We’ve read lots of stories about guardian angels on the job, and now we have our very own. I’ve said it before, so forgive me but I just can’t help but say it again… Grace drizzles in! Sometimes it takes a sore bruise to help us see it.
Last night, while I was finishing the dishes, my husband Roger wrapped up the evening by doing a few chores. His last job was to bring in some wood and to fill the stove. We heat most of the house with an old Better ‘n Ben’s stove, installed by the previous owner, who lived here a mere eighty years. It sits in a prominent spot in our library, adjacent to my sixty-year-old knotty pine kitchen.
Rog came through the door with the wood carrier in his hand, hauling a heavy load. As I was washing the last pot, I heard the wood hit the floor with a thump and then the painful sound of, “Ah. Owww!” I looked over my shoulder and gasped. The big guy was lying on the floor holding his head. He tripped over the rug.
Since Rog is on blood thinners, a result of his blood clot last May, a nasty fall like this coudl have been disastrous, especially one that involved the head. Being a doting wife, I ran over to him, cupped his head in my hands, gave it a little rub with a prayer of thanksgiving, and slapped a cold gel pack on it. “Am I bleeding? Am I bleeding? What’s it look like?”
>No, he wasn’t bleeding, praise God, but the poor man had quite a welt, and it was a funny one. How did he get a bruise composed of four parallel lines?
Later, we figured it out. When he was falling, his head hit a small handle on the cast iron stove. It’s fashioned into a spring, and we could see that it was surely bent. You know, we always wondered why it was a spring; we just thought the shape kept the handle cool to the touch. But maybe now we know better. Am I reaching? Did the manufacturer mark on his blue prints, “Spring handles, to prevent injury due to nasty falls”? Hmm. Doesn’t matter. I’ll take it.
Besides, I had a bigger question to ponder. How in the world did his forehead find its way to that spring handle? The door’s latches, which are much larger, hang over it, and one would have to scoop down and over to get to it. Falling from above, a man’s head would have surely made contact with the cast iron first. Roger just shook his head. “Good point. I honestly just don’t know,” he said.
Well, now, I have to admit, I think it was an angel who cupped his head in careful hands and guided him clear of the bigger danger. This dear angel prevented Rog from seriously hurting himself and saved us from a mad rush to the emergency room in snow and sleet, not to mention a long stay in the hospital. Who could argue with the facts? The physical evidence was right there, and it will remain there for years to come….or at least until we figure out how straighten that spring handle. Either way, I won’t forget it, and the clear-cut proof will remain in my heart.
Thank you, Lord, for protecting my husband last night.
You watch over us and provide us with all we need to remain safe and warm.
We are grateful for your vigilant angels who never rest and always remain on guard.
Copyright 2011 Kathleen Blease