children. Unfortunately she's given up on her faith too," Gabriel explained with regret. "If that isn't tragic enough, she's walking straight towards the pit of despair."
"But that's not true about her prayers going unheard," Mercy cried. "Someone should tell her, give her a message, offer her hope. Why, all that poor, dear woman needs is a bit of reassurance." Agitated, the petite angel paced the area in front of Gabriel's desk. "Send me, please, Gabriel, I promise to stay out of trouble."
The archangel hesitated. He had the sinking feeling that Mercy's promise would quickly become famous last words.
He noticed that the tips of her wings feathered out and fluttered gently when he nodded. "I'll go with you and explain the circumstances. I can't afford to spare you much past Christmas."
"Just until Christmas," Mercy protested. "That doesn't give me much time."
"Do whatever you feel is necessary to help her," he said, granting her unprecedented powers.
Gabriel didn't want to say it, but when it came to Leah Lundberg, he felt her prayer had little likelihood of being answered. Over the last ten years the human had been given countless chances. Mercy was one of the least experienced angels in his task force. He didn't hold out much hope that she'd succeed when so many other far more accomplished ambassadors had failed.
"We should start right away, then, don't you think?" Mercy pressed, eager to begin.
Gabriel glanced at the stack of unanswered prayers piling up on his desk and nodded. "I can only spare a few moments."
"I'd appreciate whatever help you can give me."
Gabriel grumbled under his breath. This could be a waste of precious time, then again, it might well be the answer to a long-standing request. He'd witnessed far greater miracles.
"Come with me," the archangel instructed, and Mercy followed obediently behind him. He was fond of this prayer ambassador although he wasn't keen on admitting as much.
"I hope I can help her."
"I hope so too," Gabriel murmured. "Look with me and I'll introduce you to Leah and Andrew Lundberg.
Slowly he raised his massive arms and with one swift motion the thick white clouds parted into a gentle mist that slowly dissipated. The scene unfolded like the opening pages of a pop-up book as the majesty that surrounded Mercy evaporated into the midst of the mundane world. The archangel and Mercy stood on the sidelines as Leah Lundberg opened the front door of her house and walked inside.
"I'm home," Leah called out to her husband, removing her thick winter coat and hanging it in the hall closet. As always her house was spotless. Her furniture was polished, the latest in contemporary styling. The black-lacquer-on-silver dining table shone back at her like a mirror. Her gaze rested on a white lambskin sofa that had cost nearly four thousand dollars. Her home was expensive and ultramodern. A child would wreak havoc in her pristine domain.
Leah's friends envied her home. Their own were often a minefield of toys and other traps children left scattered about. Her friends' lives centered around feeding schedules, soccer practices, and flute lessons. Leah would gladly relinquish her grand piano for a crib and the Persian rug for a playpen. She would gladly trade her tidy existence for the chaos and joy a child would bring into her life and marriage.
"I've got dinner cooking," her husband announced from inside the kitchen. "How does marinated flank steak, new red potatoes, and fresh asparagus sound?"
"Excellent." She moved into the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Andrew's waist.
Their massive kitchen included every modern convenience imaginable. A large room for two people who dined out more often than they ate at home. Andrew, an architect, had designed her kitchen when they believed their future included children. She'd clung to the thread of that hope, but it had grown impossibly thin as the fiber of her dreams had worn away.
Leah's eyes rested on her shiny, clean cupboards and her waxed, spotless floor. Her heart moved into her throat with a sharp stab of unexpected pain. She longed for a refrigerator door smudged with jelly-coated fingerprints, and linoleum scuffed with marks made from walking shoes and toy trucks.
"Did you have a long day?" Andrew asked.
Leah nodded. She deeply loved her husband. Without him, she didn't know how she would have endured the last several years. "We delivered three babies before noon. Two boys and a girl." Leah had long since lost count of the number of births she'd assisted. Hundreds, she guessed. But it didn't matter how often