By Shirley Nordeck Short
God not only sends special angels into our lives, but sometimes He even sends them back again if we forget to take notes the first time!
~Eileen Elias Freeman, The Angels' Little Instruction Book
Was he an angel? More than twenty-five years later I remember him as plain as I remember what I had for breakfast this morning. Considering my poor memory these days, that's saying a lot.
God not only sends special angels into our lives, but sometimes He even sends them back again if we forget to take notes the first time!
~Eileen Elias Freeman, The Angels' Little Instruction Book
Was he an angel? More than twenty-five years later I remember him as plain as I remember what I had for breakfast this morning. Considering my poor memory these days, that's saying a lot.
My daughter was in school for the day. My husband Buck had just stormed out of the house after another disagreement, the nature of which I cannot recall. There were so many arguments those days. Much of our dissension revolved around his deteriorating health and trying to maintain our monument business while he continued to work full-time as a 911 dispatcher.
Two jobs were too physically demanding for him, and he wanted to quit working at the sheriff's office because the monument business was more lucrative. I protested because I felt the monument business, with all the lifting and hard manual labor, would soon be more than he could handle. Besides, if he weren't employed by the County Commission, he'd no longer have insurance. We needed the health insurance coverage desperately.
Buck had suffered a near heart attack; his cholesterol and triglyceride levels were astronomical, and he was diabetic. What I didn't know then was that in years to come he would need to have several amputations, would lose much of his eyesight, and go on dialysis.
On that warm spring day all those years ago, I cringed when the doorbell rang. We ran our monument business out of our house and I presumed this would be a customer. I brushed my hand across my cheek to wipe away a stray tear.
An older man, slightly bent and wearing a red plaid shirt and overalls, stood on the porch. I opened the door and invited him into the living room. I offered him a seat but he remained standing. He spoke in a calm deep voice that seemed to personify peace, but it was his eyes that totally mesmerized me. They were the bluest, deepest, calmest eyes I had ever seen. I could not look away.
He inquired about buying a monument and held up a brochure he had about our business. I offered to show him stones we had in the lot available for sale, but he declined. I am certain that throughout our conversation he noticed my red eyes and the sniffles I tried to hold back. Kindness and warmth radiated from this man and the comfort was almost more than I could bear at that dark moment in my life.
As he turned to go, his crystal eyes never left my face. Before he closed the door behind him, he said, "It will all work out."
I cried more vigorously. Being in the presence of someone who made me feel consoled started my weeping once again. But this time it was different. The sobs were cleansing and renewing. I felt like all my worries had been washed away.
I never did tell my husband about my encounter with this man. Instead, I tried to remain quiet about what I thought he should do. A day or two later he said, "I've been thinking about what you said. I believe the best thing would be to sell the monument business and continue at the Sheriff's Office. That health insurance is more important than the extra money we would make with the tombstones."
A few months later, we sold the business. Through the years, Buck endured many hospital stays and spent the last years of his life in a nursing home. So, indeed, the insurance had been of utmost importance. Yet what I remember most from that time was the slightly stooped man dressed in farmer's attire who walked into my living room and led me beside the still waters.
An angel? He must have been. He soothed my troubled soul.
Two jobs were too physically demanding for him, and he wanted to quit working at the sheriff's office because the monument business was more lucrative. I protested because I felt the monument business, with all the lifting and hard manual labor, would soon be more than he could handle. Besides, if he weren't employed by the County Commission, he'd no longer have insurance. We needed the health insurance coverage desperately.
Buck had suffered a near heart attack; his cholesterol and triglyceride levels were astronomical, and he was diabetic. What I didn't know then was that in years to come he would need to have several amputations, would lose much of his eyesight, and go on dialysis.
On that warm spring day all those years ago, I cringed when the doorbell rang. We ran our monument business out of our house and I presumed this would be a customer. I brushed my hand across my cheek to wipe away a stray tear.
An older man, slightly bent and wearing a red plaid shirt and overalls, stood on the porch. I opened the door and invited him into the living room. I offered him a seat but he remained standing. He spoke in a calm deep voice that seemed to personify peace, but it was his eyes that totally mesmerized me. They were the bluest, deepest, calmest eyes I had ever seen. I could not look away.
He inquired about buying a monument and held up a brochure he had about our business. I offered to show him stones we had in the lot available for sale, but he declined. I am certain that throughout our conversation he noticed my red eyes and the sniffles I tried to hold back. Kindness and warmth radiated from this man and the comfort was almost more than I could bear at that dark moment in my life.
As he turned to go, his crystal eyes never left my face. Before he closed the door behind him, he said, "It will all work out."
I cried more vigorously. Being in the presence of someone who made me feel consoled started my weeping once again. But this time it was different. The sobs were cleansing and renewing. I felt like all my worries had been washed away.
I never did tell my husband about my encounter with this man. Instead, I tried to remain quiet about what I thought he should do. A day or two later he said, "I've been thinking about what you said. I believe the best thing would be to sell the monument business and continue at the Sheriff's Office. That health insurance is more important than the extra money we would make with the tombstones."
A few months later, we sold the business. Through the years, Buck endured many hospital stays and spent the last years of his life in a nursing home. So, indeed, the insurance had been of utmost importance. Yet what I remember most from that time was the slightly stooped man dressed in farmer's attire who walked into my living room and led me beside the still waters.
An angel? He must have been. He soothed my troubled soul.
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