Providence: On Angels' Wings

by Lauren Wynn

  “All you have to do is pray and I’ll be wherever you need me to be.” She forces a smile, walks back into the house, and closes the door.

  Inside, she falls back against the door, leaning her head on it to stop the dizziness, and clasps her hands together.

  Thank you for receiving my dad and sending Zan. Oh…and I’m gonna need some help tomorrow. Funerals really aren’t my cup of tea. Wait, I hate tea, so maybe they are my cup of tea.

  The overwhelming curiosity consumes me in my downtime. It isn’t a thirst I quickly want to quench—the exact opposite, rather. I want to eliminate it, to eliminate the question that continues burning in my mind. A long, mind-clearing jog in the crisp winter air seems just the cure. It is exhilarating, like a new found sense of freedom I hadn’t thought to experience yet.

  I jog down every alley, observing every last nook and cranny this city has to offer, and I recall what Grant said, “Those feelings will dissipate over time.” Maybe he’s right. Maybe this is my outlet. Maybe I just needed to find something to take my mind off all those brewing emotions. My thoughts fall away as my jog progresses into a run. My legs seem to be the only thing moving. My mind is at rest. My eyes are unfocused. I’m alone in a fog, just the open road ahead, mindlessly running with no destination until I come to the bottom of the hill curving to the right and see her. A haze surrounds everything in my view except Providence. Reality sets in when I realize I’ve come to a complete stop. I blink several times to get my bearings. I have stopped dead in the middle of the parking lot, staring straight ahead through the window of the coffee shop where she is standing behind the counter, working. I see her familiar, amazing smile peeking up over the shoulder of a girl with long, reddish-brown hair. I watch as she comes out from behind the counter and gives a hug to her dark-haired friend, who I learn from a quick peek of her mind is Taylor. She peers up through the window, tilts her head to the side, squints in wonder, and bites her bottom lip, before blinking and heading back behind the counter.

  A police cruiser is the only thing blocking her from fully seeing me. I panic, feeling as though I’ve been caught, and I try to regain some composure. I am trapped by my own nervous feelings, and it takes me a moment to notice her heart picking up a few beats. I realize I’m still staring at her as she faces me again with an inquiring expression. I quickly turn around and walk back in the direction I came from. I don’t feel the pit of emptiness that she usually exhibits. Today, it’s an intensified heart beat and a flutter in her stomach. This mood is encouraging, more confident and cheerful than I’ve ever felt from her.

  In all my fluster, I didn’t have a chance to fish through her thoughts to get a better sense of the change, but now I’m not close enough to tune in to her. And I’m not going back to embarrass myself yet again. I shake my head in disbelief and shrug. That was a bit of a strange experience. I’ve never felt so dumbfounded—too much mindless jogging, apparently.

  I glance up at the sun. I’ve probably been running for more than two hours from the western- to the eastern-most side of downtown and everywhere in between. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure this is still considered downtown, a neighboring suburb, rather. Regardless, it’s clearly time for me to head back to the loft. I’ve been mindless long enough. Who knows where I’ll end up if I continue to let my mind wander?

  In need of another suit, I rifle through the closet, this time black with a white button-down shirt and blue tie, nothing too showy. Then again, nothing in this closet would be considered showy.

  At the funeral home I take a lap through before making my way over to Avery. She looks at me with a slight grin, raising her full cheeks ever so slightly, although her expression shows relief more than anything remotely close to happiness. It’s clear she’d much rather have her father back than to have ever met me. I don’t blame her. I’m sure I’d feel the same. I nod and point toward the wall and mouth, “I’ll be right over there.” She nods, surrounding herself with her friends.

  I lean to the right and peer through the double-sized wooden doorway into a large room set up with rows and rows of nice, white-wood, padded folding chairs. The walls are covered with mauve wallpaper from the floor to the chair rail and above, painted ivory. There are colorful flower arrangements scattered throughout the room. In the four corners, pink, purple and yellow-flowered planters are set on three-foot-tall stone pillars, two on either side of where three men just placed the cherry-wood casket, as well as some green plant arrangements on the floor in front of the casket.

  A tall, gray-haired man in a dark suit prepares the casket for viewing and makes sure the finishing touches are in place before the service begins. Guests slowly shuffle in through the double doors, choosing seats, and paying their respects. Avery and her family wait at the doors, preferring to delay their entrance as long as possible, as if that will somehow make time reverse and reality change.

  Avery’s emotional state has been fairly stable until now, but as she walks through the doorway and shifts her eyes up, she sees the open casket and darts for the exit. Her agony nearly causes me to buckle as I race to catch up with her. She stands on the same stoop where I held her yesterday, and winces in pain as she tries to inhale against the feeling of her lungs collapsing. She doubles over, arms wrapped around her stomach, attempting to breathe in the tiniest breaths before wailing sobs cause her to topple toward the ground. I slide to the ground like a baseball player and catch her before she hits. She lands hard in my lap. I curl my arms tightly around her and rock her back and forth like a big brother caring for his little sister. She tucks her head in the crook of my neck and weeps. Light radiates from me, swallowing us both in a golden haze.

  When she’s calm enough to speak, she whispers, “Why did He have to take him so soon?” Her voice grows louder. “It just doesn’t make any sense. One day he’s fine and the next he’s…gone. This sucks. This just really freaking sucks.” She takes a deep breath. “He was my dad, my coach, my friend, the one who always picked me up when I fell, the one who would brush the dust off, kiss my wound, and cheer me on.” I can feel a swell of anger build within her. “I mean, he won’t even get to see me graduate high school,” she screams. “He won’t get to see me graduate from college. I won’t have anyone to walk me down the aisle when I get married. I’m so pissed at Him. How could He do this to me, to my family?” She looks at the sky and points straight up. “Why did you take him, you big…jerk.” She begins punching my chest with her shaky fists. “You robbed me of the best times with my dad.” She quiets slowly and relaxes her fist with each word—“You robbed me. You robbed me. You robbed me”—until all I can hear is a whisper in between sniffles.

  Within my golden glow, I hold her for several minutes until she begins to smooth her black dress, which is bunched and wrinkled from being curled up in my lap.

  “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t your fault. I just…gosh…” She lets out a deep sigh and wipes her eyes. “And look, I snotted-up another one of your suits.”

  More tears stream down her red, blotchy cheeks, and she pushes out her bottom lip in a pout. “What a mess I am. Is it bad that I’m so pissed at Him?” She looks me in the eye, desperate for a real answer.

  “Happy, sad, mad, He wants a relationship with you. If that means yelling and screaming at Him, He will gladly listen versus having no relationship with you at all. Growth comes from suffering. It may not be fair. We may not have all the answers. But never doubt His everlasting love for you.” I give her a tight squeeze and smile.

  “Thank you.” She stares into the parking lot, looking at nothing in particular.

  She slowly stands and holds out a hand to help me up. I accept the help. She’s stronger than she appears. I shake my pant legs back down and brush the dirt off my slacks. Avery walks toward the door and turns her head back to look at me.

  Her mother and “almost” boyfriend open the door, “Avery, honey…” her mom calls.

  “I’ll be there in a minute, Mom.” The door closes.<
br />
  “Zan …”

  I look down at her attentively. I know what she’s thinking: how am I ever going to survive without him?

  “I’m here as long as you need me,” I reply to her thought.

  Avery nods. “I’m good…enough. I can’t promise this will be the last you see of me, though,” she says with half a smile.

  That’s all right by me. I return the smile and nod, letting her know. That’s what I’m here for.

  She walks inside and her “almost” boyfriend positions his hand at the small of her back to guide her through the crowd.

  As they’re closing the door, her mom asks, “Who’s your friend?”

  “Oh, umm…just a coach from last summer’s volleyball camp,” she says while thinking, Sorry Zan, I know I shouldn’t lie. Thou shall not, right? But I couldn’t exactly tell her you’re an angel. I’ll be good…enough soon. I think, hope.

  The long procession of flagged cars enters the cemetery, which is completely enclosed by a tall, gray, stone wall, except for the giant, black, wrought-iron, arched gate, elaborately designed. The cemetery resembles a park more than a burial ground, complete with century-old oak trees, Canada geese, and green sprawling lawns that have managed to keep their color over the winter. The only giveaways are the white and gray marble headstones that are scattered throughout.

  Avery’s dad’s burial plot resides underneath a large oak tree just overlooking a giant pond. The large, cherry-wood casket is placed above the deep hole in the near-frozen ground. Faux-grass carpet surrounds the casket, covering up the recently excavated dirt. A wreath-shaped flower arrangement is placed on top of the casket, coloring the gloomy scene with pinks, purples, and yellows.

  Avery steps out of the first black Town Car with her two friends by her side. She and her best friend both shed tears at the sight before them. Her “almost” boyfriend, whose name I learned is Asher, stands with his chest to her back and his hand firmly placed around her waist, holding a box of tissues in the other. She still has an ache in her gut from the loss, but it is not as severe as the pain she was doubled-over with earlier. Holding back her cries leaves a knot in her throat and dizziness in her head, but there’s a new feeling, a tingle, burgeoning throughout her back where it meets Asher’s chest. She takes several deep breathes to prevent a sob. Asher lightly caresses her hip, causing her heart to skip a beat as her thoughts shift toward him.

  The pastor recites a number of biblical scriptures before lowering the casket into the grave. Avery briefly breaks away from Asher’s embrace as each family member grabs a handful of dirt and tosses it on top of the sinking wreath. Tears stream down her face, but her breathing remains steady. She hugs her mom tightly with both arms before reaching back for Asher’s hand. She stands on her tiptoes, eyeing me in the back of the crowd, and thinks, I’m good, and glances to her right and left at Asher and her friends.

  * * * *

  “How’d it go yesterday, Zan?” Leo asks as he walks toward our morning meeting spot.

  “It was a rough start, but good. I think she just needed to get pissed about it, to know that it was okay to be angry. She has a great support system around her, though.” I smile, recalling the tingle that emerged from her newly forming relationship with Asher. Her blossoming relationship may be just what she needs to help get through the loss of her father. All friends serve a purpose in some way, shape, or form. Maybe that’s what this one is for, or maybe this is the beginning of something much more significant. Only time will tell.

  “And how are you doing?” Grant asks, having just arrived, tapping my elbow, noticing that I am lost in thought.

  “I’m not going to lie. It’s more intense than I thought it would be. But I took a long run yesterday that helped take my mind off it all. In my downtime, I need to make it a point to detach like that.”

  When flying is not an option, running always is. Regardless, this is what I was designed to do and be. If I disconnect from my callers or disregard their emotions, no matter how burdensome, I’m going against that, and I refuse to give anything less than 100 percent. The archangels entrusted me with this assignment, and I don’t take that lightly. I am all in, all in.

  “Yeah, that’s good. We’ll fly again soon. That always helps me.”

  “Speaking of downtime,” Leo says, “I’m heading over to the diner on Friday night to serve dinner to some less fortunate folks. Wanna come?”

  “Sure, yeah, I’ll go.”

  I’m not exactly sure what the diner is, but a chance to spend some time with Leo seems like a good plan, and apparently he was serious about feeding the hungry.

  The Beating

  We arrive at the diner just before six. The diner is not your typical restaurant. It’s a decent-sized rectangular room in the basement of a church, filled with large, round tables that seat eight. There is a long buffet-style serving station at the front of the room. The back wall displays a brightly colored, hand-painted mural, making the space more lively and welcoming. The cooks are in the kitchen baking what smells to me like a wonderful Italian meal of lasagna, breadsticks, and side salad with cheesecake for dessert. Not too shabby; better than the hospital.

  The diner is supported by a number of local churches and other nonprofit organizations geared toward feeding folks that wouldn’t otherwise have a meal. For the customers without homes, these four walls will present their only chance to warm up from the frigid February temperatures.

  The lead volunteer gathers us together, assigning duties. There are a few young women in charge of drinks, a little boy in charge of delivering dessert, and the rest of us are servers responsible for carrying the plates full of food from the kitchen to the customers. The duties are similar duties to a normal restaurant, except no money is exchanged here and the tips we receive are in the form of a sincere “thank you” or “God bless.”

  Just before seven we set the tables with silverware and napkins. The ladies fill the drink glasses as the customers flock in, grabbing the first chair they come to, not at all picky about placemen, a single thought in their minds: a good, hot meal. Leo and I stand in a line that loops around outside the kitchen and down a narrow, pale-yellow hallway, waiting our turn to serve.

  The flurry of activity begins. Full plates are flying out of the kitchen. Servers are swerving in and out of the round tables, locating the plateless. Ice and drinks are being gulped down and refilled. Customers gaze up from their clean plates, having just eaten the last bite of lasagna only to find cheesecake staring back at them. They barely notice the servers clearing their dinner plates.

  I grab a wet towel to wash the table tops. As I finish the second table, it occurs to me that I just served fifty dinners and didn’t once notice whom I was serving dinner to. So, I glance around the room at the remaining customers finishing up their meals, and I notice one man sitting alone in the corner, drawing. He’s an older African American gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair that has a mind of its own. His clothes appear worn and not nearly warm enough for the freezing temperatures we’ve been having. So, I leisurely walked over to his table.

  “That’s a nice sketch. You’re very talented,” I say, grinning ear-to-ear, peering closely at the black, penciled drawing of a woman’s face, so delicate, her features so defined you can see the hope in her eyes, the happiness in her smile.

  “Thank you,” he replies without looking up from his picture.

  “Do you mind if I…?” I point to the chair next to him.

  “Sure, help yourself.”

  “What brought you by today?” I ask, interested in hearing his story.

  “A series of very bad decisions,” he states frankly.

  I wait for him to continue, not wanting to pry if he doesn’t want to share.

  “I come here every Friday,” he states as a matter of fact. “I haven’t seen you here before. First time?”

  “Yes, I just learned about this place.” I glance at his face, searching his eyes for emotion.

  “It’s
very nice of you all to come here and serve us like you do. We appreciate it.”

  I open my mouth to speak but he continues, “My wife kicked me out of the house over eight years ago. I was having a bit of trouble with the bottle.” He raises his eyebrows. “And then, well some other stuff, but I’m clean now.” He wipes his hands together as if to clean off dirt. “She moved on, though. I have a boy. He won’t talk to me, though. Can’t blame him. My daughter finds me on occasion. Tells me they are all doing well. She’s quite beautiful…resembles my wife, thankfully.”

  “Is that who this is?” I point to the sketch.

  “No, but I have one of her in my bag.” He smiles in remembrance. “This is of her.” He points to the brown-haired woman who was pouring drinks.

  “You drew all this just in the time you’ve been sitting here? You are incredibly gifted.” I gaze at him in awe.

  He pulls out a handful of papers, fingering through each of them until he finds the one he’s looking for.

  “This is my daughter.” His voice rises proudly.

  “She’s beautiful, has your smile.” I peer at him. His eyes look hopeful.

  “I better get outta here,” he says, noticing he’s the only customer left. “Thanks for listening to an old man yammer on and on.” He stands up, packing his sketches and pencils into his backpack.

  “It was my pleasure, and I’ll see you next Friday,” I say with commitment.

  He nods with a half-grin as if to say, “Sure, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  He wanders over and hands his drawing to the brown-haired drink volunteer and gives a slight it’s-you nod. I hear her say, “Thank you,” with a quiver in her voice, clearly surprised by the gesture.

  Leo sets the last chair on top of the table so the cleaning crew can mop, and points toward the exit. We stroll several blocks home in silence until we step to the front door. “I think I’m going to go back next week,” I say.

  “Yeah? Awesome! I saw you talking with Forest, interesting fellow…”