Non-Fiction
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First Place
Peggy Fox DeKay
Louisville, Kentucky, USA
"Banking on an Angel "
(Following is a short exerpt from this story)
Several summers ago my daughter Darby and I began visiting nearby forests and parks on the weekends. In those days I owned a small computer company, and getting away gave me time to relax, but more importantly, it gave us both time to be together, away from the hectic life of a single working mom.
Sometimes we would find ourselves miles from home, backpacks brimming with lunch and extra water, a space blanket, and other supplies. It might be a park in the neighborhood, but most often it would be a wildlife preserve, or a national forest. Once we had chosen our destination we packed up our gear, threw it in the back seat of my old, but still roadworthy Thunderbird, and off we would go.
Darby was seven and full of energy, with an active imagination and a natural curiosity about nature. As we walked, we would make up elaborate stories about fighting epic battles against an unseen foe. We were the mighty heroines that conquered all dangers that lurked among the winding paths of the deep woods. When we weren’t pretending to be superheroes, we would take pictures or talk while we enjoyed the beauty around us. If we ran across a Buckeye, or an exotic bug, that was always a bonus.
On this particular weekend we had chosen a park a few miles from our house. I parked the trusty Thunderbird in the parking lot at the entrance to the park. We grabbed our backpacks and began walking down the access road which leads to the hiking trails.
We walked for about three quarters of a mile on the park road, until we reached a clearing. In the clearing was an old cabin. It had been a part of the landscape before the county had annexed the land for public use. The building had been refurbished to be used for social gatherings by the general public.
As we walked past the front of the cabin, I saw the remnants of a silk bow that hung from the front door. In the distance we could hear the sound of moving water. Walking to the edge of the clearing, we looked down onto Silver Creek. Silver Creek ran for some thirty miles through Southern Indiana. It bordered the park on the east side. To our left lay a huge expanse of woodland.
We stood on the creek bank, fascinated by the hypnotic movement of the water. After a cool drink from our water bottles, and a couple of soda crackers, we left the clearing and headed for the deep woods. As we walked into the woods, the light was shut out by the over lapping tree branches. Each limb grasped the limbs of its neighbor, filling the sky with a canopy of green. We quickly found the faint markings of an old, abandoned trail. Curiosity being the better part of valor, we headed down the path to see what it would bring us.
We had been walking for some time before we saw it. An ancient tree lay stretched across a ravine, its trunk had been upended during a recent storm. It was an old beech tree. Beeches are known for their massive root systems. The roots were exposed and resembled a sculpture stretched across a deep gulf, forming a natural bridge. Like the boney fingers of an old man, they grasped at the opposing bank without showing any signs of letting go. The sides of the creek bank were wet from the recent rains, I thought to myself how slick they might be, how impossible to climb.
Observing the downed tree had distracted me, so I didn’t notice him at first. When I looked up, a man was standing, motionless, on the trail in front of us. I sensed that he had been watching us. I had no idea how long he had been standing there. He was six feet tall, and well dressed. It was not unusual to run into other hikers on our treks. We often did, but this guy was different. Most hikers make an effort to speak or smile as they approach someone on the trail, so as not to startle anyone. It is a kind of trail etiquette to put the other person at ease as quickly as possible, and to just be friendly. Our stranger was having none of that. That bothered me, but what bothered me more was the fact that he was out of place. He seemed ill prepared for a hike. His dress pants, leather shoes, and button-down shirt looked odd on a wet trail, deep in the woods. Once he realized that we saw him, he continued his walk down the trail, directly toward us .
I told Darby to walk beside me and stay close, not consciously knowing why. Now we were on a collision course with this stranger. It was either pass him, or run away, and every instinct in my body said not to show any fear. His expression was unchanged, neither friendly nor menacing. As we closed the distance between us, he looked me in the eye. He had a real poker face, that one, but he was one poker player I hoped never to meet on the road again.
Walking past him was like passing the animated sculptures at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. His eyes were as cold as those eyeless gods in the game room. I walked past him with as much confidence as I could muster. Once we were clear of him, I asked Darby to play a game with me called, “Quiet as a Mouse”. She thought the game might be fun. The idea, as I explained to her was to be very quiet for as long as we could in order to hear the birds, frogs, or other sounds coming from the woods. It was my hope that our silence, coupled with the distance we were putting between us and the stranger would be enough to be rid of him, once and for all.
We had walked over two miles into the woods since leaving the clearing. As we walked in silence we were gradually winding our way back to where we had begun. Without really knowing why, I longed for relative safety of the clearing and the park road which would take us to our car.
I had convinced myself that we had literally put him behind us when the trail took a sharp turn to the right, around some big trees. When we past the trees, I looked down the trail, and saw with a start, that our stranger was headed right for us. I couldn’t believe it! His shoes and the cuffs of his dress pants were now damp and muddy. I realized that he had come cross country to intercept us. In denial no more, I had to face the facts. This was no accident. He had deliberately circled back to intercept us. We were being tracked.
All of my life I have relied on my intuition and that still, small voice to guide me in troubling times. This time was no different. I heard that voice caution me once again, “Stay calm, Peggy, don’t let him see your fear. Just walk past him as if nothing is wrong.” I decided to get a good look at him as we passed on the trail, thinking I might have to identify him later. He was in his early 40”s; clean shaven, his hair was dark, and curly. His eyes were black, like the eyes of a snake. Although tanned, he did not strike me as someone who spends a lot of time out of doors. He was out of place. As we passed each other, my body cringed. He seemed to be using the seconds of our passing to size us up. I had a deep foreboding that he was measuring our ability to resist.
As he passed, my fear, now tangible, burst into my consciousness like fireworks. He was stalking us, there was no doubt. My heart was beating out of my chest, every nerve alert and listening. I could hear his footsteps retreat into the distance behind us. Darby and I were now walking very fast, almost running down the trail. I estimated we were less than a quarter mile from the clearing. A huge sigh of relief welled up in my chest. We were almost there. Before I could savor the moment, the trail abruptly ended. I found myself standing on the edge of a deep, steep ravine. It was twenty feet straight down, into the gulf which was a section of dry creek bed. The clearing lay in the woods beyond, on the other side of the ravine. I felt like a trapped animal, herded into a dead end.
Although there was no standing water in the creek bed, there was plenty of moisture in the soil on either side of the barren dirt walls. We had a choice, double back, and head directly toward the stranger who had been following us, or take our chances crossing the ravine.
I wondered how difficult it might be to get both of us across that creek and out of danger. It would be no easy feat to climb down or up the other side. As I looked for an alternate route, I heard the sound of footsteps. I anxiously peered through the woods, only to see our stalker walking right toward us.
He was like a mean dog, who doesn’t bark, only stares at you. You don’t need a street sign to know you are in trouble. The panic that I had staved off for over an hour was now in full swing. We were cut off, and he was coming right toward us.
Realizing my options were limited, I chose to retreat in the only direction that I knew led to freedom. Taking Darby’s hand quickly in mine, I said, as cheerfully as I could, “Hey, honey, let’s try climbing down the bank. I think we can make it, it’ll be fun!”
“Ok Mom, if you say so. Is it because that man is following us?” I was stunned that she had come to the same conclusion that I had. With no time to spare we began the long slide down. Our heels dug into the mud to slow the speed of our descent. In less than a minute, we reached the bottom of the gully. Wet and muddy from the hips down, I looked back to see if the stranger was still there. He stood twenty feet above me, frozen in place, and staring down at us. Although he never spoke, the hint of a grin danced around the corners of what I now saw was a cruel mouth. We stared at one another for several seconds, we were the prey, and he was the predator. At that moment, I knew that he meant to harm us. I knew like a mother knows the nature of her child, or a dog knows the smell of a stranger. It was now up to us, Darby and me to free ourselves from this menace.
Frantically I looked at the opposite bank. Climbing up to the top of it was not going to be easy. It was incredibly steep. The only saving grace was a small ledge about half way up. It was narrow, but just wide enough to support a person if they stood sideways. There was no one in sight, save for me, my daughter, and our tormentor towering overhead.
Scrambling for footing, I slowly began to climb up the steep opposing bank. I was thankful for my mountain boots, but even they could not hold me to the wet soil. It might take a miracle to get us out of this, I thought to myself. After several failed attempts, I felt like I had enough footing to reach down and pull my daughter up, hoping to be able to lift her onto the ledge that was still overhead. I took her little hand in mine, and pulled with all my might. She came up a couple of feet and then began to lose her footing.
In desperation I looked up toward the ledge to find something to hang onto. There were a couple of exposed roots, but nothing large enough to hold my weight. Putting my head down to catch my breath, and say a quiet prayer I whispered, “Lord, we need help, help us Lord, please.”.....
(Complete story in 2009 Winter/Spring edition
of OnAngels Magazine)
Second Place
Linda Wicker
Cypress, Texas, USA
"Four Sentences"
My name is Linda Wicker, and I grew up on a street named Church Avenue. Our home was right across the street from The United Methodist Church smack in the middle of Kansas Street names and people’s names back in the 60’s were not as creative as they are today with names such as Gran Canary, not Grand Canary, just Gran, and Alabonson or something else that frankly sounds just made up. It was also simpler to name children names like Linda, Susan and Mary and not Krystal, Keisha or Hayden. We did not attend church but occasionally and at Easter and Christmas. It was an ordinary, absolutely ordinary, very bologna and white bread kind of street.
Growing up, we had great family gatherings with a lot of laughter, but there were strict rules —absolutely no discussion of politics, religion and absolutely no discussion of Southwestern Bell Telephone Company where my Dad and Uncle Jimmy worked. My Aunt Maxine was a favorite. Aunt Maxine had a great name as you just don’t hear a name like Maxine anymore and a great flair about her with flame red hair, an infectious laugh. She always pointed her painted toes every time she sat in a chair as if she had on high heels and my sister and I thought they froze that way just like our Mother said our faces would freeze if we kept making monkey faces. Aunt Maxine would always tell my sister and I that we were “something special. I had horrible acne at a young age, and at one Christmas, Aunt Maxine gave us a two sided compact mirror from Germany. She saw us infrequently though, and Mom always thought she did not know how to spell my name; however I loved the way she spelled Linda with a “y”. Lynda made an ordinary name something special. Aunt Maxine was inspirational, absolutely inspirational
Dad moved us to Houston in the early 1970’s for a job promotion opportunity with the telephone company.. My parents were getting a divorce after 25 years and 1979 was a specially a broken year for me. I did not hear much arguing but heard “discussions” of how Dad would spend a dollar when he would have only a dime in his pocket, but not really that often.. Mom didn’t work outside the home and that was just how it was back then. She spent diligent years taking care of family finances, lawncare, household affairs, served dinner at 6:00 and so on until the day after their 25 year wedding anniversary, their marriage finally and painfully dissolved. Dad’s motto was “Use it up, wear it out, and make it do”, but on February 15th, 1979, he decided to make it better, or so he thought, and left. Painful, absolutely painful times.
I prayed a lot.
Television church back in the 1970’s was certainly different than today. No theatrics, power point presentations, grand entrances on motorcycles, large choirs or any instruments beyond an organ…they kept sermon messages simple. The United Methodist Church in Houston had Dr Charles Allen every Sunday for 30 minutes and with glasses, a southern drawl, sparse hair and a traditional robe, he was comforting to hear. I was just trying to make it through high school, took vocational classes and did not even expect much of myself beyond high school. Terrible times got worse. I was called “pizza face” to my face due to terrible acne. Well, the homemade clothing did not help me to escape being a target.either. I just couldn’t wait.for high school to be behind me.
I prayed a lot.
Where does God want ME to be? I prayed the prayer about accepting Jesus into my life and rededicated myself to him just like they said on TV. John 3:16, Right? I was in my pajamas and did not have my teeth brushed, but he said pray right where I was, Right? How am I supposed to know what to do? When was I going to feel different?
One evening in the summer of 1979, I was awoken with a startled feeling.
I saw a beautiful, large, very, very tall woman in flowing robes about 8 ft from the bed. Her robes looked as it they had movement but there was no fan on in the room.. Beautiful is all I can say.
I was absolutely afraid. Very afraid. Did I just say “Oh, no. Oh, no Oh, crap? or was I just thinking it? I pulled the covers straight over my head.
She said, “Do not be afraid.”
“Who are you?,” I said.
“I can answer your question”, she said.
My mind was racing, I was thinking, What question? I have a million questions right now, and you are here only to answer one? Which one?
“You will comfort many people”
Pause.
“That is it?”, I said.
I was thinking What does that mean? Who people? When? What am I supposed to be doing? The questions keep flooding my mind.
Pause.
But I said, “That is It? I am not supposed to do anything more than that in my lifetime? That is going to make some kind of difference?”
She smiled and tenderly said, “Isn’t that enough?”
Clutching the covers and my cheeks still burning from embarrassment, I was left blinking at that statement…then she was gone. No walking. She was just gone.
Was it a dream? Could be. Was it a hallucination? Maybe. I know it happened regardless, and I can’t explain it. How profound..
How am I going to know if I get it right? Oh Lord, remember? I say the wrong thing at the wrong times, and I am shy with acne to top everything off. Remember? Is she going to come back? Am I supposed to tell anyone what happened? This was amazing, Was anyone actually gong to believe me?? I am 17 for Pete’s sakes. What on earth did she mean? Why me? This was not covered in TV church.
I remember praying. “Just help me Lord.”
Pause.
“And Lord? Please, please, Lord. Forgive me for saying crap to an Angel.”
A mere four sentences were indelible, absolutely indelible. “Do not be afraid” “ I can answer your question”, “You will comfort many people” and “Isn’t that enough?.”
It has been over 30 years, and though I still wonder if I’ll ever see her again, I know now that she was right absolutely spot on right.
Comforting is enough..
Third Place
Kristin Hatfield
Newburgh, New York, USA
"Have You Seen My Bags?"
From Newburgh, it is a 4 mile walk across the Hamilton Fish Bridge to Beacon and back. It is a cold but sunny December afternoon and I am taking my daily walk across the bridge, over the Hudson River. I am unable to see the majesty around me, blocking out all existence, and instead find myself introspective and sullen. The only thing I can feel grateful for, it seems, is the solitude I find myself in. There are no other ‘walkers’ on the bridge today. I relish in the fact that I can speak openly and aloud to God as I walk. The speeding cars drown out any audibility. I am so grateful for this cocoon I find myself; invisible to everyone but God.
As I am walking, I am feeling unusually weepy. I remind myself that lately the weepiness is not the stranger I once ignored but rather has become an endearing friend, or at the very least, a friend that has become reliable. The loneliness, the constant grind of therapy, the mistakes, the regrets, the need to find peace has only left me with more questions and more confusion. I remind God that I am still seeking answers. I remind Him that I am desperate for His presence to be known. I demand that He make Himself known in a capacity that I can understand; some immutable force that cannot be argued; something so obvious it suspends all doubt. I continue walking as I contemplate the existence of God in my life, or the lack-there-of and why He has forsaken me. The “woe is me” dialogue seeking to fill the emptiness I feel inside. And then I scream out loud, “Anything! Just give me a sign!! Something that tells me You hear me; that You are listening; that You are with me! Please!”
I am approximately a half mile away from the 2 mile turn around point when I see this older gentleman about 50 yards ahead of me. He is moving slowly and I begin to feel restless and irritable that my dialogue with God will have to dwell inside my head now, at least until I am a good audible distance away. As I near closer to him, I notice a large suitcase on my right, abandoned on the pedestrian walkway. I don’t think twice about it and continue waking, concentrating more on the shuffling elderly gentleman approaching me. I swiftly move past him, just barely nodding my head in a gesture of friendliness.
As I approach the turnaround, I see two suitcases now abandoned on the walkway ahead of me. I realize that the bags belong to the gentleman and he must be headed back to pick up the first suitcase. The sight of this literally stops me in my tracks. The man is carrying 3 large bags. In order to make his journey, he carries 2 bags forward, and leaves a third bag behind. He sets the 2 bags down and then returns to pick up the third bag. This astounds me and leaves me speechless. I am overwhelmed with emotion and awe.
It takes me a moment to comprehend the difficulty of the task this man has chosen and the overwhelming burden he must be experiencing. In my arrogance and naiveté, disguised as altruism, I run to him and offer my assistance, assuming I was ‘put there’ in his path to help him. (How ironic ones sense of humility is when it’s us who needs the help). He declines my offer and I ask him why he wouldn’t just leave something behind to make his trip easier and faster. He simply replies, “Would you?” I don’t say anything. I ask again if I can please, at the very least, help him carry the bags. He says to me “Do you let people help you?” I am puzzled by his question. I cannot comprehend the choice to carry that much baggage when simply letting some of it go would create so much freedom. I share this thought with him and he replies to me, “We all carry baggage, I just can’t see yours.” I am stunned by him and offer once again to help him, oblivious to my own ignorance of His message or the humility I will suffer later. He smiles and says no.
It’s only moments later that I fully recognize and feel the magnitude of that Angelic encounter. He was ‘put there’ to help ME, not the other way around. Once again, I stop in my tracks. I look around but he is no longer in my sight. The weight of humility and awe that covers me brings me to my knees. The awareness that God put this angel in front of me leaves me with a reverence that I had not felt before. I realize that I have been metaphorically carrying the emotional baggage of my life with me, as this ‘Angel’ symbolically demonstrated for me. His physical burden illustrated the heaviness of my spirit; the futility of carrying around that which no longer serves me but instead makes the journey oppressively longer and complicated.
It has been a few years since that Angelic encounter, but I know my angel is with me. The memory of this encounter will sometimes cross my mind. It is always repetitive; a thought that just keeps nagging at me until I give it due attention. When that happens, I know that is God, and my angel, reminding me that I need to let go of something; some baggage that is slowing me down, preventing me from enjoying my journey.
Honorable Mention #1
Debra Sanders
Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA
"Angels on the Bus
with the Gum Drop King"
(Following is a short exerpt from this story)
“Oh honey, this is a great bus!”
“Bus, Dad?”
“Oh yeah…This is a great bus, but you have to get off now.”
My father to me, twelve hours before he died
Visiting a loved one in hospice is never easy. Once a person checks in, there is no more pretending to do; and except in rare instances, the exit is never the same as the entrance. Nobody gets a ticket through hospice doors unless they are “imminent”—meaning, very close to the end of their earthly travels; and in the late spring of 2000, my dad called to tell me that he had received his one-way fare to continue onward. This was the call I had been dreading for so long; after receiving more than three years of unexpected time, my dad was telling me he had checked himself in to the Louisville, Colorado Hospice Center.
And so, on June 1, 2000, with my dog Teek by my side, we began the 3200-mile drive from my home in Alaska to say goodbye to my dad.
Hospice centers are remarkable and wonderful places offering compassionate, end-of-life care to people for whom dying at home is not an option. In addition to many other things, by furnishing every room with a chair that converts into a cot-like bed, they make it possible for family members (including the four-legged ones) to spend the night. Not many people actually take advantage of these converted chairs—to say they are comfortable would be a true euphemism—but if they do get used, it is rarely for more than a night or two. By definition, if one is an in-resident hospice patient, the stay is not a long one.
This definition however, does not take into consideration people like my dad who make spontaneous and miraculous recoveries upon seeing their only daughter. Maybe not miraculous enough to be sent home, but definitely miraculous enough to get the imminent status temporarily removed from their charts.
I should have known better than to underestimate my father’s response to seeing me; or for that matter, his lifelong potential to surprise me with his behaviors in both the most wonderful and aggravating of ways. What Teek and I anticipated would be a few sad and quiet days, morphed into a more than ten-week odyssey that included some of the funniest, most emotional and profoundly spiritual moments of my life. Teek and I didn’t just visit my dad in his hospice room. We lived with him there.
And we hopped aboard his bus for a good part of the ride....
(Complete story in 2009 Winter/Spring edition
of OnAngels Magazine)
Honorable Mention #2
Julie Anne Sterner
Sewickley, Pennsylvania, USA
"Our Angels"
The fluid is slowly pulled through It is siphoned by a delicate vacuum, a hard silver three inch needle. The chemicals are toxic. Powerful poisons, her long brown hair is falling out in clumps. Her body is ravaged. Swabs of iodine yellowish orange are providing designs like henna imprints on her skin. An intense odor is penetrating my nostrils as I glance down at her body lying across the small hospital table.
Beeping of the pump monitors her heart and all of her small being. It sounds like an alarm clock in my mind. I can feel my own heart and pulse beginning to take on its own race. I glance down again; the design of the iodine is now on the base of her spine. It is in the one spot that it has been so many times. Probed and prodded a sore spot. "The angel kisses it" The needle is not inserted easily. It penetrates, it stops, and needle is hitting the bone. My heart rate is elevated, my heart is pounding! I think "the angels are hovering over her"
Glances of doctor’s eyes, nurses hands are holding her small body down. Confusion has set in. She is in a" twilight state" I struggle to keep my composure, as tears roll down her face. She moans, she cries out “Mom, Mom”. I am being to whisper to myself. The shouting is heard. Screams, crying, tears they echo. They fill the halls. Not just one child, but rooms full of children. Each enduring! The procedure is still in progress. The doctors and nurses keep smiling! They look down at their own hands non latex gloves cover their fingers as the blood trickles, expertise, steady hands. They continue composed, gently smiling. How do they manage to continue? I stand over my lovely daughter.
Tears now roll down my cheeks. My heart thunders, ready to explode. The nurse whispers we are almost done. I know there is no other option. The room is hot and small. I whisper, "All the angels take your wings, wrap them around her!" I whisper again with urgency as she cries out "take your wings, wrap them around her. Protect her, save her! DO YOU HEAR ME? I ask your protection. I demand your protection. The procedure is completed. The hours pass, a consistent heart monitor begins to sooth my emotions. I believe the angels linger, they engulf her. I begin to slump in a very uncomfortable chair. Emotionally exhausted I glance at my daughter. I imagine the angels kissing her tiny fingers. Their white wings brush and tickle her Nose. Their eyelashes are delicate and soft. The angels spread a tint of pink on her sleeping round cheeks. I see her begin to slowly toss. She is coming out of her twig light sleep. I imagine the angels rustling her gently. I exhale again. I softly whisper "Thank you" I feel a soft touch on my hand. She reaches for me. "Hi mommy," a pause silence, softly she whispers “Did you see them mom?"
