My Conversation With An Angel

Feeling frustration with my lack of control over the assaults on my body, I saw a miracle form over the river as summer falls over this Ohio land, and the river which sustains me when negative thought seeks to swallow me. The thief, "Depression," is where, "Evil," endeavors to lure us, and regardless to how hard we aspire to believe in God as our loving watchman--That same, "Evil," thrown out of heaven long ago slithers between our hopes and prayers if we are not constantly on guard. So much has happened to me from hospital care to the understanding that wellness is something distant and far to hope for along with the realization that I can help so few when I must give in to the oxygen and assist in walking which only happens to much older people than I--Then I see a brave little gynnist with an artificial leg making every move expected for an Olymic Champion--Her smile was infectious, but it left me disarmed with that which I cannot achieve, and how dare me to feel helpless.

I went to my window and in thought of such inspiration, I could see in gathering cloud what we earth people think of as an angel's wing, and it seemed to be coming toward me with blue sky on one side and the darkness of a storm gathering in the west, but the wing did not move, and I spoke to it in the way we speak from an inner voice, and my words were, "You are so beautiful with wings the color of ice and a body warmed by the sunshine--"Are you here for me? But the wing stayed outspread and motionless like a good mother watching over her child, and that is what I felt like--A child needing to be wrapped within angel's wings to float over the sky and to find a troubled soul, only the soul found this time was me... I would take the visitation in to my night's rest and wonder if all of you knew that angel's wings were the color of ice, and could a painter capture such a color on canvas, and the answer was, "No," for ice can be seen through with some diffulty--"Yes," but even the Vatican art has not captured such a purity of color, nor would the ice bear up under the sun much less hover at my window.

Having lived through another bout of critical care, the tiredness and the hopelessness were daunting, and deep within the spiritual me through the night and the following day I began to see that all which I needed was in that wing, no face nor a body, but I desparately needed a moment to fly. I was so very bereft, but our windchimes kept playing as if it was chimes to something higher, and the soft voice came once more to console me with another thought--"It is not your time to float across the sky, and I came to show you that miracles happen even for those who are looking for answers of, "Why," and, "What," so it coaxed me in to feeling that I am not helpless, for my mind is strong, and my will remains, and none of my prayers were wasted--"The answers and the reason for greater love is held in all seasons; Your stregnth will come Child Of God--You're strength will be renewed," and I will believe that long after the disappearance of a visible sign..

My messenger knew that I needed a greater sign, one that could bear the hottest sun against the shimmer and the color of ice, and healing will come with patience, hope, and help. I am not good at asking for help, because I had to live all of my growing up years in what could have turned me in to , "The lost girls," of whom I speak in, "Pinkhoneysuckle." I pray for incarcerated girls and women whose only crime is to place the hardship of addiction and the return to men who have shown them no love, the circle--Round and round these victims go, and many came from better homes than I. My miracle is to allow you to know that captives of victimless crimes must be allowed to be go free, for we are allowing generations to fill jails--No one can read the Jesus life without knowing that the captive and the poor are the most loved. I place this groaning of me aside to call on you, all who are free and well, to work to this end...

I dedicate this story to Raymond Walker, Mary Stewart, Robert Cooper, Donna Seebo, and to David Wolverton, and Robert Pickles, and Bruce Haring, Those who still believe that I might fly. Bless you, all of my Linked In friends. My Love and My Blessings, Barbara