Being Angels to One Another
by Dawna Markova
We can all be
angels to one another. We can choose to obey
the still small
stirring within, the little whisper that says, "Go. Ask.
Reach out. Be an
answer to someone's plea. You have a part to play...."
The world will be
a better place for it.
And wherever they
are, the angels will dance.
-- Joan Wester
Anderson,
Where Angels Walk
If You Knew That the World Needed
What Only You Could Bring, How Would You Live?
My mother taught
me how to add. She was always adding up how much we had and how much other
people had and how much everything cost. My sister taught me to subtract. She
was always subtracting how much attention I got from how much attention she
got. My father taught me to divide. He divided the world into two sides: the
good guys and the bad guys, the right guys and the wrong guys, the ones who
would make it and the ones who wouldn't.
It was my
grandmother who taught me to multiply. Making a loaf of Sabbath bread on Friday
morning was her favorite teaching tool. As she kneaded the dough, she said,
"This is what the world does to you sometimes. It stretches you, and pushes you
around, and turns you over, and slaps you into shape. This is so the gifts you
brought into the world get stronger, ketzaleh."
Then her long,
crafty fingers patted the dough round and sprinkled flour all over, as if it
were a baby's tush. After cradling it into a large glass bowl, she let me
blanket it with an immaculate towel and place it gently near the stove.
"Now comes the
magic. We'll go clean the house for Shabbat. By the time we are finished, the
magic will have happened."
"What's the magic,
Grandma? Tell me."
Her face crinkled
like white taffeta as she smiled and said, "Just come back every fifteen
minutes and peek. You'll see the magic."
And I did. While
she washed and dusted and folded, I kept running into the kitchen, lifting the
towel, and peeking at the golden, round baby bread. Nothing. But I didn't give
up. I trusted Grandma completely.
Finally, when I
lifted the towel I saw that the bread had grown into a golden balloon that
filled the whole bowl. I ran to tell her about the magic.
I dragged her back
to the kitchen to show her what had happened. Her eyes sparkled as she laughed.
"Ketzaleh, it really isn't magic. It's the yeast that makes it rise twice as
big." I must have looked crushed, because she placed a floury hand on my
forehead and said, "But, my darling, watch what happens now. This is really
something."
Then she turned
the dough out of the bowl and plopped it onto the floury counter, stretching,
slapping, stretching, slapping until the dough was a thick, flat disc.
"Grandma, you're
killing it!" I squealed.
"No, my precious.
This will help the bread rise even higher than before. It will make the dough
stretchy and strong."
Once again she
rubbed flour all over it and placed the bowl back near the stove. "Now, you
keep peeking like you did before, and let me know when that dough is twice as
big. Then I'll tell you about the real magic."
Faithfully, I kept
peeking. Sure enough, the bread multiplied. As she squeezed the dough into
three thick snakes, I asked her, "Grandma, do people have yeast inside them? Is
that what makes us grow bigger?"
"In people, it's
the life force that makes your body grow, but there's another kind of yeast
that makes your soul grow."
Leaning toward me,
she whispered the next words slowly, right into my ear. "We call it love. Love
for the people in your family, and for your friends. Love for the people in
your neighborhood, everywhere, and for all the animals and plants in the
world.
In my
grandmother's mystical tradition, it is taught that we are angels to one
another. It is said that we are sent, without our knowledge, to various places
in order to do our destined work and make love multiply. Thus any person on
earth may be called upon to act as an unwitting angel for another. Once I
became aware of this possibility, the opportunities seemed to multiply
endlessly.
Life gives us
seeds as a way of saying, "Please."
The gifts you
carry, even if you do not know what they are or have not felt them stirring in
you for decades, are needed by the rest of us. If you allow yourself to know this, you will also come to
recognize that in every person you meet, there is a seed of light. All those
gifts are needed now. Each and every one of us belongs. There can be no
orphans; there can be no exiles or aliens.
Only when we
appreciate the unique gifts that each of us has to offer and the shining web of
connection that holds us all can we open ourselves to the full potential of
what we can achieve together.
This article was excerpted from:
 Spot of Grace: Remarkable Stories of How You DO Make a Difference
by Dawna Markova.
Reprinted with permission from
New World Library. ©2008. www.newworldlibrary.com
800-972-6657 ext. 50.
For More Info or to Order This Book.
About the Author
Inspirational
speaker and writer Dawna Markova, PhD is internationally known for her
groundbreaking work in helping people learn with passion and live with purpose.
She is the author of numerous books including the bestsellers Random Acts of Kindness and I Will Not Die an Unlived Life. A
long-term cancer survivor (she was told she had six months to live almost
thirty years ago), Dawna has appeared on numerous television programs, and is a
frequent guest on National Public Radio and New Dimensions. She offers seminars
and workshops and speaks at business and educational conferences
internationally. Her website is www.dawnamarkova.com.
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