Angels Watching Over Me
I can't think of a more inappropriate place to receive the news. Standing in a loud, smoke-filled casino, obsessively feeding money into the one-armed bandits, hoping to leave Las Vegas and return to California as the richest twenty-year old lady of 1970.
I laugh as I watch Little Richard swish past me in his Elizabeth Arden make-up and uni-sex ruffled tuxedo. And then I hear myself being paged over the p.a. system. Mother, from her phone in El Paso, has summoned the State Highway Patrol in Nevada to track me down and give me the news. She wants me to know--right away--she has lost her mother-in-law.
 |
| Grandma |
As I hold the phone in my hand, I am only half-aware of Mother's non-stop voice. My mind travels back to a safe place of comfort and unqualified love -- to a time when I learned about the angels: the summer of '55.
= = = = = = = = = =
Grandma lived in Shabbona, population 487, where the main attraction was a railroad track that enabled the passenger train to barrel through the village eight times a day.
Two summer weeks out of every year were spent traveling from New Mexico to Illinois to stay at Grandma's white wood-paneled house with green shutters and green porches. The lush green lawns and bright flower gardens that surrounded her two-story house were always a welcome sight after being cooped up in the cramped station wagon for four days.
There were dozens of family members to visit once we arrived; but Grandma was always the one with whom I wanted to spend private time.
This summer I was eleven and I had grown two inches. I knew Grandma would notice. As Daddy turned down the familiar dirt driveway and honked the horn, my skin broke out in goose bumps. I knew what was coming, and while my sister and I acted like we didn't enjoy all the "slobbering” and folderol, we both secretly enjoyed the fuss Grandma made over seeing us again. I had already decided I would be the last one out of the car this year. That way, my hugs and kisses would last longer than everyone else's.
I laughed as I watched Grandma squeal with delight, smothering everyone else with wet kisses and warm, firm hugs. When I saw everyone else had been celebrated, I jumped out of the station wagon, running straight into Grandma's arms. Even at eleven, I was taller than my short, soft Grandma, and had to bend over to receive all the kisses.
"Look, Grandma: I’ve grown!" I squealed nervously.
"Oh, sweet Jesus, you surely have!" Grandma said as she held me at arm's length to have a good look. Her eyes were shiny with tears of joy and her spectacles were all spotty. Her hazel eyes crinkled as she looked me over from head to foot, much like a mother dog inspects each precious puppy.
"Child, you have your father's eyes and Your Grandpa’s chin. You get prettier every time I see you!" she whispered as she stroked my sun-streaked hair and looked at me with too much love. I felt my body tensing and I knew I needed to change the subject quickly.
"Do you have ginger cookies, Grandma?" Actually, I knew Grandma always had ginger cookies hidden in her cellar, but it was the only question I could think of that would divert her attention away from me. I had waited all year for her affirming attention, and now I was uncomfortable with it.
"Child, your Grandma always has cookies, but first we'll eat supper. You must be starved to death after such a long trip!" Grandma turned to go up the stairs when her gaze fell to my arms. "Child, what happened here?" she asked as she pointed to the belt-shaped bruises on my arms.
I nervously glanced at Mama before stammering, "Uh-I-I fell off my bike, Grandma. I was hurt real bad, but now I'm OK. Can we eat now, Grandma?"
Grandma looked first at Mama, then at Daddy. Neither said a word. Grandma clicked her tongue and then got real quiet as she pulled out the leaves on her kitchen table.
That night as Grandma was tucking me into her fluffy feather bed, we talked about being poor. I whispered that we were poor and I wished we weren’t.
"Oh, shush, child. There's no dishonor in being poor. Our Savior was poor, Himself. There's only dishonor in being dishonest...or lazy." Grandma looked like her thoughts were far off, and she closed her eyes like she was praying. Her eyes were still closed when she asked me a strange question:
"Do you know you have angels watching over you?"
"I do? Where are they?" I was intrigued at the thought of real angels hovering over me.
"Oh, you won't see them, but they're there. Every night before your Grandma gets into bed, I kneel and ask God to send His angels to watch over you: To protect my girls -- especially you, Child."
"Really? I've never seen any of them. How do you know they're there?"
Grandma didn't respond to my question, but started muttering to herself. I heard what she said, though. She said something inside her had always known I needed the protection of angels, but until tonight she hadn't understood why. She stroked my back and I winced in pain. She pulled up my pajama top and gasped in horror.
"How in Heaven's name did you get all of these welts on your back, child? Who beat you like this? It wasn't my son, was it? Couldn't have been my son. He was different from his brothers. He never fought like they did. It wasn't him, was it?" Grandma was getting upset now, and I felt like I was the cause.
"No, Grandma. It wasn't him, but I can't tell anymore. Mama says we're not allowed to show people our dirty laundry. If I tell you anymore secrets, God will punish me."
"Did your Ma tell you that? Did she say God would punish you if you told how you get beat?"
"She said God watches everything I do. He knows every bad thought I think, and He sees every bad thing I do. She said He'll punish me if I tell our secrets."
"Oh, no, child," Grandma cried as she put her arms around me. "I thought I was the only one."
"Did you get beat, too, Grandma?"
"Your grandpa beat on me until I was thirty five. Then one day, he just stopped hitting me. But he never quit beating on his sons till they left home -- all but your Pa. He never beat on him." Grandma held my head close to her heart and I smelled the rose water she splashed on that morning. I was scared, but I felt safe in her arms.
"Child, I want you to hear what I'm telling you," she said in a stern voice. "I don't know why your Pa isn't protecting you. If you lived closer to me I could protect you, but you don't. I can't be with you, but Jesus is always with you. Even if you can't see Him, He's everywhere you are. Not to punish you, but to protect you. He has ten thousand angels who do what He tells them to do. I've only asked Him to send four to you.
When you sleep, they stand by your bed to protect you as you sleep. When you're at school, they walk on each side of you. Jesus loves you, Girl. He loved you even before you were born. He didn't allow Himself to be put on that cross just so He could punish you! If you had been the only person in the world, He still would have died on the cross for you so you could be accepted by God, just like you are.
Jesus don't have a big belt in His hands, child! He has arms like Grandma's arms that reach out to accept you just as you are, with no fixing up. Do you believe what I'm telling you?" Grandma looked deep into my eyes as she waited for my response.
"If you say it, I believe it, Grandma," I whispered through my tears.
"Now look, child. You have good Dutch blood flowing through those veins of yours. You're a strong girl, and whatever you have to endure, you can endure as long as Jesus’ angels protect you. You might have to take some beatings for a while, but you will not die from them.
I don't know why Jesus allows us to be hurt, but anyone who lives has some kind of burden to bear. Jesus won't let anyone kill you. As long as I have breath in my body, I'll be praying for extra angels to watch over you. As long as I'm alive I'll be on my knees for you. And when I'm gone, Jesus will still be there answering my prayers....."
= = = = = = = = = =
Now, standing in the noisy casino, I am once again aware of my surroundings. I hang up the phone and walk slowly through the casino, heading for the bathrooms. I walk past dozens of old women parked in front of their slot machines, nickels in their coffee cans. I bump into the cleavaged blonde hanging on the drunken bald man, and I smell the odor of stale cigarette butts and warm beer.
I see Little Richard with his red lips and hear his red acrylic nails banging on the piano as he screams "Good golly, Miss Molly, sure love to ball." I look at the faces of the young prostitutes working the room, and I wonder if they have angels watching over them.
I see blurred painted faces turning ugly with greed and then panic, as money is lost. I hear shrill female screams and shrieks as the dice are rolled to decide their fate. A stumbling three-piece-suit sways into my path and asks me how much I'd charge for a good time.
I feel how much Grandma would hate this place, and my stomach begins to heave. I need to be alone. I need to escape the insanity of this brightly-lit insane asylum. I run to escape the inmates and find sanctuary in an empty stall just in time to puke into the toilet.
Alone in my stall, I am not alone. For the first time, I actually feel the presence of Grandma's angels. Two of them stand guard at each corner of the stall as liquid escapes from every orifice of my body. Oddly, nobody knocks at my stall for hours.
Unable to cry for fifteen years, I open the backed-up floodgates and it is hours before they close again. This time they will not stay closed forever. This time I feel the angels protecting me, and I know Grandma’s prayers are still being answered. Now I can trust God.
(c)2001-2012 April Lorier, Godwoman
Please note: This is an excerpt from my book
God's Battered Child and is copyrighted.
God's Battered Child and is copyrighted.
