Men & Angels

Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels... Hebrews 13:2.

My angel first appeared in the person of a small, gentle, white haired man who was Pastor of a humble church in Bellmore, Long Island.

On the days I visited my grandmother, I'd steal away to see if Pastor Terry was anywhere to be found. I loved the cool, quiet of the room, the sparkle of sunlight that filtered through the stained glass windows as if God himself was watching me. In the midst of the church, organ pipes reached high to the ceiling, and shed a soft glimmer throughout the pews.

I scampered up onto the bench and reached out to play: tiny fingers fluttered like bird's wings upon the keys. My mother was a pianist, and her father, a church organist. Music was in my blood. I caressed the keys gently, as I'd seen them do so many times before, and imagined I heard applause.

Pastor Terry appeared from his room behind the sanctuary, and smiled. His smooth, quick movements belied his age. His eyes were soft and gray, with tiny specks of green, and when he laughed, his voice flowed throughout the chamber like a prayer.

“You have come back to see me!” he exclaimed. “Your grandmother must be busy...” he winked, and his voiced trailed off.

“Yes,” I said, recalling the bottle beside her at the kitchen table. “She‘s sleeping.”

“So, how are you this beautiful day?” he asked. “is she treating you well?”

"Sure,” I shrugged. “ My fingers reached up to grab a strand of limp hair.“I guess so...” I softly replied.

I did not speak of the chair in the damp cellar, nor the ropes that grandmother used to bind my hands and feet. Nor did I mention the dark closet in the hall, and the hours I’d spent in solitude there.

Pastor Terry seemed to sense my discomfort, for he said “Come, let’s see what’s coming up in our vegetable garden, shall we? We can pick weeds again.”

I beamed at the inclusion. I’d done little to help in the garden, save for eating the Pastor's prize tomatoes, and picking tiny weeds, but I loved the feel of soil between my toes and the soft and gentle ways of this man who lived for God. I tottered after him gleefully.

In the days when Long Island was still undeveloped, large potato farms dotted the land in lonely procession. They were interrupted only by railroad tracks to and from the city. My dad was an engineer who ran the steam engine along the eastern line, past the house of my grandmother and that of our own, three towns away. When he passed through, he’d blow the whistle long and hard: a signal to me that he was on his way home. But there would be no whistle today: dad lay in the hospital with pneumonia, mother by his side. It would be a long time before I saw them again.

“Do you remember when we planted this corn?” Pastor Terry asked. “How small and delicate the seedlings were?”

“Who would have imagined they would grow so strong and tall? God knew what they needed, and provided it, and he’ll do the same for you, too.” he said with a wink.

Overhead, the shrill screech of a seagull broke the silence. Soon others followed, and others still. Pastor Terry looked up and smiled. “They’re after our corn,’” he said, but they won’t get it. If I have to stand out here all night and protect the crop myself, I will."

Dusk was falling, and the Summer sun was a glowing orange ball. Gentle winds were rolling in from the sea, kicking up dust and debris, and shards of light glinted from his hair. I slipped my fingers into his callused hand and snuggled closer, and somehow I knew it would all be alright.

I never forgot Pastor Terry, and the kindness he showed me in those tenuous years. He is the reason I'm drawn to the Holy things, to organ music and the Alleluia chorus, to joyous celebration and worship. His ability to calm the fears of a young child and elicit trust, probably saved my life. He was truly an angel among men.