SNOW ANGEL

by GREG BOROWSKI, COMM '89

It was Christmas Eve and, with a shiver from the cold, Bridget Monroe stepped into Gesu Church and slowly climbed the stairs. As she did, she scanned the arriving crowd. She saw smiles everywhere but not a single familiar face.

It was not supposed to end up like this, stuck in Milwaukee on Christmas Eve, all alone. Bridget, afreshman at Marquette, had to work the final holiday shift at the downtown Boston Store. And since her parents were traveling, she wouldn’t be going home to California for another week.

Her friends from Cobeen Hall had promised to stay with her, to somehow make Christmas right. But then Maria was surprised with a last-minute plane ticket home to Puerto Rico. And Michelle, who had invited Bridget to Chicago, had to fly to Florida because her grandmother fell ill. And then the first big storm of the season hit La Crosse, Wis., so Jen couldn’t drive down to pick up Bridget and bring her home.

So it was just Bridget, temporarily living in Mashuda Hall, the only residence hall open for students staying in town over break. The hall seemed even more deserted now that the holiday was here.

At work, as she wrapped presents for the last-minute shoppers, she had thought about past Christmas mornings at home, where the tree would sweep to the ceiling and the presents — everything from her list — would spill from beneath it.

Now, she’d settle for a friend to sit with during Mass at Gesu. As the last arrivals hurried in, she found a seat off to the side. Across the way, she spotted Jessie, the friendly custodian from Cobeen, who offered a warm smile and a small wave.

Bridget tried to smile back, but couldn’t.

On the way home, her spirits were lifted by the snow that had begun falling. They were the first flakes of winter and Bridget had never seen snow before. She caught the flakes on her bare hands and raced up Wisconsin Avenue, sliding along the sidewalk, humming carols along the way.

Outside Mashuda, she plopped to the ground to make a snow angel. As she looked up at the flakes dancing through the sky, she closed her eyes and made a wish, but then stood up and quickly dismissed it.

“How silly,” she thought. “Nobody actually gets a guardian angel.”

When Bridget got to her room, she found a small package in front of the door. The tag had her name on it but nothing about who it was from. She quickly opened the box and found a pair of handmade wool mittens, flecks of gold mixed in with the navy blue.

And — like that — her heart lifted.

The next morning, Bridget asked around, but no one had seen who left the gift at her door. After a walk around campus, Bridget returned to her room and found another package. This time, it was a matching hat.
For days, this went on. One day, it was a mug and a packet of hot chocolate mix. Another day it was peppermint sticks. Another a book to read, still another a scarf — everything a girl from California could use to fight off the Milwaukee cold.

With each gift, Bridget felt better about being away from home, about being alone for the holidays, about her decision to come halfway across the country to Marquette.

When Bridget finally flew home, her family pretended it was Christmas morning, but it was hardly the same. There was no magic to these gifts, no magic at all. They were just all the things from her list.
In January, on the morning of the first day of class, Bridget stood outside Cobeen with her friends, catching up on the past month. All of them — Maria, Michelle and Jen — assured Bridget that they had nothing to do with the mystery gifts.

“You know what?” Maria said. “You’ve got a guardian angel. My mother says angels are everywhere.”
With that, a cheery voice came from behind them. “Welcome back.”

It was Jessie, the longtime custodian who always had a smile on her face and a kind word for all the freshmen in the hall. She took to them as if they were her own grandchildren. Today was no different. She gave each a hug.

“I missed seeing you girls over break,” Jessie said, then added: “Although I saw one of you.”

With that, she winked at Bridget and started inside. “Got to get to work,” she said. When Jessie waved, Bridget could only smile. For on Jessie’s hand was a navy blue mitten, gold flecks mixed into the yarn — a handmade mitten just like the one she found outside her door.

“You know,” Bridget said. “You’re right. Angels are everywhere.”

Greg Borowski is a reporter for The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel and the author of The Christmas Heart, a selection of fictional stories he has written and included with Christmas cards to friends. He wrote this story especially for Marquette Magazine.