Our Guardian Angel
On our family kitchen wall for all to see was a picture of two children crossing a broken down bridge over a raging torrent with an angel looking over, guiding and protecting them. The picture was so ubiquitous that we hardly ever noticed it. The belief in our guardian angels was so ingrained we assumed it was real. We prayed beneath that picture for protection from storms and safe travels on many occasions.
Theologians not only believe that we have our own guardian angels assigned at conception, but families also are given guardian angels at the time of the spouses’ marriage vows. Their duty is to illuminate and protect. However, they never interfere with our free will. Very rarely people have communicated with their guardian angel. Most are completely unaware of their existence. However, many have experienced unexplainable phenomena where they were protected from illness, accidents, the ill will of others and bad decisions. Was it really a coincidence?
This is one such story.
Our family owned a farm raising fruits and vegetables which not only fed us throughout the year, but also provided an income that allowed us to buy new school clothes at the end of each summer. We marketed our produce at the Eastern Market in Detroit where we rented a stall three days a week during the summer. On opposite days we cultivated and picked the produce and on Sundays we rested as uncles, aunts and cousins would visit and eat a meal together under the picture of our guardian angel.
We drove our produce at night, sometimes leaving the farm as early as 2:30 am. We would arrive at the Eastern Market at 5:30 and the bell would ring for wholesalers to start their buying at 6:00 am. At 9:00 am another bell would ring, announcing that retail buyers could start doing their buying. Our major crop of the summer was cucumbers for the table, for canning and for Kosher Dills.
We put a lot of work into our produce and it showed. We had many repeat customers. By 3:00 pm we would start packing as there were only a few stragglers left to buy and many were hunting for a bargain. Some of the farmers would lower their price as they did not want to take their produce home to spoil in the heat. We did not lower our price because we did not cut corners and everything we sold was top-notch. Any produce that was left over would go to the Capuchin soup kitchen nearby.
One day, as closing time approached, we started to pack up and reload the unsold produce. Our activity was interrupted by the sight of a man whom we had never seen before. Since the market was in a central part of the city, we saw people of all races, creeds, colors and religions pass in front of us. This man was different. He appeared to be oriental, but defied identification.
The man appeared as if he had just stepped out of a rice paddy. He stood just a little over five feet tall with a sharp face, a receding hairline of uncut hair, a thin moustache and a wispy beard protruding from his chin. He wore a homespun shirt that hung loosely from his thin shoulders. His homespun pants were tied at his gaunt waist with a rope. He wore woven grass sandals that were attached to his feet at the big toe. In his hand was a cloth purse which he fondled, rattling a few coins inside.
He eyed our produce and, looking at me, asked “How much are your cucumbers?” in perfect English. I started to speak, but my mother answered him.
He turned in surprise to her, saying, “But surely you will lower your price since it is the end of the day.”
My mother, Laura replied, “We would rather give it away than cheapen our labor.”
The man looked longingly at our cucumbers. I realized that he must be starving. As he started to walk away, Laura handed me an empty bag and said, “Fill this bag with cucumbers and give it to that man.”
The man was walking away as I approached him with the bag of cucumbers. I touched him on his shoulder. He startled and as he turned to look at me I gave him the bag. He immediately started to protest, “You cannot do this! I will not have it!”
I walked back to the stall, followed by the man, protesting all the way. Laura looked up.
With a pained look on his face, the man asked, “Why are you doing this?”
Laura responded, “Because our God tells us to feed the hungry.”
“Aha!” he said. “So you are one of those Christians!”
She responded, “Yes I am.”
He taunted, “You serve a weak god. What god would allow his son to be hung from a tree?”
She replied, “A God who loves us enough to redeem us from the pit.”
“Bah.” he answered. “I serve many gods who are stronger than yours. I can do many things. I can travel without the need of a car. I can speak many languages fluently. I can levitate and bi-locate. I can change my form. I know where you live. In fact, I will pay you a visit, You’ll see!”
He sounded threatening.
Laura turned away and started packing up the remaining produce, ignoring the threatening man. When he saw that he had lost his audience, he walked away, muttering under his breath. He took the cucumbers with him. Neither of us talked about it afterwards until a week later.
You may be wondering, “What does this have to do with our Guardian Angel?” Read on.
A week later, Laura was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of soft footsteps on the gravel driveway approaching our farm house. The dogs whined, but did not bark.
“The door is locked. No one can get in to our house.” she thought
The footsteps approached the entrance to the house. The door opened, and as she heard the squeak of the hinges, an evil presence filled her bedroom. She started to pray, but the presence weighed down on her, preventing her from speaking. Instead, with great exertion, she let out a groan. She tried to groan louder, but she thought that she sounded more like a cow mooing. No words could be said.
As she lay there, paralyzed, she heard the being step up on the entryway to the inner house which contained the living room, dining room and kitchen. It walked into the kitchen, directly under her bedroom. In the meantime, try as she might, all she could do was groan.
Suddenly there was a crack of a bullwhip and a loud yell of surprise and pain. Another crack of the whip and another yell. The third crack of the whip put the being into motion as he flew down the steps to the main entrance. The main door opened and slammed shut as the being ran down the driveway on the loose gravel with more cracks of the whip following it. Every few seconds she heard another crack of the whip answered by a painful mourning yell receding into the distance until the sound faded into the night noises.
Laura sat up, realizing she was free of the evil oppression. Then she lay back down and began to pray a thanksgiving for her deliverance.
In the meantime, I had slept through the entire episode. As the eldest son, I worked hard and slept hard.
The next morning, as we sat down to a cup of coffee, she told me about that episode. We concluded that it was likely the man from the Eastern Market who visited her, a warlock. I looked over Laura’s shoulder at the picture of the guardian angel. The angel was smiling at me.
Angel of God, my guardian dear,
To whom God’s love commits me here.
Ever this day/night be at my side,
To light and guard,
To rule and guide.
Amen
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