They walked in, big and burly some of them, some skinny and
young, flesh and blood angels from heaven via Michigan and California and Maine
and Thornton. We expected two, or four;
and got nine orange-shirted smiling, willing-handed beings.
They said, “What first?
Where do you want this?”
That was our introduction to Samaritan’s Purse. Franklin Graham would have been proud.
They emptied the whole flooded-now-dry downstairs, the downstairs of
concrete, black glue-residued floor, dirtied baseboards. They picked up beds, chairs, file
cabinets. They picked up unglamorous
boxes overflowing with hockey sticks, Christmas paper, skateboards. They hauled out piano music, guitar, old typewriter, tambourine. They mounded everything under tarps, under the carport.
They brought in a spray gun, aimed it at all the edges, said
you’ll never have mold again. We didn’t
have it already, but who is to say no?
They said they’d come back Thursday to put it all back. Then we stood with them in a hand-holding
circle while they prayed. They handed us
a Billy Graham Training Center NKJ Bible that they all signed. They said they loved the scones I’d
baked. I cut them in half when I saw we
had a veritable army descending upon us.
I liked these angels I could see. Angels with voices and hugs (forgot to
mention those). I wish now that I could
see my own guardian angel (I’m told I do have one). I wish I could see angels protecting
children, angels whispering in people’s ears, angels averting accidents. I’m quite sure my angel theology is somewhat
hole-y. but you get the idea. I keep reminding myself that what I can see will pass away; what I can’t see is
the True Reality, the great I AM. Some
day. Closer all the time. Hallelujah!
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