An Ordinary Angel

I met an angel yesterday. Her name was Sheila. The first time I spoke with her on the phone, an hour before I met her in person, her voice was as rich and warm as hot chocolate, with slight Southern twangs sprinkled among her words. “I got your son here with me,” she said. “I want ya’ll to know I’m keeping him safe.”

I was headed South on I-95 at the time, off to rescue my son whose 1998 Mercury Villager had once again left him stranded in North Wilmington. I was tired of the whole rescue routine and pleaded on several occasions to get rid of the car that caused me headaches and put a dent in my bank account. But Allen, living rather precariously on the upper edge of the autism spectrum, is stubborn. Change comes hard. Hanging onto a car that should have been junked months ago gives him some semblance of control over a life that is not really of his choosing. When Allen called me at 1:00 and told me his car had—once again—conked out, I was very tempted to blow my cool. Enough is enough. But God stayed my tongue and allowed me, instead, to make some practical suggestions to Allen.

Two hours later, I was speeding towards his rescue, unable to reach him on his cell phone for the last hour and a tow truck from AAA on the standby. All I needed was an address. As I headed south, I prayed: Dear God, send another angel to help my son. Keep him safe.

God loves each and every one of his children, there is no doubt. But I have realized for years that God places special protection over people like Allen, those who have particular needs in one way or another. In the past, when Allen has found himself in a situation that he has often created himself, God has sent angels in the way of a truck driver, a policeman, a pet shop owner, a woman walking her dog, and a guy in a brand new Mercedes. I had no doubt, as I prayed, that God would send another angel his way.

My phone rang almost simultaneously with my “Amen.”

Allen assured me, using Sheila’s phone since his own was out of minutes,  that he was fine. Sheila had given him a drink and some chicken strips and was waiting with him until I arrived. His angel got back on the phone and gave me an address at 4^th and Church Sts in N. Wilmington.  I thanked her profusely. “God always sends an angel for Allen,” I told her. “Today, He sent you.”

Sheila assured me she would keep my quirky son safe until I arrived. After she rang off, I called AAA and gave them the address for the tow truck.

4^th and Church Streets took me past the exit I used when I got off for Springfield College, my part-time job for the last six years. But I was less familiar with the area down around Front Street. I admit to being a bit nervous. I reminded myself that our Heaven sent angel, Sheila, was looking after Allen. Allen saw me as I pulled up in front of the house where he sat waiting. I saw Sheila put a restraining hand on his shoulder to keep him from darting across the street to me. Although a young adult now, Allen’s presence on the spectrum still keeps him tied closely to me. I help him make sense of a world in which is continues to be a stranger.  I parked—luckily, there was a lot just across the street—and met Allen and our angel.

The tow truck was on its way, but we had about an hour to wait. In the tradition of city dwellers, we sat on the stoop outside, talking and getting to know each other. I was sure we had interrupted Sheila’s day, but she stayed with us. “I never had no trouble here,” she said, “but you never know. Nobody’ll mess with you if I’m right here.”

And no one did. We sat companionably on the stoop, sharing pieces of our lives. I learned that angels, too, carry misery beneath their wings. Sheila’s 14 year old daughter was killed years ago, a victim of gang violence.  “My church helped me, “ she said. “I ain’t too proud to ask for help when I need it.”

Now, Sheila tries to give back when she can. At one point in time, I pushed a twenty dollar bill into her hand. “I don’t want that,” she said. “I know,” I responded. “Give it to someone who needs it.” She told  me about her fiancé, who treats her fine, as opposed to the former husband who did not. I told her about Ron’s car accident and the burdens I carry as the well spouse and the wage earner. She pats my shoulder.

I am almost sorry to see the tow truck pull around the corner and stop next to Allen’s car. I had, for a time, forgotten why I was sitting on a stoop in Wilmington, enjoying the warm November sunshine and a beautiful angel.

I tell the tow truck drive that Allen and I will follow him in my car, and then I turn to Sheila. I have dug a business card out of my wallet, the one for KeCo that names me as Editorial Director. “Sweet Jesus,” she says when I hand her the card. “Just how many jobs you got, Dr. Linda?”

“Three or four,” I tell her. “Depends. This one”—and I tap the card—“is a business I started with my friend John. We believe everyone has a story to tell. We help people to write and share their own stories.” I give Sheila another hug. “You, dear one, have a story to tell. It can help others.”

She nods and I see the tears forming in her eyes. I know what catharsis writing can be. It keeps me from going over the edge. I offer this to Sheila. “My other daughter,” she whispers, “she was there when SeSe was killed. She’s never gotten help. She holds it all inside. She’s got a story to tell.”

“Give her my card,” I say. “I can help her.”

We are just about ready to depart and Allen gives Sheila one last hug before walking across the street to my car. I cannot leave our angel, not just yet. Something is not finished. I linger.

“You got a special son there,” Sheila tells me. “But you got burdens, honey.” Don’t I know it. They are burdens I have carried for a good long time. “You offering to help me and my daughter,” she says, “but you needing help, too. Maybe, just maybe, we find a way to help each other. I can help look after your husband a bit,” she says, “and do some cooking, too. I’m a good cook.”

I smile. “I’m sure you are. I think you are right,’ I say. “I think we can help each other.”

One final hug and I leave the angel on the side of the street in Wilmington, taking with me her smile and the faint scent of hot chocolate.  

Maybe, just maybe, God didn’t send this angel to Allen.

Maybe God sent her to me.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

I’ll admit it: I’m a bit of a control freak. And while I do not particularly LIKE to drive, I prefer to drive myself rather than put myself at the mercy of someone else’s driving skills.  The truth is that I know I don’t see as well as I should, so I drive with extra care to make up for it. I can’t say that about everyone.

It was only sheer necessity, then, that forced me—and I do not use the word lightly—to ask Allen to drive me to school on Saturday. My car was, alas, in the shop for a new starter after a very near mishap in the ice and snow on Friday. All’s well that ends well and no one was hurt, but the very prospect of riding with Allen filled me with something akin to terror. I was not to be disappointed.

I’d like to make it clear here that my youngest son is, in all ways, a great person. A bit quirky sometimes—all my kids are—but essentially great. He was willing to drive me in return for some gas money. So, what else was new? He covered over the gashes in his passenger seat with a blanket, very thoughtful, and climbed over the steering column to open the door for me. Yes, the right door to Allen’s van does not open from the outside.

Allen’s van is, well, let’s use the word functional. He has alternately in the last two years played video games in it, carted computers around in it, collected scrap metal in it, and for a brief period of time known in our family lore as “moving out” slept in it for two weeks last summer, joined by his cat Sugar under extreme protest. Needless to say, it does not win the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. But it runs, which is its saving grace.

Allen has driven me to Springfield before, but he is good at forgetting directions, so after I make sure we are on I-95 South—not North—the real fun begins. We are passing Chichester Avenue when he suddenly veers to the left. I grab for the door handle. There is no door handle.

“What’s up?” I ask with as much calmness as I can muster. Which is not, I will admit, much.

“Darn van doesn’t do well on the highway,” he says. “It’s the wind.”

I had not noticed discernable wind today, but Allen gets the car back in the right lane and I try to get my heart to return to normal sinus rhythm. All is well for a few more brief moments, until the van veers to the right, narrowly missing the barrier. “Allen!” I shout. Yes, I shout.

“What?” he asks nonchalantly.

“What’s up with your car?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “I've got it.” I beg to differ as he is traveling dangerously close to the highway divide, but I need all of my breath to breathe.

Our journey continues in the same manner; Allen veers, I gasp. At one point in time when a truck bears down upon us and blares the horn, I actually see my life flash before my eyes and grab onto Allen’s arm. He pretends he does not notice. “Am I getting off at 202?” he asks and I am tempted to say yes, even though it is two exits before where I need to be. Perhaps I can call a taxi?

I think I have at least one mini-stroke as my son almost misses the second exit to Delaware Avenue, then careens over a pile of snow and avoids parked cars by inches. I motion him to pull over at the Nemours Building and I climb over a pile of slush as I get out of the car.

“Do you know your way back?” I ask. “Sure,” he says. I pray that it is so.

“When,” he asks me, “do you need to be picked up?”

I am still trying to breathe and I cannot under any circumstances imagine repeating this ride. People at Disneyworld would pay big money for the terror, but I value my life too much.

“I’ll get a ride home,” I say. He shrugs and pulls out. Later on, I cajole a student in my class to drive me home. Professors have a little power. That evening, I mention to Allen that he might need to have a front end alignment on his van.

“Maybe,” he says. “But it could just be you.”

Could be.