Excerpt from

  Brush of An Angel's Wing

The Lady and Her Horse

     "I need to see you right away!"
     It was a plaintive voice on the phone and obviously troubled.  So we made an appointment.  And that afternoon as she came through my door, everything about her spoke of true class.  Attractive, intelligent, a young instructor at the University of Houston, working on her doctorate.  But she was bothered, and she came to me because she was a regular reader of my column in The Houston Post.
    "This morning," she began, "the strangest thing happened.  It was 2:00 A.M. when I woke with a start.  I turned on the lights and looked around.  There was this loud noise in my ears like a horse neighing."
     She went on to say that she owned two horses which she kept in a pasture five miles from her apartment.  She was from west Texas, and she had grown up with horses.  She and her horses, she said, were very much in tune.
     When the sound died away, she turned off the lights and settled down once more.  But in a few minutes, there came the neighing again.  This time she sat up in bed and waited.  Then it came for the third time, loud, clear.
     Of course, she thought of her own horses, and suddenly she knew: she must go to the pasture!  How silly can I get?  she asked.  Am I losing my mind?  It's two o'clock in the morning!
     Still, she knew she must go.  So she dressed, called the night man to bring her car, and drove to the stable.
     "Please don't say one word until I'm through," she continued.  "It all seems to impossible.  When I got there, I found my palomino mare standing in broken wire, neighing her lungs out.  Some horses are like that, you know.  They seem to sense that the wise thing to do is 'don't move and call for help'"
     So, the mare stood still while her mistress untangled the barbed wire.  Talking to her, soothing her, she set her free.  Then some ointment for the superficial cuts and back home to bed.
     "What do you all think happened?" she asked in her lovely Texas drawl.  "I couldn't really have heard my horse through the sounds of the night, the hum of the freeway, the noise of a big city like this.  And the horses are five miles away!  What do you think happened?"
     I didn't laugh.  Instead, we talked.  I told her some of my own unusual experiences.  And then I told her what I thought happened.
     But before I tell you what I told her -
     What do you think happened?

Every night around the family dinner table we had a fun ritual called Interesting Things  Each of us would share one of our day's events.  An exciting moment, sometimes a funny one.  Maybe a somber happening, something heavy.  When it came my turn that night, I told about the neighing horse.  Then I asked this collection of interesting characters, "What do you think happened?"
     They were quiet for a time.  Very unusual for our family of seven.  At last Peter broke the silence.  (He's now a university professor, but even at twelve, he was already a philosopher.)  "Dad, he said, either the lady is lying, or God told her to go see about her horse."
     Of course, they asked me what I told her.  So I gave it to them exactly as I'd given my answer to her.
    I believe that the God who created us did not go off and leave us.  In his love he is constantly trying to reach us, lead us, guide us.  Or maybe he wants to warn us, detour us, perhaps bring us to an abrupt stop for our own good.  I believe that all around us, all the time, his angels are there wanting to direct us.  And for what reason?  Because he loves us.
     So why don't we experience his blessings more often?  Is it because we are too busy, too preoccupied, trying to run our lives our way?
     Yet all the time he is waiting with his holy nudges, holy whispers, holy surprises, holy angels.  Always he wants to bless us, use us, love us with the wonders of his love.

 
But Where Were the Angels?

But where were the angels in the young lady's story?  She hadn't seen any, had she?  Did you?
     No, she hadn't.  Yet that is exactly how angels do things.  And when we study the Bible's angels, we see this clearly: angels are not looking for publicity or visibility  Apparently all they have in mind is to get their job done. Sometimes completely behind the scenes sometimes so near we can almost feel their breath.
     On other occasions, they seem to send their blessings from a distance.  Across town. Across state lines.  Across continents.  Across pastures and busy freeways.  Sometimes with lightning speed.  Sometimes so slowly we think they'll never get here.
     Always that's how angels are.  they operate their way, not ours.  Or rather, they do things for God, his way.
     All this is why I like the phrase the brush of an angel's wing.
     Some of the stories you'll be reading are like the lady and her horse.  Nobody even thought about angels until it was over.  Then to the thinking mind come all these questions: However could that have happened?  Divine intervention?  What's going on here?  Angels?
 

The Cedar River runs through my hometown.  Wide, deep, winding, this has to be one of America's most beautiful rivers.  And I should know.  I grew up on it.
     As the Cedar passes by downtown, there is a churning section of water called The Millrace.  Standing on the river bank it's plain to see why they labeled this a race.  Fallen limbs from the upstream trees, worn out and broken boats, old tires, and trash of many kinds battled each other in the millrace.
     More than sixty years ago, when I was a boy, one landmark at the millrace was a giant pipe.  Purpose of the pipe?  To keep the millrace from rushing its debris downstream.  Manufacturing plants, factories, and businesses had been built along the river's edge.  Their foundations of concrete, brick and wood were important both the owners and employee paychecks.  For this reason a giant screen had been attached to the pipe's outlet.  Here, the debris could be halted to protect the downstream walls and underpinnings.  Every few months the screen would be removed, cleaned, and the rubbish hauled harmlessly away.
    Almost every boy who grew up along the Cedar River became a good swimmer  Swimming was our thing.  Showing off was our things, too, and all those signs along the millrace bank were a magnet drawing us on.  Danger, Strong Current, Undertow, Swimming Strictly Forbidden.  But you know how boys are.  For us the taunting question was, "How close can you get to the big pipe?"  This day I decided it was my turn.  I would show them something, and I did.
     It was full-river season, with extra danger because the water was high.  What I didn't know was that water would also be high in the pipe.  At the top there would be no more than a few inches of air.  Six?  Ten? 
     Sometimes there is a fine line between good sense and plain foolishness.  And this day I crossed the line.
     Into the water I went and started toward the pipe; one eye on the current and the other on my friends.  But the current was powerful enough to pull even an accomplished swimmer into the tunnel.  Before I new what had happened, I was swept into the pipe, sucked under the water by the powerful rush of the millrace! Truth: I was about to drown.
     If you were about to drown, you would have an amazing experience.  Like a fast-forward video, everything you ever did would go racing through your mind.  The good, the beautiful, the bad, your hopes and dreams - all speeding by.  Awesome.  Unbelievable.
     At thirteen, boys don't think of dying.  But I did then.  Boys don't pray much either, but I did that too.
    Then suddenly I felt a lift, as though a hand were taking me up to the air
     I filled my lungs and fought against the undertow.  But still I was little competition for the downward pull.  Down to the bottom again.  All this time I was struggling - struggling against the current, struggling to get back where I came in. There would be no escape at the other end.  The heavy screen was much too stubborn to let a boy through.
     Then came that hand again.  Something, someone, lifted me up for air again.  Three or four times it happened.  And each time, when the hand was gone, it was back to the bottom for me, no match for the pull.
     Still, I kept struggling, turning around, heading back toward the entrance.  Yet with each turn now I seemed to hear a voice saying, "Forget the screen!  Head for the outward exit!"  Then once more I felt the hand, this time turning me hard, hurling me toward the screen end.  With one mighty shove, up, up, and out of the tunnel, up to the unlimited air.
     "See the wooden fence, Charlie?  Go for it.  Hold on.  Hold on till the lifeguards come.  See them coming fast to the rescue?"

I do not remember all that happened the, but this one thing I will never forget.  As they pulled me into their boat, the captain said, "Were you ever lucky, kid.  Yesterday we took the screen off to clean the thing.  Real lucky."
     Why did the lifeguards take the screen off yesterday?  Pure routine?  Or did it happen yesterday to save the life of a teenage showoff today?
     Then came the barrage of lifeguard questions:  "What's your name?  Where do you live?  Why were you swimming so close?  What was it like in there?  How do you feel?
     Then the captain asked one final question: "Weren't there two of you in there?  Somehow we got the idea there were two."
     How many times through the years have I asked myself, "Why didn't I answer, 'There really were two.  But the other one had to leave early to answer another call.'"

Some years ago, we were visiting with a group of friends - a really heady bunch, the kind where any subject might be introduced.  That night the topic was extraordinary happenings.  When it was my turn, I told about that hand in the water pipe.
     One of those friends was a non-believer.  A brainy man, a thinker; professor at the university.  He listened intently as any thinker would.  Then he moved in with his explanation.  "Don't you understand, Charlie, you were young and strong.  Often in emergencies there is a rush of strength from deep in the subconscious.  That's you explanation.  Besides, what if there is a God who runs the universe? With all he has to do, you don't think he'd have time for one fool boy in one tunnel on one river, do you?"
     To which a responsive young lady in the group replied, "Oh, but didn't you know?  God has angels, too."
     And for sixty-five years, ever since I felt that hand in the tunnel, I've believed she had the answer.  HE DOES!

"In my distress...I cried to my God
for help...He reached down from on high and
took hold of me; he drew me out
of deep water."
Psalms 18:6 NIV

The Years which the Locust Hath Eaten

My second pastorate was in Nebraska - seven hundred members and much, much too large a congregation for a young pastor three years out of seminary.  But I was called there, and I think they knew somehow they'd taken a boy to raise.  They were loving, enthusiastic, fun.  And, being farmers, they kept our freezer full of hind quarters, front quarters, and things in between.
     A wise old preacher and member of the Nebraska church family told me: "Son, no matter how smart you become, you will never know as much as the Bible.  So every week, pick out some text you like, and do your best.  If you do that, most of the people will get something from even your poorest effort."
    Thank you, caring friend.  Your advice was, and still is, right on target.  The Word of the Lord does have an impact I could never have on my own.  Like the day of the happy surprise in Barmore's drug store (open every day, including Sunday).

This is the story of one of my failures.  By my standards, it was a failure, but God had a bigger plan. That's how it often is in his provenience - love ahead of time.
     For my text that Sunday, I had chosen Joel 2:25: "I will restore unto you the years which the locust hath eaten."  Not much background in the passage, really.  However, I did like it, and wasn't "like it" where my elderly mentor told me to start?  Yet somehow, though I honestly tried, it simply wouldn't preach.  For me, the poor thing fell with a dull thud.     
     I could tell that even Martha had her doubts.  When we sat down to her customary Sabbath spread, things were not like our Sunday noon custom.  Her usual "I think you're wonderful" smile was a bit subdued.  So we discussed my feelings and her feelings.  Then we decided together we should put this week's feeble effort out of its misery.  We did.  With a special prayer for that kind of misery, we laid it away.
     Only it wouldn't stay away.  All afternoon it would push over the tombstone and leer at me.  Fortunately, it was a busy Sunday and busyness is a good balm for sore memories.  But there is another balm I like.  On my way home I decided a thick Barmore milkshake was exactly what I needed.  I call this "Comfort me with something creamy."
     Fred Barmore was one of our elders.  Good man.  Good friend.  He must have recognized the downward thrust of my spirits so he made the shake that Sunday exactly like I loved his shakes - extra size, extra sweet, extra thick.  Delicious.  Super soothing.
     Halfway through this sin of the flesh, Fred remembered something.  Suddenly he got up from the table where we sat visiting and ran to the cash register.
     "There was a couple in church this morning from Ogalalla.  Nice folks.  They stopped here for a sandwich.  And when they left, they gave me this envelope to give you first time I saw you."
     If I were to list on five fingers the most beautiful letters ever to come my way, this one would surely be included.

Dear Reverend Shedd:
We are from Ogalalla and on our way to Lincoln.  Since we always go to church, we stopped today for your service.
     There is no way we could tell you what your sermon meant to us.  Actually, we were heading for Lincoln to consult a lawyer friend.  Sorry to say we were going to work out details for a divorce.  We had both decided our marriage was hopeless.
    But here we sit in this drugstore having lunch, and as we waited for our order something happened we think you should know.  We began discussing those simple little rules you gave for restoring a marriage the locust had been chewing on so long.  The more we talked the more we knew the Lord had been speaking to us through you, so this is what we decided to do.  Instead of heading for Lincoln, we're heading back home to begin restoring what was once a wonderful love.  Thank you.

Why did they happen to be going through our town at everybody's church hour?  Did they feel the brush of an angel's wing guiding them our way?  Ours is the God who rescues failures.  By angel or whatever the method.  That's exactly what he promised in the morning text, isn't it?  It's a great promise.

I will restore unto you the years which the locust hath eaten.
Joel 2:25