still on the street, suddenly struck with the 
feeling of something that was an enormous promise and yet was 
no tangible promise at all.

And there was another night in a small boat when the moon was 
full and the distant headlands were dark but beautiful and we were 
lonely. The pull of a nameless emotion was so strong that it filled 
the atmosphere The small boy within me cried. Psychiatrists will 
say that the angel in all this was really within me, not outside, but 
it makes no difference.

There are angels inside us and angels outside, and the one inside 
is usually the quickest choked. Francis Thompson said it better. 
He was a late 19th-century English poet who would put the current 
crop of hippies to shame. He was on pot all his life. His pad was 
always mean and was sometimes a park bench. He was a mental 
case and tubercular besides. He carried a fishing creel into which 
he dropped the poetry that was later to become immortal.

"The angels keep their ancient places," wrote Francis Thompson in 
protest. "Turn but a stone, and start a wing."

He was lonely enough to be the constant associate of angels. 
There is an angel close to you this day. Merry Christmas, and I 
wish you well.

And may you all feel close to your angel today
George Lovelace

Insulin-Pumpers website http://www.insulin-pumpers.org/