Angels Unawares?

Joanie Cahill, Free Images 

The other evening, I felt like I was caught up in a "Touched by an Angel" rerun. In my quest to minister to my shut-in neighbor, Cecile, I took her to the hardware store across town late in the afternoon. Afterwards, she guided me along side roads to bypass the heavy after-work traffic.

At the end of one dark road, I stopped, looked to the left, then pulled out, making a right turn. I nearly collided with a car in the wrong lane. Our lane! Nose to nose with us. I quickly swerved to the shoulder and ran over something horrendous. The car suddenly felt heavy with a peculiar groan as I coaxed it down the road. Quite similar to my inner groan. I inched the car to the next open spot only yards away, parking in the small lot of a closed antique shop.

Hands anchored on the steering wheel, I turned to Cecile in the passenger seat. "Well, I think it's the back right tire."

She opened the door and peered outside. "No, it looks fine to me."

I wasn't so sure. "Let me check, just in case. Something doesn't feel right."

Once outside, I examined the back tire. Sure enough, it looked fine. Then I checked the front right tire. Totally flat. Ugh!

I took a deep breath. Okay, regroup . . . and pray. This is an opportunity to show Cecile how the Lord will come through in a difficult situation. Don't miss this!  

Opening the driver's door, I slipped inside. "Lord Jesus, we need Your help," I prayed out loud.

"Yes!" Cecile echoed. "Maybe you can get to Ralph Edward's place a couple streets over," she offered. She knew the man. He used to live in our house, and he worked on cars.

"I don't think so," I countered, sensing the features of my face scrunch. "The tire's totally flat."

"Oh, this is all my fault." She fidgeted in her seat. "If I hadn't asked you to take me to the store, this never would've happened."

"Don't blame yourself, Cecile. We're not going to play the 'if onlys.' The Lord knows all about this." I spoke with growing courage. I wanted her to catch a glimpse of God at work, for I knew she needed to see that. "Let's trust Him."

She pointed straight ahead. "Maybe that market up there."

While she didn't want me walking in the dark alone in a bad part of town, she was still willing to let me venture out. Since our options were limited, I forged ahead. Purse tucked close to my side and ignition key clutched in my right hand, ready to gouge an assailant, I plowed on, feigning a confidence I did not feel, boots scuffing the well-worn dirt path. Two dark figures with lit cigarettes scurried past.

Abba Father, help me. I inwardly breathed and kept on moving.

At the convenience store, a Middle Eastern clerk tended a customer while a tall African American youth wearing a white cap stood behind another counter eyeballing me. He looked available, so I hurried over. I explained what happened and asked if he had a phone I could use to call my husband, because I didn't have a cell phone, nor did Cecile.

"Nope, no phone." He didn't even bat an eyelash, standing there over his hot dogs. Even the smell didn't tantalize me at that moment. I sighed and darted to the other clerk, now fumbling with some receipts. The youth followed, I suppose eager to find out how this would all go down. "Do you have a phone I could use?"

Black eyebrows bobbing, he shook his head.

My heart dropped. "Okay, well, I really need some help. Could either of you change my tire?" All those times my husband tried to show me how to work the jack in our early years of marriage with me huffing and complaining. I should've listened.

"No, sorry, I can't help you," he muttered. 

This was getting nowhere, and Cecile sat in a car growing colder by the minute. I thanked the clerks (for what I don't know--a place of refuge for a few minutes if nothing else), and braced myself to walk the creepy path back to the car. Though only a couple doors down from the store, the car seemed far away. But a lot can happen in a few feet.

And so it did . . .

Right past the store, I turned my head to the left and saw an auto shop tucked back from the road. An OPEN sign flickered on the garage door. My eyes widened, and I leaned in to catch a better view.

Could this be the help You're sending, Abba? 

I maneuvered my way through the shadowy lot, past cars and equipment on either side, eyes fastened on that OPEN sign, and followed the arrow to the left indicating the ENTRANCE. Uncertain what I would find on the other side of the door, I reached for the knob, cold to the touch. Standing tall (all 5 feet, 3 inches of me), I pushed the door open.

In the small shop, one large bell-of-a-man with sock hat covering his head sat in a swivel chair. His baby-like face looked harmless enough. Another smaller man with glasses and a Latino look puttered about. He approached when I entered. I rattled off my story, his face full of curiosity and concern.

"Can you help me?"

"Carefully inch your car down to our lot, and we'll see what we can do."

I felt better already.

The auto shop was only one lot ahead of where my locked car housing Cecile and her goods was parked. I nearly flew out the door, speed walking to the next lot. I unlocked the car, slid inside, and cranked the engine, all the while filling Cecile in.

I crept the car next door and pulled up to the garage. The door slid open, spilling light into the darkness. What a welcome sight!  The mechanics gestured me inside, indicating with their customary hand signals when to move to the left or right and at last come to a stop.

I got out of the car while the large man stooped by the flat tire. Amazing he could do that! I wondered how he would maneuver to his feet once the job was complete. The smaller man uttered orders while stepping around to the trunk to retrieve the spare. I followed, then popped the lid and grimaced.

Piles of stuff--like an old attic. I apologized and started digging through the assortment of boxes, Frisbees, broken rake, and golf balls. We quickly devised a system, he handing me an item, and I placing it on the cement. A random golf ball escaped a grocery bag, clinking its way over the floor. A nervous giggle escaped my throat. Embarrassing, to say the least. At last he unearthed the spare tire.

Minutes later I thanked the men as the smaller one placed the severely damaged tire with large hole in the trunk, followed by all the junk.

"What do I owe you for your trouble?" I wrung my hands in an effort to stay warm.

"Oh, nothing." The small man smiled, his accent definitely Spanish. "Merry Christmas!"

"Thank you so much! You were certainly an answer to prayer tonight!"

In the car, I backed out of the garage, all the while verbally praising the Lord for His provision and His protection.

Only Abba knows the full impact of that evening in Cecile's life and in the men's lives (or were they angels?)--Cecile said she'd driven that route lots of times but never noticed that auto shop.

And while I venture a guess at the impact in my own life--a deeper appreciation for my Father's faithfulness, I still ponder the event and His working in and through it that perhaps only eternity will reveal.