In 2008, I temporarily moved from Florida to Indiana to look after my mother. She had several health issues which required a caregiver. My father passed away three years earlier and I was an only child.
The plan was to stay with Mom from November until the following spring, giving her a chance to regain her strength, then decide if moving to Florida to live with our family would be the next step. It would be hard to be separated from my husband and grown daughter for so long, but frequent visits were possible.
Mom needed my help and comfort to get better. So, I packed my bags and traveled north.
The only thing that made me a little nervous was getting through an Indiana winter. Dad’s aerospace job took us to Florida when I was a baby, and it was the only place I’d ever called home.
However, as a descendant of seven generations of Hoosiers, I was determined to prevail. It was only a little ice and snow. If my pioneer ancestors could handle it, so could I.
And this girl was already used to rough weather.
Anyone who has lived in Central Florida during the summer will tell you it’s not for the faint of heart. Blinding rain, torrential downpours with deadly cloud to ground lightning was commonplace. I’d often driven through hurricane force winds as power lines dangled, tree branches fell and trash cans rolled in the street while going to and from work.
But I soon discovered that Midwest winters presented equally hard challenges.
Driving in black ice, the wheels on my car developed a mind of their own. Underpasses, exits, four way stops. Slipping and sliding. It was nerve wracking.
And if there was ice on parking lots, sidewalks and driveways, I had a remarkable ability to locate it and land on it.
Thankfully my backside was amply padded. Coupled with bulky clothing, I more or less bounced when I hit the pavement, suffering a few bruises and some injured pride.
One Saturday morning in early February, I was at the grocery, ready to tackle a lengthy list. It was freezing but sunny with clear blue skies; a treat when compared with the usual snowy gloom. The warm rays were glorious. I leaned against the car for a few minutes, letting it penetrate my homesick heart.
Then, back to earth.
It was time to find a cart. The groceries weren’t going to buy themselves.
As I walked toward the door, my feet suddenly slipped out from under me and I landed face down on the parking lot.
I tried to scoot onto the sidewalk but I was unable do anything but claw at the pavement; stranded on an island of ice, that had appeared safe because it was hidden by a liberal dusting of snow.
Hollering for help, no one came. There was talking and laughter in the parking lot, trunks slamming. Lots of noise and no one heard.
Then, a large pick-up truck with monster wheels, turned the corner, heading right for me.
The more I scrambled to get away, the more I realized that barring a miracle I was going to become a human speed bump beneath a gargantuan set of Firestones.
I’d heard people describe how their lives flashed before their lives as they faced death.
People. Places. Regrets.
My final thoughts consisted of inconsequential things like bills I hadn’t paid yet, wondering if I cleaned the litter box and had I taken my jeans out of the dryer. Then painfully precious things; my mother’s trembling hands at breakfast, my handsome husband who was often mistaken for singer Kenny Rogers and our beautiful blonde daughter whose adult life had just begun.
Soon I would be lost to them.
“Please God, help me.”
A pair of golf shoes appeared. Looking up, I saw an elderly gentleman with deeply tanned skin and thick white hair, wearing a beige short sleeved polo shirt and pleated olive-green shorts smiling down at me.
He looked like a Florida retiree fresh from the links. All that was missing was an electric golf cart and a bag of clubs.
“Looks like you’re in a bit of a fix young lady!”
He reached down, and pulled me onto the sidewalk in the nick of time. The truck ambled by and I was safe.
I laid my head on the concrete, my heart thundering, weeping with relief.
“Thank you so much” I whispered.
“Are you alright ma’am? Let me help you up!”
The voice had changed. I looked up again.
It was one of the young baggers from the store.
“Where is he? Did you see a man in shorts standing here a minute ago?”
I suddenly realized how ridiculous that sounded.
“Let’s go inside the office where it’s warm, while I call the manager.”
As I waited, I looked down at my trembling hands. The nails were torn and broken from trying to save myself.
The manager, James, was full of apologies. After the accident report was completed, he again insisted that I go to the emergency room. I assured him I was ok, only rattled.
What I really needed was the identity of my rescuer. I owed him my life and wanted to thank him.
When James pulled the security footage, we were both shocked to see that two minutes was missing. The frame before the rescue showed me lying in the lot. The next frame showed the bagger helping me up from the sidewalk.
Which meant that the only person who had seen the man was me.
At that point I was in no shape to buy groceries.
The store had delivery service so I handed the list to James, who insisted on walking me to my car.
Smart man. Probably to make sure I didn’t end up in more trouble.
Trying to make sense of what had happened, I’d remembered others telling stories like mine, meeting a stranger only to realize later that he or she was an angel.
My rescuer, an angel if there ever was one, wasn’t dressed for winter weather. He popped in, did his thing and popped out again; staying just long enough to make sure I was safe and perhaps zipping back to the course for tee time. And it seemed he was from the tropics, a reminder of home.
What other explanation could there be? If what I learned was true , heavenly host can appear as everyday people to anyone, anywhere. We don’t always realize we’re in danger and in need of saving.
But they do.
I prayed for protection before the angel appeared.
“Please God, help me.”
And He did.
God’s ways are a mystery. When we’re on the other side of the veil, the pieces will likely fall in place. But until then the rest is up to Him. To act as a divine parent and sort out the details of a very confusing world.
What isn’t a mystery is that my life was spared. There was grace, mercy and precious time provided for work I’ve yet to do, people I’ve yet to love.
And most importantly, family and friends to cherish.
Michelle Close Mills ©
