Each Christmas I place an angel with Hannah’s name on our tree.
Adam, my son's best friend in middle school was a delightful boy, but it was his younger sister, Hannah, who drew my attention. The Falls Church, Virginia, neighborhood was forested and she played among the trees like a wood nymph. Always cheerful, her face gleaming with an ethereal smile. Quiet and observant, but not shy. One of her favorite activities was to ride her bike, hands-free, down the steep hill in front of her house letting out a joyous squeal as the bike sped down the street, grabbing the handlebars and enlisting the brakes just as she approached the crossing.
Hannah's mom was a musician who taught Kindermusik to children throughout the northern Virginia and DC area in the afternoons, leaving Adam and Hannah to freely roam the safe neighborhood. Hannah's brother spent afternoons at our house. Sometimes Hannah came, too. I also caught sight of Hannah stopping in to say hi to other neighbors or playing alone in the patch of trees between our house and hers. It was an idyllic setting for children to grow and explore. There was something fascinating about Hannah but I couldn't put my finger on it.
My husband and I invited Hannah's family to go skiing with us in the Virginia mountains. Hannah's mom was unable to go, so Hannah's father told the children to pack their bags and off we went.
The children had a grand time snow-boarding and had to be pulled from the slopes just before turning into icicles. The house we rented was uninsulated. It had base-board electric heaters, providing minimal warmth. I walked into the room where the kids were bunking and found Hannah laying her Sunday school socks on the heat strip. The thin, white socks were wet and dirty from skiing; her bare feet had a purple cast.
I asked if she had skied in those socks. She smiled at me and said they were the only ones she could find. "It's ok," she said cheerfully, "They will be dry for skiing in the morning." As I left the room to borrow woolen socks for her from my children's bags, I wondered how anyone could have managed the misery of wet thin socks in ski boots without blisters and complaints. But then again, this was Hannah.
Winter passed to spring and Hannah's tenth birthday in April. Summer settled and early fall arrived. I received a call from Hannah's mom. She asked me if I would mind going to their house when Hannah came home from school with a friend. The friend's mother had told Hannah's mom that her child could play at Hannah’s, if an adult was present, but Hannah's mom discovered she could not make it back in time. I was working from home, so took my laptop to their house and settled down in their family room just off the kitchen.
When the girls came in from school and Hannah introduced her friend to me. As I worked on my computer, I listened to Hannah cheerily talking to her friend in the kitchen. She said, "I'll get us a snack." She rummaged in the cabinets but found nothing snack-able. "Oh that's ok," she told her friend. "We can make toast with butter and jam." She pulled out a loaf of bread and toasted two slices. I heard her open the fridge door and report. "Oh, there's no butter." A pause. "That's ok. We have jam." The girls took their toasted bread with jam and left the kitchen, walking toward Hannah's room, chatting happily.
Each morning Hannah's mother drove her son to the city to attend a school that could better meet his learning needs than the local public school. Hannah walked down the street alone to meet her school bus at the corner. One morning, as Hannah was starting out for school, the house phone rang. It was her mother, calling from the mobile phone that she had just purchased the week before. She told Hannah that the strangest thing occurred. The usual heavy traffic in downtown DC had disappeared and the streets opened before her. "Hannah, wait there. I will make it in time to take you to school." Hannah's mom drove her to school, told Hannah to have a great day, and kissed her goodbye."
If I am remembering correctly, the sequence of afternoon events went as follows:
That same afternoon, Hannah's mom's second Kindermusik class was cancelled, unexpectedly. This enabled her to arrive home an hour earlier than usual to be with the kids before dinner. As Hannah's mom drove into the neighborhood she spotted traffic backed up on the street that intersected with theirs. So she detoured up another street to enter her street from the top of the hill. Upon arrival, she received a call from her husband saying that Hannah had been in an accident. A man who lived near the scene of the accident recalled that Hannah’s father, John, had introduced himself and given him a business card on the day prior. When someone at the scene of the accident told the child’s name, the man pulled out the card and called John at his office.
Hannah’s mom ran down the hill to the scene of the accident where she saw the blinking lights of police cars and an ambulance. She could see an EMT leaning over a body on the stretcher. "What happened?" She asked the policeman, who was stopping cars and onlookers.
"Such a tragedy," the policeman told her. A little girl was riding her bike down the street. When she tried to apply the brakes on the wet fall leaves, her bike slid into the path of an oncoming van."
Hannah's mom screamed and burst past the policemen. She knelt beside the stretcher and held Hannah in her arms as Hannah’s life slipped away. It seemed that Hannah was waiting for her mom.
As the community organized a funeral and gathered to celebrate Hannah's life, I learned that my observations of the child were shared by everyone who knew her. Her teachers said she never had had an unkind word and brought all classmates into her fold, especially looking out for children who were shy or taunted by others. Hannah was musical. She took up the flute the year before and showed extraordinary aptitude in learning to play and had a beautiful singing voice, as well. In Sunday school she asked deep, thoughtful questions, unusual for her age. She always smiled, her laughter twinkled like bells, her heart was huge, and intuition uncanny.
From time to time, a child is born with the aura of an angel. In Hannah's case, some believed that even in her final day on earth, Hannah somehow wielded the inner-city traffic to part like the sea so her mother could drive her to school and send her off with a goodbye kiss; and somehow caused her mom’s music class cancellation, allowing her mom to hold her in her final moments on earth. Also, remembering that minutes were saved to allow her mom to arrive at the scene of the accident because John had given the neighbor his wok phone number just the day before. These unfathomable “coincidences” seemed like miracles, but we could just say that these events were Hannah's final gift.
The experience of knowing such a rare child convinced me that Hannah actually was an angel who touched down on earth for ten years. The tragedy of losing her wrought lasting pain on each of her family members and neighbors, second guessing what they could have done to intercept this tragedy.
But angels have to do what angels are sent to do and then they leave us. In thinking back about Hannah, we have to remember what that precious and oh-so-adorable messenger taught us about how to live.
Always see the sunny side of life. Laugh your way through adversities and things you cannot change. Give time for spiritual wonderment about life’s big questions and seek meaning. Be kind to bugs, garden snakes, and birds with broken wings. Make everyone you meet feel a little better about their day. Sing at the top of your lungs. Live like there is no tomorrow. Always kiss goodbye as if it is your last.
Each Christmas I place an angel with Hannah’s name on our tree and remember her blue feet, a unique symbol for what some might describe as an Indigo Child*. Hannah’s presence still haunts, reminding us to dust off our own halos. Telling us to Imagine that we were sent for a reason and make it evident in the time we have left on earth. Enduring instructions for those lucky enough to have a ten-year-old angel as neighbor.
*Note:
The child in this story might be described as an "Indigo Child." "Indigo Children" is an idea developed in the 1970s by Nancy Ann Tappe to describe a special group of children around the world who have high intelligence and intuition, healing abilities, and a strong spiritual connection with God. The interpretations of these children range from their being the next stage in human evolution, in some cases possessing paranormal abilities such as telepathy, to the belief that they are more empathetic and creative than their peers. Little is known from scientific research about the Indigo phenomenon in America, although many countries, especially among indigenous populations, are familiar with Indigo-like children. (Google)
Written by Deborah Llewellyn, December 2023
Email: deborah.llewellyn@gmail.com
A moving story. I remember this incident well and also recall what you so rightly note as the resultant lasting pain. When I meet what I now know to call an Indigo child, I fear for them. Foolish of me, as they are as unafraid of life as most of us would like to be. Thank you for this reminder.
This lovely story brought tears to my eyes. 40 years ago last week a precious girl, my daughter’s playmate, was hit and killed by a truck on our street while riding g her bike. Both girls were 8 years old. Amy’s parents moved away soon after but I relive that tragedy in my heart every Christmas. 10 years later at graduation time, her mom stopped by for a visit. More tears were shed.