Demons and Angels


Dear Eugene,

What a fabulous night it was only 12 hours ago!  God sent angels my way, certainly not because I am holy, but because I am in bad need to see, to be kicked out of my WYSIWYG.

Easter Monday was, strangely, a work day for me.  I climbed up the roof of my garden shack early in the morning to touch up on some unfinished business, a constant state of disrepair as steadfast as the possibility of rain and wind in our many tomorrows.

Then I prepared some Sunday School material and worked an 8-hour shift, chewing my nails through it, as a symphony of roaring mowers outside kept me alert to my dread that I too need to engage my lawn in a first spring tussle, anxiety exacerbated by up-to-the-minute weather app updates prophesying what I could plainly see in the sky with my naked eyes.  The rain would stay for more than a week after tonight, a pathetic news broken to me apathetically.

"Don't let the sun go down on me..." I moaned.

My shift would end at 7, and there would be 45 big minutes for me to race against sunset, the same app told me.  (I need to delete this depressing app.)

I hate that feeling.  I hate to be in a rush.  Haste makes waste, such as a perfectly good mower blade dented and dulled by a little rock that I should have spotted if not for the sun forsaking me.  That did happen.  More than once.  An old bad memory; a new good reason to get angry.  I hate to be forsaken.

"Why can't my son mow the lawn when daddy is doing his best here to make possible his joy of living?"  I asked a drifting black cloud at around 4 pm.  It was the last day of the kids' spring break, and they had fun and freedom for more then two full weeks after all.  Seven times the house was vacuumed in the period, once every other day; five times by yours truly, the rest not by any minor.

I had reason to get angry.

7:30 pm.  Monday.  One-quarter done.  First drop of rain felt at the back of my neck.  Like a bullet.  But I can beat this, a cheerleader voice somewhere beneath my diaphragm spoke half-truth.

"Well, at least my Father did not forget about me...even when my son did..."  I actually thought that.  What a cruel, merciless thought.

Self-pity.  Self-disgust.  Self-righteousness.  It sounded like I was praising God for his providence.  But anyone can tell I was loathing him too.

"Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back--in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you."

Well said, Buechner.  If I could only help.

Then yesterday, Tuesday, God sent angels to dwell among my family, a most unexpected gift, friendship rekindled by a fire that is the Spirit, voices beyond words that somehow acknowledged the bitterness in my heart but adamantly refused to endorse it or partner with it for a hell-bound nosedive.

If you ask me to map out what actually transpired last night I wouldn't be able to.  There might be an app for this sort of endeavor but I ain't gonna use it.

"Sleight-of-hand magic is based on the demonstrable fact that as a rule people see only what they expect to see. Angels are powerful spirits whom God sends into the world to wish us well. Since we don't expect to see them, we don't."

I didn't see any angel last night but I did.

Yours, Alex

Comments

  1. UnknownApril 8, 2018 at 10:04 PM

    My family & I are grateful for "friendship rekindled." Divided by mountains & rivers but unified in Christ. -K

    ReplyDelete

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