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Third Woman: The Prayer
By Barbara Garrett
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Rated "PG" by the Author.
Does God answer prayers?
He was so excited that his hand trembled as he tried to put the microphone close to my mouth. After all, this was the interview of the century. There were so many questions. I had never stayed long enough for anyone to interview me.
“How did it all start?” he asked.
“I honestly don’t know what the catalyst was,” I replied. “I always say a prayer every time I drive past some poor animal that is dead on the side of the road. I remember asking God if someday I could do something to help one of those poor creatures. I always hear on the news about poor people and creatures that have met violent ends. I stopped watching the news.” I noticed he was a little offended by what I said. “No offense,” I quickly added.
“None taken,” he mumbled.
“I, I guess it was that one night that I was at a convention in Washington DC. I remember that there was a large thunderstorm. The air conditioner in my hotel room wasn’t working, and I opened the window as much as it would open. The wind started to really blow. I turned off everything and was ready to go to bed when a flash of lightening lit up my whole room.”
“Then, the room disappeared. I was in a large nightshirt one second, and then I am dressed in a long white dress in the middle of a road in Israel - in the middle of a gunfight. I couldn’t tell you who was who, but there was a mother and her son about 200 feet from me huddled together behind some bricks. The bullets were flying all over, and I had to cross the street to get to them. All I know is that I was so mad that this was happening that I wasn’t thinking. I just crossed the street to where they were. Bullets were zinging all around me. Some small kid comes up to me and throws a grenade. All of a sudden, he blows up. A man runs out from some rubble and points a gun at my head. He pulls the trigger, and he drops dead from a bullet wound to his head. Everything stopped then. People stopped shooting. I went over to the mother and son, but they were already dead. I said a little prayer for them. I thought at first that it was all a dream.”
“Then whoosh, I’m in Atlanta. A man about 7 feet tall is standing in front of me, and I’m standing in front of a battered woman in a fetal position on the floor. The man looked very surprised. I probably looked as surprised as he was. Still, I hugged her as he put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. Instantly, he falls over dead, and blood is coming out of a gaping hole in his head. The lady on the floor stares at me in shock, and then she fades away. Then, I’m suddenly somewhere else in the world.”
“Do you think your power comes from God?” the young reporter asked.
“If you are wondering if he talks to me or asks me where I would like to go, no, there is no burning bush to talk to, and no one to have a nice brunch with. So, no one or thing has confessed to giving me this power,” I replied.
I hesitated a moment and sighed. “I know that I don’t have any relatives to speak of, but I wouldn’t mind having a chance every once in a while to go shopping or to go to a movie instead of instantly getting whooshed off right away to prevent some horror. This is actually quite nice being able to stay in one place for awhile and to talk to you, even if I am doing most of the talking.”
The young reporter smiled and shifted the microphone to his other hand. “I am afraid that I won’t be able to ask all my questions before you disappear again,” he said. “It took me quite a while to figure out where you may be next.”
“Yes, I was wondering how you were able to find me?” I asked.
“You won’t believe it if I told you,” he chuckled.
“Please, I have to know,” I said.
“I just said a little prayer,” he replied and smiled a big grin.
“Mmmm, this prayer thing is quite powerful, but you’ve got to be careful what you ask for! Remind me to tell you the story of when I prayed for blonde hair. Anyway, you really didn’t answer my question,” I said.
“Let me ask the questions first,” he insisted, “then, if you are still around, you can ask your questions. So, do you think that you are a messenger from God?”
I hesitated. I never thought about it before in that way. “Yes, I believe that I am. How else do you explain the wings?” I asked.
“Oh, you haven’t seen the wings, yet? Quite awesome! It really scared me the first time, and people literally pee their pants when they see them. The first time happened in Africa. There was a poacher hiding behind some bushes with his high-powered rifle aimed at this elephant. I knew that I could not get to the elephant in time to save him. Like that mother and child in Israel, I’ve learned that I have to make physical contact with the victim in order to save them.”
“I was going to yell so that the poacher would see me, then there was this loud ‘VA-WHOOSH’. I can’t do it justice. It’s not quite as loud as thunder, but it carries as much punch. It has to be at least a twenty-foot wing span. And as those air-filled bones and feathers unravel, it is quite the sight to see!”
“Can I see them now?” he asked.
“No,” I sighed. “I haven’t any idea how to make them appear. It is one of those unanswered questions that I have. I feel like I’ve just been given the world’s most powerful weapon and no instruction manual.”
“Have you ever flown with them?”
“With the wings?” I thought for a moment. “No, but I hope I don’t. I’m afraid of heights.”
He laughed and then continued. “So what happened with the poacher and the elephant?”
“After you do this a few times, you see that people always react in just a few ways,” I responded. “Some continue with their violence out of fear. Others go into shock. Depending on their heart, they either try to kill me or they stop what they are doing.”
“What do you mean, ‘depending on their heart’?” he asked.
“You know how the eyes are the windows to the soul? Well, I look in their eyes, and you can see some of them thinking ‘this is too scary for me, I should leave this alone’. Then, their heart takes control and they think ‘I’m not letting anyone stop me from doing what I want’. Then they shoot or stab or bludgeon or do a million other things to try to kill me or the person or the animal they want dead. If they would just leave it alone, no problem. The poacher was like that. He aimed his rifle at me and then pulled the trigger.”
“He died, right?” asked the reporter.
“Oh yea!” I answered. “It is really bizarre how it works. He pulled the trigger and I see the bullet, or whatever else they use, move very slowly. It looks like it is just about to hit me, and then I suddenly become the poacher, and the poacher becomes me. I see the bullet hit the poacher and go through him, and we suddenly switch back.”
“That must be why people find the bullets in impossible places,” he replied. “What about common human functions – eating, sleeping, drinking, etc? How does that work when you have no control over where you are transported?”
“It’s weird, but I don’t have to do that anymore. I feel like I close my eyes for a second, and then I’m somewhere else for just a few minutes at a time.”
While the reporter seemed to be thinking about his next question, I decided that it was the opportunity to ask a few questions of my own. “Now, let me ask you a question. Am I appearing somewhere every few minutes or is there a time lapse between my sightings?”
“There is a definite time lapse,” he replied. “If you want to go through a few of your appearances in order, I could probably tell you if there are some in succession that I know about and how long it took.”
We discussed my appearances, and it was decided that it could be minutes, days, months, or even years between my sightings although I never noticed any time lapses between my appearances.
We both sat silently for a few moments before continuing. His words about being a messenger of God really bothered me. What if there is something that I should be telling people when I save them? Shouldn’t I hear God’s voice and understand why I am doing this? Maybe this power isn’t coming from God, but something evil?
“Why the sudden silent treatment?” he finally asked breaking the silence.
“I was thinking about what you said – about being a messenger of God. There are a few things that bother me about that.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“How come God hasn’t spoken to me? The messengers in the Bible get to speak to God,” I said.
“The messengers in the Bible also get their heads usually chopped off or worse,” he replied.
“What if my purpose is to be the messenger of the Antichrist?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure that I don’t want that job. Maybe I’m doing the whole thing wrong. I should probably say something meaningful and religious when I save someone. I am probably getting too cocky and proud. What if this is it and I don’t fade out any more?”
We both sat staring at each other for several minutes in silence. I felt as if I was going to explode, then a great peace came over me. I realized how truly stupid I was. He looked back at me, and we both knew what I was going to ask next.
“Why me?” I asked. “I’m not a saint by any means.”
The young reporter just smiled, and I started to tear up.
“Prayer is a powerful thing,” He said.
I smiled and cried. “Thank you for not looking like a burning bush. I’d ask you to brunch, but it’s Sunday. You have to be in all the churches and listen to everyone’s prayers.”
“Don’t worry, I’m a multi-tasker,” He replied.
The microphone magically disappeared. He took my hand, and we walked down the street together.
Site: 13TH Woman - 3rd Woman: The Prayer
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