It was one of those Saturdays. The ones where you're exhausted and tired and weary-to-the-bone and you don't want to see anyone you know nor do anything nice for anyone. One of those days. But, I have a Saturday-morning tradition: a big cup of coffee, a jaunt at the Farmers' Market, and an organic butternut-squash tamale from one of the stands at the market for breakfast.
So, I pulled my cranky-butt out of the house and walked the two blocks to the parking lot which housed the market. I purchased my coffee and was walking through the throngs of people when I saw him.
He wasn't our normal "transient;" after living in this town for the last few years, I've gotten to know who they are. At least, be able to recognize them.
He was tall; long, greasy, scraggly hair hung down from under a grungy baseball cap, baggy t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, ripped jeans, and socks. No shoes.
I know it sounds strange to say he was gentle, but gentleness emanated from him. People moved out of his way and gave him a wide berth, and he would just smile at them as if to say, "I know. It's okay."
He never asked for anything. He just kind of stood off, away from the crowd, watching.
I stood in the line to get the tamale when it hit. That still, small voice that whispers to my soul, and I know that I'm going to be doing something crazy. It happens every time this voice speaks.
"Look back."
Really? At whom?
"I'll show you. Look back."
Alright. I looked back.
"See him?"
Yeah, I see him.
"He's hungry."
There are hundreds of people here. One of them can feed him.
"You're 'ONE.'"
(siiiiiiiiiiiiigh) Okay. I began scanning the menu. So, what do I feed this guy?
"That." My eyes were drawn to the most expensive menu item.
Why am I NOT surprised about this? I grin, knowing that I'm going to buy this man the meal; the voice wouldn't let me get out of it. If I balked or backed out, it would not shut-up. Have you ever tried to silence the still, small voice in your soul? Sounds simple, but the truth is, there is no cacophony loud enough to block it out. Trust me.
Food in hand, I looked back to bring him his meal, but he wasn't there. I felt idiotic; here I was, listening to a voice that had told me to buy a stranger food - like some benevolent schizophrenia.
Nice. Impressive, voice. Thanks so much...
"Acts of kindness aren't always easy, Child. Look better."
I found him behind some booths, in an open area. Determined to make sure he didn't disappear again (and, to make sure he got the food whether he wanted it or not...I was getting stubborn), I made a beeline for him.
"Hi," I nervously called out as I got close, "it's not much, but I thought you might be hungry." I held the plate out to him.
His tired, weary eyes lit up, and his wrinkled, dirty face broke into a wide grin.
"Thank you, Sweetheart," his voice was rusty and slow - like molasses poured over a creaky gear. He reached out to hug me, and I braced myself for the smell. His appearance did not convey an opportunity for regular showers.
To my utter amazement, he smelled like fresh, clean air after a storm.
After his hug, I handed him the food and walked off. Not three steps later, I turned to wish him a good day.
He had completely disappeared.
Gone.
For some people, their encounters with angels give THEM help...a broken down car in the middle of the night, someone giving them money when they need it.
I feed angels tamales.
Showing posts with label Spirituality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Spirituality. Show all posts
August 17, 2010
August 10, 2010
Entertaining Angels #1
There have been a few times in my life where I was certain that the person to whom I was speaking wasn't really a person. Well, he was a person, but not human. No, I'm not talking about vampires, werewolves, or any of those mythological creatures that are so en vogue right now. I'm a spiritual person; I adhere to the Judeo-Christian outlook on life, and, due to four-years' worth of corruption at a conservative Bible college, I tend to be a bit suspicious about these "paranormal" situations. But, there have been times in my life when even I can't deny this...mystical experience. I have met, entertained angels, and didn't know it until after the fact.
There's a passage in the Bible that says, "Forget not to show love unto strangers: for thereby, some have entertained angels unawares (Hebrews 13:2)." Whether or not these men were actually angels remains to be seen...probably on the day I stand before God when all of eternity will be laid out. For now, though, since I have no other explanation for it, I will believe them to be angels.
Did they have wings? Nope. A halo? Not even close. That white robe and glow that every depiction of them tends to have? Not a chance. They were as far from that image as possible, yet I truly believe that was part of the design; to be so cleverly disguised that they blend in with the world around them, yet being part of God's ultimate game plan.
My first experience, that I can distinctly remember, I was twenty-two. I had just come home from leading a mission's trip to Mexico, was beyond shattered emotionally, physically, and spiritually, and was trying to figure out how to process what I had seen and experienced in some of the most destitute areas of that country. How, also, do I help my students (whom I had taken with me) process those images and feelings when I was still trying to figure it out?
I had traveled to the beach for the day. I hadn't told anyone where I was going, just climbed in the car and started driving. I don't think even I knew where I was going until I got there. There's a promenade at this one stretch of coastline; it runs the length of the waterfront and has benches so you can sit and watch the waves. I had purchased a cup of coffee and was sitting, watching the water. People walked past me, laughing and sharing their lives, oblivious to the internal struggle going on inside the blonde woman sitting on the bench, feet propped up on the retaining wall.
That's when the rose appeared. Over my right shoulder, a perfect, red bloom was being handed to me. Looking up, I saw the biggest black man I had ever encountered. He was almost seven feet tall, had a scar across his left cheekbone, and to describe him as muscular would be an understatement. He smiled, which was both sweet and kind AND quite frightful at the same time, since it stretched the scar across his face in an almost grotesque way.
"For you." The voice was rough, hard, but his smile remained gentle, so I took the flower.
I sniffed it, then looked up to say, "Thank you," but he was gone. Completely vanished. I stood up on the bench to find him, but he was nowhere to be found. How a man THAT big, THAT noticeable could disappear in two seconds was completely unfathomable.
I actually asked the lady who was on the bench next to me if she had seen where he went. "Which man?" was her answer. When I explained that he was the one who gave me the rose, she responded with, "There was no man; I thought you had the flower when you sat down!"
It could've creeped me out...and, I'm sure that under any other circumstances, I would've been. Instead, I just let the smell of the rose seep into my battered, exhausted soul, and I pressed the flower when I got home. I still have it today...
"Angel" story #2 to come later...
There's a passage in the Bible that says, "Forget not to show love unto strangers: for thereby, some have entertained angels unawares (Hebrews 13:2)." Whether or not these men were actually angels remains to be seen...probably on the day I stand before God when all of eternity will be laid out. For now, though, since I have no other explanation for it, I will believe them to be angels.
Did they have wings? Nope. A halo? Not even close. That white robe and glow that every depiction of them tends to have? Not a chance. They were as far from that image as possible, yet I truly believe that was part of the design; to be so cleverly disguised that they blend in with the world around them, yet being part of God's ultimate game plan.
My first experience, that I can distinctly remember, I was twenty-two. I had just come home from leading a mission's trip to Mexico, was beyond shattered emotionally, physically, and spiritually, and was trying to figure out how to process what I had seen and experienced in some of the most destitute areas of that country. How, also, do I help my students (whom I had taken with me) process those images and feelings when I was still trying to figure it out?
I had traveled to the beach for the day. I hadn't told anyone where I was going, just climbed in the car and started driving. I don't think even I knew where I was going until I got there. There's a promenade at this one stretch of coastline; it runs the length of the waterfront and has benches so you can sit and watch the waves. I had purchased a cup of coffee and was sitting, watching the water. People walked past me, laughing and sharing their lives, oblivious to the internal struggle going on inside the blonde woman sitting on the bench, feet propped up on the retaining wall.
That's when the rose appeared. Over my right shoulder, a perfect, red bloom was being handed to me. Looking up, I saw the biggest black man I had ever encountered. He was almost seven feet tall, had a scar across his left cheekbone, and to describe him as muscular would be an understatement. He smiled, which was both sweet and kind AND quite frightful at the same time, since it stretched the scar across his face in an almost grotesque way.
"For you." The voice was rough, hard, but his smile remained gentle, so I took the flower.
I sniffed it, then looked up to say, "Thank you," but he was gone. Completely vanished. I stood up on the bench to find him, but he was nowhere to be found. How a man THAT big, THAT noticeable could disappear in two seconds was completely unfathomable.
I actually asked the lady who was on the bench next to me if she had seen where he went. "Which man?" was her answer. When I explained that he was the one who gave me the rose, she responded with, "There was no man; I thought you had the flower when you sat down!"
It could've creeped me out...and, I'm sure that under any other circumstances, I would've been. Instead, I just let the smell of the rose seep into my battered, exhausted soul, and I pressed the flower when I got home. I still have it today...
"Angel" story #2 to come later...
