too much rest?

Too much rest?

My mother in law is-was- a great supporter of rest. Whenever I informed her I was on my way to the gym she would sigh and tell me to relax. I do too much. I need to take it easy. Oh, she was so persuasive. I could feel the comfy couch under my back with my legs propped up on pillows, a soft throw over my lower half. I could picture myself reading… for three minutes before the book toppled to the floor as my lids closed. (Three minutes is actually stretching the
possibilities.) Yea. It was enticing but…I do love a good workout. The exercise bike. The weights and time in the pool. The adrenalin rush. That was relaxing for me. It was time away from duties. From doing for people. From answering the phone or driving someone around. No. The gym was where I really got my breathing space.

My mother in law did however follow her own advice. Approaching 75 she was well rested. Real well rested. My husband would hand carry her dinner to her during our Sunday dinners so she wouldn’t have to get up when we visited. He was being considerate of her age. He was respecting her hospitality, repaying her for fixing our repast. She was so rested that getting up out of her chair was a work out. Huffing and puffing, she would wobble for a few steps till she got her equilibrium and continue to whatever activity that called her to her feet.

Then she started falling whenever she got up from her chair. We began intensive interrogations when we spotted bruises on her. We worried about her. We got her to commit to going to the doctor. I felt it was her knees, arthritis, bursitis or some other “itis” caused by the phenomena known as aging. Or maybe a reaction to her blood pressure meds or seizure meds. Or maybe she had started drinking while she was chilling out.

My sister in law received the honor of escorting mom to the doctor’s office. What she learned was more devastating to us than something that could be corrected with simply altering meds or sending her to alcoholics anonymous. Her diagnosis was…. Are you ready? She was pronounced….get set….well rested. She had rested herself into muscle shrinkage. She had been losing weight over the past couple of months (Yep, that really surprised me since her only exercise was getting out of her chair to go to bed) but the weight loss was mostly muscle mass. Let me explain this simple thing. No muscle mass, no strength. No strength, no balance. No balance no fall prevention. No fall prevention yields broken hips, legs, femurs, arms, faces or wrists. Broken bones in the elderly can heal but they may spend time in a nursing home for rehabilitation, (the person, not just the bones) that is providing they are discovered within a reasonable time frame or they don’t get a fat embolus and….. Well just imagine the worst. The most common reason that nursing homes are filling up with those approaching the later stages of life is due to falls, mostly falls at home.

The doctor predicted at her rate of “resting”, she’d be bed bound in five years. Well, my sister in law responded quickly to this crisis by not taking mom straight home to her easy chair. She took her to the local Senior Citizen’s Center and signed her up. What good does that do? Well, a properly run center has activities galore that keep the participants. She walked. She exercised. She talked. She ate. She socialized. She was even the secretary for a period of time. She redeveloped her muscles and with civilized respect for the miracle of healing, threw her cane in the air. Unfortunately when it landed it knocked her out and we had to take her to the emergency room for a head injury….just kidding!

The point of this long emotionally boring story? “If you don’t use it, you’ll lose it” means something. That goes for many things, like…. using our spiritual muscles. If we don’t keep them fed and exercised we’ll become weak floppy Christians. Our spirits will atrophy. We won’t know how to keep our balance when we get up and we’ll fall. And when a Christian falls, well once again, just imagine the worst. We may not lose eternity, but we may fail to bring someone else along with us to eternity; someone like a child, father, mother, friend, or even a stranger. We can’t afford to rest in our easy chairs while we are still here on terra firma. We need to attend the Christian Citizen’s Center if not five days a week at least once, maybe twice. And in this country there is no law that we can’t flex our muscles at home. Daily devotionals and prayer groups at work are all still permissible, (provided you do it in a dark closet at the back of the hall!) Along with meeting around the school’s flag pole; something school kids do in Fort Worth at the start of the year to seek God’s blessings, and I hope we’re not an isolated patch of religious fanatics.

So stop resting you lazy slugs and get out your bibles, it’s time for a work out. You don’t even have to check with your doctor on this one, even if you are over forty. There are no contraindications due to pre existing health conditions; as a matter of fact it’s the perfect cure for heart disease and mental illness. However there are side effects, like long life and peace of mind. Okay, let’s get started: One, two, three. One, two, three.

Math. 22:29
Luke 24:27
John 5:39
1 Peter 3:15
1 Peter 3:15

spring cleaning

My daughter in law, who along with my son of course, lives with my dad, finally took on the humongous task of spring cleaning. It has only taken thirteen Springs to motivate her, she’s a better woman than I am, I’m still waiting for the right Spring.

While going through a bottom kitchen drawer, you know, the drawer we all have that collects everything we’ve always wanted but never used, she came upon some old serving spoons and forks that she set aside for me.

“These probably belonged to your mother; I thought you or Bruce (my brother) would want them.” She explained when I dropped by for my nightly visit with dad.

I picked up the trophies she offered me. Black. Black as sin. Ugly. Ugly as sin. I thought she was nuts. Why would I want these crummy, filthy , black, ugly things. I don’t have much in the way of standards but I certainly don’t need more junk in my kitchen drawers either.

“I don’t think so, but thanks anyway,” I replied, none to sincerely. Then at the hurt look on her face I swiftly switched gears. “Do you have any toothpaste?” Now I was being looked at as though I was nuts. (An appropriate look on most occasions). It's a little known fact that toothpaste is a handy ingredient for removing tarnish.

Susan brought the toothpaste to me at the kitchen sink where I started smearing it on a serving spoon, encrusted with….gosh I don’t want to know what. As I rubbed, black stains traded sides from spoon to sponge. The sponge got blacker, the spoon got…prettier. Wow. This was real silver junk, not just aluminum junk. It wasn’t long before all the pieces were lying on the counter gleaming up at me. One spoon even had my dad’s name on the handle, having belonged to him as a child. It was impressive watching as each letter revealed itself. The eating tools even played videos of the times mom used these same pieces at holiday dinners. Thanksgivings, Christmases, Easters. Thirty years of memories were unleashed from under all the black, ugly tarnish.

My mom had come home again. She had passed away twenty some years ago but thanks to spring cleaning and my daughter in law, here she was again; sitting on the kitchen counter. What an ironic twist of fate, she would never let me sit on the counter! I couldn’t wait to put these serving pieces into use again, until then they would be in my kitchen drawer; the top drawer that gets opened every day. I won’t wait for special occasions to use these newly discovered utensils. Every day will be a day of remembrance for mom, whenever I get the chance to serve dinner.

This reminded me of a day when God found me in the bottom of a drawer, (under a load of sin and despair). The day he took my black sins (the tarnish veneer over my life) and cleaned me with toothpaste (the blood of Jesus) and made be beautiful (there I go dreaming again) and put me back into service (in the kitchen?) I’m grateful that when he set eyes on me his first reaction wasn’t one of repulsion. He immediately saw my worth and smeared cleansing fluid over me, and placed me in the top drawer. The drawer where all the useful supplies are.

Isn’t it amazing how black tarnished silverware can speak for God! It tells me that buried underneath every tarnished, sin blackened life is a beautiful serving piece waiting to be cleaned and used. Every sin ladened person is a name on God’s heart. I never would have thought of my daughter in law as a prophet but she was definitely God’s messenger that day.

Isaiah 1:18
2 Tim. 2:20

God's kingdom, past present and future

Cars in front of me, cars behind me; all here to safely enjoy nature from the confines of our cars. An African wilderness experience in the heart of Texas, with I’m sure just the right humidity and baking temperature. We were advised by signs throughout the route to stay in our cars at all times, but those clever few who know how to break rules were standing up through their sun roofs or hanging out the windows of their trunks, they might as well have been out walking.

My car at first was surrounded by deer, elk, other horned mammals and ostriches, so many that we couldn’t move. But they had short attention spans and moved on to the next car in line if we didn’t produce any edibles on short notice. No need to wait for us to give a hand out, they were well aware of the purpose of any car here, it was to provide them with sustenance. One ostrich, (man they have humongous feet), actually pecked at my rear view mirror to voice his complaint that we weren’t honoring the “feed me” rule. Or since my car is red maybe he mistook my rear view mirror for a nice shiny Macintosh apple? This was going to be a three hour ride and we wanted to stretch the food to the end.

This was absolutely amazing. All these wild animals just walked up to our car windows. We were instructed by other numerous signs along the way to not feed the zebras by hand because they tended to bite but we ignored that rule. (I guess I pointed some fingers back at me as a rule breaker! Hey at least I still had my fingers!) We didn’t get bit; otherwise we’d have been told we had been warned. One zebra with big sharp yellow teeth did pull a brochure off my dad’s lap however, but dad yanked it back! Good for him, we needed that brochure to describe the animals to us. Then dad placed a hand over the zebra’s snout…nose…whatever, and pushed his head back out of the window. He still didn’t get bit. The zebra didn’t need a brochure.

Then came the giraffes. Awesome. A car in front of us had a sun roof, or should I say an entrance for the giraffes. I got pictures of heads from above the car disappearing inside the car. The giraffes wanted food; lots of food. They also let us pet them, but again, at the price of food. They were magnificent. Such tall graceful creatures, putty in our hands for morsels of food.

My son loved the rams or mountain goats. He’s a Capricorn (not that we follow our “horror scopes”) and finally came face to face with his namesake. I have a picture of his stunned expression as an enormous head entered his window and gently retrieved some tidbits from his hand. We couldn’t move for some time as two rams decided the road would be theirs for the moment….moments. You just don’t take away a ram’s place on the road if he isn’t willing to give it up. Ever see a ram’s horns? If so, you’d appreciate our circumstances and the rule about staying in our cars at all times. Vehicles behind us didn’t understand why we stayed stationary, not being able to see around the bend where the two big horned, shaggy rams were doing what they do best; being stubborn. At last they got bored and shuffled off to buffalo.

Then, as we finally rounded the bend we discovered two of the cutest little deer off to the side. Just standing there with the sweetest big eyes, looking famished though I know they were well fed. I made the mistake of moving my arm and they mistook that for an invitation to eat. We were nearly depleted of the food that was allotted to us at the entrance, but how could we say no. Out the window went our hands with treats and two soft little lips took food from us, no fear of being placed over someone’s mantle or in someone’s freezer.

All these exotic animals (not counting the deer, there’s plenty of them here in Texas) that we’ve only seen on TV or caged in zoos just plodded up to us. Let us handle them, feed them, and take pictures of them.

Well, I should mention the cheetahs and wolves were reminders that wild animals still needed some reverence. They were in confined areas, tucked safely away so we couldn’t feed them, or rather, so we wouldn’t be their food. This is where my bubble burst. I was having a wonderful time imagining what Adam and Eve must have felt like before the fall. You know, that brief time when all nature was in harmony and it was Adam’s job to name all living creatures and be their keeper. That brief time when man and wild life were friends and both ate vegetation. That brief time when the earth was pristine and at peace with God.

How I wish things were like that again. What a legacy our first parents could have given us. The freedom to walk around naked, the freedom to call the whole earth home, to roll about with tigers, lions and bears, oh my! To walk with God in the garden at night fall, to eat anything we wanted except….Well that is the true part of our legacy, the fall; when our first parents broke the cardinal rule. When they ate what was forbidden them. When animals and man became enemies, when we had to be careful what we ate, where we walked and called home.

At least for a few hours I got a taste of what was and could have been. What a minute, I also got a taste of what is to come. When lion and lamb, wolf and calf, bear and child will all lie down together and call each other friend. When once again we’ll all be able to walk with God in the garden at nightfall.

A tribute to a friend

I knew her first as Mrs. Taylor, Lynnda, my best friend’s mother. Then over the years I got permission to call her Jimmy (it seems Mrs. Taylor was her mother-in law!). She was a wonderful lady, full of stories about her father and the Boy Scouts. She glamorized her father in my eyes. Man she built him up, but I thought it was just the ramblings of a proud daughter. Someone who really loved her dad, no problems with that.

Then one sad day this July first I got an email from Lynnda, she was on her way to Missouri where her mother had gone for a speaking engagement at a Boys Scout function, (what else? Scouting was her life) fallen, started bleeding into her brain, went comatose and was only given hours to live. (She actually held on to July 4th, being patriotic she waited till the last firecracker popped before expiring!) That started four days of phone calls back and forth between Lynnda and me. Lynnda even emailed me the newspaper articles about her mother. Apparently her mother was big news in Kansas City. The only daughter and child of H. Roe Bartle. I was impressed. Still, to me, she had always been a wonderful lady, my best friend’s mother. Someone whose table I’d eaten at, whose house I’d spent the night in, who I went to Branson with, who babysat my dogs for me when I went out of town. She was Jimmy. Not just only daughter and child of H. Roe Bartle.

I had to “Google” this guy. There were volumes of hits with his name. Wow. Jimmy’s dad was famous, at least in his part of the country. He was friends of presidents, the FBI, governors…Ect... Ect. He started a Boy Scout tribe in Kansas that is one of a kind, fashioned after our American Indian Heritage. It still bears his name, The H. Roe Bartle Scout Reservation and it hosts thousands of scouts yearly. This guy was like an Apostle Paul impersonator, going about doing good works, and making a difference. His grave can even be viewed on findagrave.com.

Then I got the brainstorm to “Google” Jimmy. My friend’s mother also had her name plastered over the internet. Friend of Scouts. Motivational speaker. Only daughter of H. Roe Bartle. I was learning more about Jimmy Bartle Taylor than I knew when she was alive. Well maybe I‘d heard her mention these things over forty years in small slices and forgotten most of it but now I really researched her family and the scouts. I couldn’t get enough; reading about her brought her back to live. It was a crash course in history. But it all followed on the heels of her death. Why did I have to wait till she died to rediscover and discover all these things? I wish she was here now so I could ask her questions about her dad and about the scouts. Now I have to learn everything myself by reading.

When Lynnda got back home I went to see her. Jimmy’s house was right next door (she had recently bought a double wide trailer and set it on Lynnda’s lot so they could be close to each other) and I asked to walk through it in hopes of feeling her spirit or at the least just walking where she had walked. It had become hallow ground that would never be touched by her feet again. It had become sort of a shrine in my mind; her importance magnified in my imagination. No, she was still Jimmy, my friend, and my friend’s mother. She was very important to me because of who she was. I took two things from her house, mementoes. A bear magnet (it symbolized her tribal name of “Lone Bear Princess,” and another magnet that had a small picture of her in a red hat. Not worth much to anyone, but priceless to me. I’ll place them on my refrigerator so I, won’t forget her, not that that’s possible. Then I sat in Lynnda’s living room and watched a DVD they played at Jimmy’s funeral. From birth to death, there was her life. Awesome. The life of a woman going through life’s developmental stages, rites of passage. Sitting on granny’s lap, going to high school , getting married, having kids, grand kids, great grandkids. A normal woman. My friend. Lynnda’s mother. I was promised a copy. Thank you, Lynnda.

Why is it we learn more about people after they die? At funerals I’ve always discovered things about the honoree that I never knew when they were alive. All this reminds me of a man that lived two thousand years ago. He was someone’s son and friend. He ate with people, traveled with people and slept over at their houses. (I don’t know about babysitting pets?) He was not very famous while he was alive but after he died volumes have been written about him. He can be “Googled” and researched, made larger than life. He spent thirty years as someone’s son, the only son and child of God, the firstborn actually. He was the first Boy Scout, on a mission to build his entourage of twelve. He spent three years going about doing good and making motivational speeches then he died. I bet very little was written about him while he breathed, except maybe on wanted posters. (He still is on wanted posters!) Volumes have been written since. I still research him daily, reading about him in the gospels and epistles. People travel to wear he lived, to walk the hallow grounds his feet had touched. We can’t find his grave on findagrave.com because it’s empty! Sometimes it takes death to get our energy directed on the correct path. If Jimmy hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have spent so much time reading about her, if Jesus hadn’t died (an don’t forget rose again) no one would be interested in reading about him. Do you think he’s worth investigating? Reading about him could bring him back to life, in your heart! Google him and find out what could be a new revelation for you.

post independence day reflections

It's independence Day. A day we celebrate our independence from a foreign dictator, a king who cared nothing about us except for our revenue potential. We were just another feather in his cap, er, crown, in the race to own more and more of the globe. He taxed us to replace the money spent on his wars. Wars to increase his domain, which we were just another part of. We fought to be free of a King who lived across the ocean and taxed us without representation. Many died for that freedom. Young kids who hunkered down next to fathers(mothers), brothers (sisters), uncles (aunts) and neighbors with guns firing away at other men and dying for their country, far away from blood relatives and friends . Lots of innocent men died for us to have our freedom. A freedom that is actually vanishing bit by bit over the years as our taxes increase(again), (let's not mention the role of the IRS in robbing us of our peace of minds) our jobs lay us off, Homeland Security makes new laws to track, fingerprint and x-ray us before we get on a plane just to name a few .

We celebrate this day, Independence Day, whole heartedly, caping it off with tremendous displays of fireworks nationwide and even from house to house.Even though that was over two hundred and thirty three years ago and we never experienced the same tyranny and oppression. Living in the land of the free we know very little about tyranny and oppression except from the news and stories of soldiers returning from countries torn by civil wars. Thousands of us gather in parks to ooh and ahh through "rocket's red glare", after "rocket's red glare" and wear star spangled banner decorated t-shirts and hats. Yes we are glad to be free. Yes we honour those that gave us that freedom.

But a celebration even greater goes on high above us, in a galaxy far, far away. Whenever one of us, and it only takes one, chooses to become dependent on a king far, far away, yet closer than we can even imagine,(I hear he lives within our hearts!) angels set off a gala that makes ours look like a bash thrown with dime store products. (And we each get personal fireworks, yes our very own!) When we become dependent on God we have freedom bought at the price of only one man, only one innocent man's blood was shed, and he is our representation before the Almighty, representing a people he has actually spent time with on earth. Time he used developing a personal relationships. This King, in a far away galaxy, truthfully cares for each one of us as individuals. There is nothing we can give him financially to keep him happy, he has no need to increase his domain, as everything the eyes can see, and can't, already belong to him. You see, that foreign king, years ago, died trying to own land that wasn't his, it was only on loan from one higher than him, it was an illusion that this country belonged to him. Whereas our dependence on the Great Almighty is more real than anything seen by flesh and blood, the unseen being far greater than things seen. And tracking us, not a problem for me, I find great comfort in knowing he really does know where I am at all times, and it is reciprocated, as I know where to find him whenever I'm in trouble; In my heart.

I truly appreciate those who gave their lives for our national freedom and God given rights but I'm more thankful that I had the sense to give up my independence to a King who became a sacrifice for us and whose kingdom people are dying to get into.

Psalm 50:10
Luke 15:7
2 Corin. 4:18
eph. 4:16
Col. 1:13-16

memorial day weekend

“Thanks, but I already have plans for the day," I informed my friend who just invited me over for a day of barbequing and swimming. That was how most of America was spending the day. It was a three day weekend and most people could do this activity any weekend of the year but they make a big deal of it on this particular day. Eating drinking, swimming. That is all this day meant to most people; a time to get together and be a family and enjoy one extra day off work. At least an extra day off if you weren't in the food or merchandise industry. Or the gas industry. Or entertainment industry. The malls would be packed with bargain hunters, sales would be rampant using the day as a reason for extra profits. Movie goers would be out in droves, getting away from routine. Though nowadays, shopping, eating out and going to movies was routine. And profits would be made, no matter how big the sale percentage. Merchants weren't giving stuff away! Besides, most people don't limit themselves to just what's on sale.

My husband and I went to my dad's house and loaded him up into the car, putting his walker into the trunk with his spare oxygen tank. This was dad’s day. He looked forward to this day every year. As a survivor of WWII, the Korean War, and Viet Nam, this was his holiday. I loaded the car with our projects and we took off. We went to the neighborhood cemetery and hunted down his friends. Strange we always had trouble finding them, it's not like they were very mobile. With a walker and oxygen dad was in better health than they were! This was the only occasion he felt complaining about his health was ungracious, walking down the rows of name plaques! He stuck little flags by the names of his service friends. Their kids had not done this, and he mumbled some unkind words about their neglecting their obligations. I think mostly he complained just to make sure I was aware that I would be held accountable for decorating his grave when the time comes. (Knock on wood that better be some time from now!)

After we finished our flag placing chore, we headed off to the main part of his celebration. The Dallas National Cemetery. It was unbelievable. No matter how much time I allow to get there the traffic is so thick inside the grounds we crawled along at a snail’s pace, by hundreds of new graves  buried under blankets of fresh flowers watered with tears. Every day sees the addition of new members at a rate of 19,500 a year. Cars were parked along the route and people milled about the grounds. I caught sight of a man and woman on the grass beside a flowery decorated tombstone. The woman was crying, the man was comforting. This is a customary sight here. Some things shouldn't become customary. Flowers were all over the place. People were pushing baby strollers down rows of graves looking for their daddy or uncle or brother(or female counterparts). Flags were flying everywhere.

Closer to our destination we were directed where to park on the grass. Cars, Trucks. Vans. Motorcycles. Ambulances. TV crews. Care flight personal. Portable potties. Scads of people were heading towards the presentation sight. Dressed in shorts, slacks, uniforms, suits, dresses. Every possible combination of red, white and blue was covered. Red, white and blue on ties, t-shirts, scarves, handbags, hats, umbrellas, baby diapers, Flags lined the road every twenty feet. Hundreds of them. I wondered how much time it would take to lower them tonight. There were several tents up on center stage filled with important looking dignitaries and military personal, from every service, and a school choir dressed in green tops and beige pants or skirts. Red, white and blue drapes hung over their heads.

The ceremony started with introductions of generals, the Governor, the funeral director. Then three planes were heard approaching. Approaching. Nearer. Nearer. They were in sight now; three planes in formation flew overhead. They were punctual, precise timing. They had left their stations on the second to make a show at the correct minute, in tribute to the somber observance. I wished I had anticipated that to get a picture, I was awed by the formation and the planning. However I did get pictures. Pictures of the crowd sitting on lawn chairs, blankets on the ground, the brick wall lining the area. People with water jugs, umbrellas to shade them from the stifling heat of the sun, large protective hats. People dressed in uniforms. They must be really hot. I got a picture of my husband walking beside my dad, holding an umbrella over his head.

The presentation lasted longer than I thought it should in the middle of a hot, humid day. I worried about the old timers present. This could throw their systems out of whack. I worried about my dad. He had spent time in the emergency room once for dehydration brought on by a baseball game, but he wouldn't miss this day. We stayed ahead of things, keeping him properly hydrated, yet at the same time on the verge of dehydration to prevent congestive heart failure symptoms. Jugglers had nothing on me! It was comforting to know that ambulances and medical personal were on the grounds.

Even though,as I said before, the presentation lasted longer that I thought it should, none of these vets, their families, or relatives of the recent victims of Iraq and Afghanistan  complained. They hadn't gone to the movies or the malls today. They came to honor Memorial Day properly. Those not here weren't thinking of the reason they had a three day weekend, they were enjoying a paid day off. Memorial Day meant more to those in attendance here. It meant someone died for the population to spend the day however they wanted. Not under a dictatorship. Not in a civil war. Not scrounging for food. Not part of a genocide committee. Not threatened daily with rape or casual murder.

The ceremony was concluded by a roll call of the recently interred. As the names fell on our hearts a crisply dressed serviceman placed a rose on one of several draped chairs that represented either the Navy, Army, Air force, Marines, or Coast Guards. The families were then invited to collect the rose from the chair representing their sacrifice. A rose. A rose with a thorn. The thorn would draw blood, representing the blood shed for our country.

This is the current Memorial day, but the true Memorial day started years ago. It started on a cross where a savior died for our freedoms. When I mentioned that to my dad he retorted with, "Jesus didn't die on Memorial Day!" No. Dad could only think of his fallen comrades today but maybe latter tonight he'll think of Jesus and thank him for freeing him from slavery to sin and an eternity in hell. In that case, every day should be Memorial Day.

christian fiction?

Now I know my stories in for Hope’s Sake are Christian fiction but they are based on the realism of the bible. The bible teaches that angels are present among us to be our servants as ministering spirits and that is the nucleus of most of my stories. I write as though the veil of the invisible world is open. Well, this weekend it was opened even further, to give me hope and consolation.

It seems that at 11:00 P.M while I was physically dead, an event that happens regularly to me when I close my eyes, my father fell, cut his head open and lost three plus quarts of blood. That is a lot of blood. (I wonder how it was actually measured as it was spilt between his house, my daughter in law’s car and the emergency room) My daughter in law, who lives with him, heard him fall, rushed him to the emergency room faster than an ambulance would have gotten to him while my son tried repeatedly to get me to answer the phone. Like I said, I was dead. Corpses can’t respond to the incessant ringing that must have taken place inches from my ears. About two hours into my death though, I was finally summoned back to earth by the jarring of the phone. Looking at the caller I.D I thought, ‘’Who is that?” and decided to answer because of the lateness of the hour.

“It’s okay now, we’re going home,” a disembodied voice announced.

“What’s okay and who are you?” I mumbled groggily. I wasn’t groggy for long.

“Grandpa is going home now.” Was my answer

I was instantly alert recognizing my daughter in law’s, Susan’s, voice. “What are you talking about?”Then came the explanation. Dad had lost his balance going to the bathroom; fell against the wall causing the whole house to shudder alerting my daughter in law and son who hadn’t fallen asleep yet. They found him on the floor in a pool of red fluid. Susan ordered my son to call me while she rushed Dad to the car instructing Bryan, my son, the whole while to clean the blood up before the dogs and cats got a taste of it (it seems she feared this would cause the family pets to relish the taste of human flesh, at this point I pictured Dad’s eight week old kitten becoming a carnivorous beast sitting on his chest late at night with a fork and knife!) She got him to the hospital faster than it would have taken for an ambulance to arrive. While on the table in the emergency room the doctor’s swore because they couldn’t staunch the blood flow. Blood was everywhere, except in dad’s circulatory system. Dad was certain he was dying from the entire hullabaloo going on around him. Then, suddenly.. a face pressed up against Dad’s. An old wrinkled face. Within seconds it vanished and he caught a glimpse of feathers; wings. He was confident his guardian angel had arrived…and left without him. Latter when dad himself revealed this visit to me, he assumed that this angel had been with him since he was born. He was curious though about the wrinkles, he thought angels were young. I reminded him that Della Reese (Touched by an Angel) wasn’t young, or thin for that matter, so angels can be old and plump it they want to be. (Don’t bother to tell me that was just a show. I consider it one of T.V’s first reality shows!)

So even though my stories are fictional accounts of angelic interventions I really believe there is a host of invisible warriors in the air about us. The unseen world being more real than the seen.

The story could have ended in a much gloomier note; if Bryan and Susan had already fallen asleep dad would have expired on the kitchen floor. If Susan hadn’t been a good speed racer Dad wouldn’t have gotten to the hospital in time. And if Bryan hadn’t stayed behind to clean up the bloody kitchen a poor innocent kitten and two dogs would have been enticed into devouring humans!(is there a twelve step program for that?) As it is, in Dad’s mind, things didn’t turn out so good. They had to keep him in the hospital for a few days to give him blood. (Come on dad, you lost quite a bit!) Then he was sent to a rehab unit to get his strength back. (Again, come on Dad, you lost quite a bit). But, thanks to his guardian angel, he will live to see his house again.


2 Corinthians 4:16-18
Hebrews 1:14