by Jay Litvin

Along the way I met angels. It was about twenty-two years ago. There were perhaps 10,000 of them hovering about, all different sizes and shapes. Some looked like Walt Disney cartoon angels, the kind that carry Goofy to heaven when he is hit over the head. Others were straight out of store window displays or greeting cards. Some looked like the plaster angels I used to buy in a Mexican market — primitive, brightly painted in pastel blues and pinks. They were a fascinating assortment, each vigorously flapping its wings.

I met them one day while in my car. After days of deliberation and overcoming a tremendous amount of fear, my wife and I had decided to let our six-year-old son cross the street on his own for the first time. The place was Milwaukee. Not as bad as New York or Chicago, but with cars just as hard that drove just as fast. The images that passed through our minds were as gruesome as if he were crossing 42nd and Broadway.

We came up with a plan. Unbeknownst to him, after he left the house, I would get into the car, drive to each of the corners he would have to cross, park the car where he couldn’t see me, and watch. Perhaps I could not protect him from harm, but at least I would know his fate.

I sat in the car and saw him approach the first corner. He looked absolutely tiny. He walked with little steps, looking this way and that, stopping every once in a while to look at a bug or something on the ground or to turn his head and catch a glimpse of a bird in a tree. He had on his little blue- and-yellow striped tee shirt, blue shorts, little socks that came just above his ankles, and blue sneakers.

My heart was thumping and my hands gripped the steering wheel. I mustered my concentration and attempted, through mental telepathy, to remind him to stop and look both ways. My eyes didn’t blink, for fear that in the momentary blackness something horrible would happen. As he came to the curb, my hand moved to the door handle and I calculated how long it would take me to race and grab him.

Cars were coming from both directions. What would he do?

Whether he received my telepathic message or whether his own good sense kicked in, he stopped. He waited, looking both ways, back and forth, back and forth, calculating when to cross. I experienced a profound helplessness. I felt as if I had no spine, no muscles in my legs or arms, no vivifying force animating my body. I sat and watched and waited and tried to breathe. Then he made his move. When the coast was completely clear, he started to skip across the street, happy as a clam, spry as a bunny.

At the next corner I learned to pray. At the time, I was not observant. But as I sat crouched in the car, I decided there must be a G-d. Watching my son, I could not concede his vulnerability to the unknown forces in the world. It made no sense that a life would be brought into this world, forced one day to claim his independence, and then be set adrift with nothing to watch over him. I beseeched whatever omnipotent power existed to watch over my son and protect him.

Hand again on the door handle, I was poised like a thoroughbred at the gate, prepared to sprint, even though I knew I would lose the race. I prayed with the full strength of my love and fear and terrible fantasies. And then he crossed the street again, safely.

At the third corner, I had trouble finding an inconspicuous place to park. I panicked. What if I couldn’t get the car parked in time to take up my position with my hand gripping the door handle (by now a superstition)? What if I could not focus my unblinking eyes on his little striped tee shirt and begin praying before he reached the corner? Finally I scooted down an alley and positioned the car so that just the hood and part of my window protruded. I could see him; hopefully he could not see me. Hand in place, eyes unblinking, mind focused, lips invoking Divine protection, I waited.

Then I saw the angels.

There were thousands of them, covering him from head to toe. My son was not walking; the angels were carrying him. When they came to the corner, first the angels stopped, and then my son stopped. The angels moved in unison, as though they shared one mind. I remember thinking how strange this was, since the angels were so dissimilar. How did the Walt Disney angels know what the Mexican plaster angels were thinking and doing? But sure enough, they moved together, bringing my son to a standstill at the edge of the curb. They didn’t let him budge. It was fascinating to watch.

While most of the angels stood holding my son, others flew out like scouts to make sure no cars were coming. When they flew back to make their report, a new batch of angels flew out to keep the vigil. I wondered if they were actually stopping the cars so my son could cross. Angels were flying back and forth, to and fro, in the same way I now imagine angels ascended and descended Jacob’s ladder. I sat, transfixed.

Finally, when all was quiet, the angels transported my son across the street.

I felt my hand let go of the door handle. My eyes began to blink again. My mind relaxed. I took a deep, long breath, and I think I smiled.

I know my son smiled. I saw him with a big grin on his little face as he skipped and hopped and chuckled across the street. I noticed how he was absolutely sure of himself. How much he was enjoying his new freedom. How he embraced it with not the slightest twinge of anxiety. I wondered if he could see the angels, and I wondered how anyone could possibly have children and not believe in G-d and angels.

As each of our other children reached that time when he or she needed to cross the street, I remembered the angels, but I didn’t see them. I continued to drive to each street corner, but now more out of curiosity than dread.

Having made aliyah, a few years ago I visited my son, grown and in his mid-twenties and living in New York. We talked about him and about me and about his brothers and sisters and about his mom. We talked about his future. It was clear that he knew how to cross the street by himself. Yet he walked close by me, and I had the feeling that he was looking out for me rather than the other way around. He picked lint off my coat and asked if I’d remembered my tickets as we hailed a cab to the airport. I liked the man he had become.

We had shared precious time, but now I had to take my leave of him and return to Israel. We had trouble finding a cab, and he carried my suitcase for me as we walked to a taxi stand close to Grand Central Station. We hugged, and I managed to hold my tears inside my eyes as we said goodbye. He let me kiss him. I put my luggage inside the trunk, and as I got inside the cab, he said, “Don’t forget to get your luggage out when you get to the airport, Ta.” I turned my head away so he wouldn’t see my tears and my heartache, my worry and hope, my fear and regret, my lips moving in prayer.

Just before the taxi turned the corner, I took a look back. And there they were. Once again I saw the angels carrying my son down the street.

Jay Litvin, a frequent contributor to The Jewish Homemaker, lives in Rechovot, Israel. His son Yaakov, the subject of this article, was married this November. Jay also writes for chabadonline.org, where a version of this article first appeared.