Guardian Angel Winning Story!

Once again we had some amazing entries for this week’s writing prompt! Thank you to everyone who entered a story!

Congratulations to Lindsay Newman whose story “The Delivery Service of God” won! I hope you enjoy it as much as the judges did!

Don’t forget to keep an eye out for our next prompt!

The Delivery Service of God

by Lindsay Newman

11th Grade

Many say darkness is an enemy. They say it cloaks the bad things in this world, thus we cannot know what is out there. We are blinded from the evil that lurks in the shadows. But I do not agree. Darkness means night. Night means sleep. Sleep is calm, and those times of calm are something to be treasured. Especially when the calm is of a child like Brendan Arnold.

As his Guardian Angel, it is my duty to assist God with delivering Brendan to the light of Heaven. “Your Guardian Angel is part of God’s delivery service, Brendan,” his mother once told him. “The angel is a mail man. If you trust that God is always with you, that you, the package, are in good hands, the Guardian Angel will deliver you to heaven.” Whether he understood it or not, she was right.

Now, Brendan is not necessarily a….bad child, but….he cannot quite be called a good child, either. He means well…most of the time. But you must also understand that young Brendan is a four-year-old boy. He will, I am certain, grow up to be a good, strong, loving man…

…No matter how unlikely it may seem in the present moment.

I stand by his bed now, watching as he dreams in the peaceful state of sleep. His brown hair, usually in a crazy mess, now lies flat against his head. His face is still, but the hint of a smile has crept into the corner of his mouth. A soft smile spreads across my own lips. “It won’t remain this way for long,” I whisper solemnly to the room, full of his knick-knacks and toys. In a few hours, Brendan will rise early, much to his mother’s dismay, and begin to wreak havoc upon the Arnold household. This—and more—he shall do, just as he has done every day for roughly three years.

Even though all lights in this small bedroom have been turned off, a faint, warm glow gives all my surroundings a golden tint. Many would complain of the disorganization of the room, pointing out the scattered clothes, occasional stuffed animal, and story books strewn about, but I do not mind them. All is well if I can see my young Brendan is safe and sound, tucked into his bed. He may not be able to see me, or even understand that I am here, but I do not seek recognition. God has a plan for Mr. Arnold, and I am happy to stand at his side to ensure he is delivered back to Him in the end.

As always, time has slipped away as though no time passed at all. The golden glow I had given the room has faded into the morning’s light as the sun beams brightly through the windows. As if the sunlight was his alarm, Brendan stirs. He sits up, facing the headboard of his bed, and yawns. Almost immediately, his hair springs into action, sticking out in every direction. A small chuckle escapes my lips, and I brush his cheek with the back of my hand. Upon receiving the gesture, Brendan comes to full consciousness and clambers to the edge of his bed.

I feel my muscles tense, and I will a pair of wings to unfold from their position against my back. With one stroke of my wings, I am on the other side of the bed, watching carefully as the little boy lowers himself to the ground. Not even a second has passed after he touches the ground when he takes off running towards his mother’s room, vibrant green eyes locked on his exit route.

“Mommy!” he calls, running and waddling all at once as he moves down the hallway. His hand bumps into a small table with a vase of flowers on it, and it begins to wobble. I gently place my hand upon the table, and both the vase and table become steady again.

I find myself hovering in the doorway of the parents’ bedroom, where two figures, clothed in white gowns, stand on either side of the bed. Each is gazing down at the occupants of the bed, but do not seem to notice me. Of course, why would they take the time to say “Hello” when they have a much more important task to accomplish? As the two figures, watch the parents, Brendan is scrambling up onto the bed, his rocket ship pajama top beginning to roll up his belly. “Mommy! Pancakes!” Brendan says into his mother’s ear.

A woman of thirty-two slowly rises into a sitting position. Her brown hair—not unlike her son’s—is a mess, and she looks as if she might have just been tumbled around in the dryer. Sleep-infected, hazel eyes stare groggily at Brendan and his mother murmurs something unintelligible. She lowers her son to the ground, tosses her blankets aside, and the day’s madness begins.

Brendan’s mother makes her way to the kitchen, her young one toddling along behind her, and I am sure to keep pace with them. Once they reach the kitchen, though, Brendan’s course suddenly changes, and I am following him into the living room. I watch carefully as he bounces along, his small, pudgy fingers occasionally grabbing hold of something to steady himself. Suddenly it dawns on me where he must be headed: the toy basket by his father’s leather armchair.

When he reaches his target, he plops down on the ground and reaches into a large basket full of trucks, balls, and other toys suitable for Brendan’s age. As usual, the first item he chooses is a bright green car. At that moment, a clicking sound, starting as barely audible, slowly increases in volume as the next danger of this morning routine approaches: Marvel the Labrador.

Brendan takes no notice of the quickly approaching danger, dragging his green car along the carpet that lies beneath him. I watch as the 8-year-old black Labrador trots into the room, headed straight for Brendan. I turn my body to face the dog and shield Brendan from him. When the dog comes near me, he makes a sudden change of course and moves around the toddler behind me. I watch Marvel grunt as he flops over in the space behind the leather armchair, then relax the tension in my body.

“Breakfast!” Brendan’s mother calls from the kitchen. Immediately, Brendan drops his toy and scrambles to his feet.

“Pancakes!” Brendan squeals, running towards the kitchen. I follow him until we reach the doorway to the kitchen, where his mother scoops him up into her arms. “Pancakes! Pancakes!” Brendan chants, clapping excitedly.

“Yes, pancakes! But Daddy has to be up, too,” she replies, a soothing tone in her voice.

Unfortunately, Brendan does not quite feel soothed by this new piece of information. “Pancakes!!” he shouts, sounding much more irritated this time.

“Let’s get Daddy first,” his mother tells him, straining the sweetness in her voice. “Dear! Breakfast!” she calls. After a few moments, I dull thump tells her that her husband has gotten out of bed.

“Mama! Pancakes!” Brendan demands, beginning to screech the words.

“Alright, alright. Pancakes coming. You know, your Guardian Angel is watching you right now. We don’t want to make the mail man mad, do we?” she says to Brendan, tapping his nose gently as she turns, carrying Brendan to the dining room table.

“Mail man not mad. Mail man want pancakes,” Brendan states, nodding as though he were certain of this.

“I have a more fulfilling breakfast, young one,” I say, following the two into the dining room, where one of the other Guardian Angels stands. He watches carefully as Brendan’s mother places Brendan in a high chair, then buckles him in and snaps on a tray. She disappears into the kitchen, then reappears with a plate of pancakes, and her husband. The third Guardian Angel walks in behind the tall man with the same green eyes as Brendan.

I smile warmly at the sight before me: a family enjoying a Saturday breakfast. Brendan’s parents engage in a light-hearted conversation about the day’s coming events, and Brendan plays with the syrup spreading out over his pancake. Yes, he is a trouble-maker sometimes, but his happiness is a gift I intend to deliver. No package has ever been more important than that.