A Walk with an Angel

An angel visited me today. She tagged along when her big brother came over to play at our house. I mistook her for a princess in her satiny white dress with silver glitter and flouncy sleeves. But she quickly set me straight. She had left her wings at home. She was an angel.
            Princess Angel got bored watching the boys play video games, so she wandered to the kitchen where I was making dinner. She hadn’t yet mastered her “r”s, and her sing-songy voice sounded like a child actor from a Disney movie. Her Snow White hair (with wide headband) framed her gemstone-blue eyes and freckled cheeks to complete the effect. She licked her lips with extra sound effects and wondered aloud if there were any snacks in our house. When Princess Angel wouldn’t stop opening the fridge and freezer doors to stand and gaze, we decided it was time for her to go see what her mom was making for dinner.
            Five-year-old Disney angels aren’t allowed to walk down the block and around the corner unattended, so I turned off the stove, slipped on some shoes, and off we went. We talked about flip flops and how hers were pink and mine were brown and how everyone in her family had a pair except her dad. We talked about what a very long walk it was from our house to hers, especially on a really hot day. We talked about how she had turned five and how she’ll be riding the bus with the boys when she starts kindergarten next month.
            We stopped at her future bus stop to watch for cars. Then we turned the corner.
            “What church do you go to?”
            My answer was so unsatisfactory she almost didn’t let me finish.
            “You should go to my church.”
            She liked her church. A lot.
            “I’m happy you like your church so much.” I was happy.
            Princess Angel frowned. “No, that’s not what I mean.” Adults so often don’t get it. And this was important. “Our church is the right church to go to.”
            I was already marveling at this turn of events. A lot can happen in a block and a half with an angel in pink flip flops. A strange joy was filling up my chest. “That’s great! It sounds like just the right church for you.”
            “No, you don’t understand.” Her wobbly Disney voice upped the ante. “Our church is ___________. It’s the church you should go to. It’s the right church.”
            She told me how she likes to sing at church. “Weally loud.” So loud that one time when her mom was in the church bathroom she could still hear Princess Angel’s voice above all the other voices.
            I had stopped at the end of her driveway, and she was yelling this last story from the porch. The door opened, and her mother stepped out with yellow rubber gloves on her hands. She gave me a cheerful smile and a yellow wave and a “Thank you!” and nudged Princess Angel into the house with an elbow.
            I walked home alone on a very hot day, still marveling. Are we all fully indoctrinated, one way or another, by five years old? How have I indoctrinated my own children, consciously and unconsciously? Where have I drawn lines for them and told them being on “our” side of the line is “right”? What new lines am I still drawing?
            A block and a half wasn’t long enough to see many answers. But I’m willing to see, even though it makes me feel squirmy. I want to know what’s there, because there’s a pretty good chance it’s keeping me from loving my neighbor. And I’d rather love my neighbor than be right. Especially my neighbors that are angels.