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I was in a somewhat confused place in my life a couple of
years ago. I had been unceremoniously ousted from my high
paying marketing position two years before and was still
struggling with a lot of "who am I and why am I here?" type
questions. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was in
the process of evolving from a person that lived almost
entirely through my mind to the person I'm becoming who
lives from her heart and soul.
Of course, life marches on even when you're in the throughs
of a personal identity crisis. At this point, fate had
thrown me a broken dishwasher.
Our family's finances at the time of the appliance meltdown
were abysmal. Finally, after several months of dealing with
mountains of dirty dishes strewn around the kitchen, I
cried "Uncle". I bought a dishwasher with the remaining
credit available on our credit card.
I was so happy when the two young men showed up to install
my shiny new best friend. It was stainless steel on the
front, absolutely beautiful, and amazingly quiet.
Too quiet, as it turned out.
I used my sleek new companion several days in a row. Each
time I finished running the dishwasher and took out the
dishes, they were still dirty. I called the store to ask
for help and they promised to send someone out the next
morning to check into the problem.
Marty, the repairman, showed up right on time. He was around
fifty, slender and had a cowboy sort of air about him. I
was immediately comfortable with him. He seemed open and
friendly, competent and wise. We went into the kitchen and
within five minutes, Marty had determined that the
installers hadn't opened a water valve completely, so there
wasn't adequate water reaching the dishwasher.
I was relieved the problem was so simple and easily fixed.
I thanked him and offered him some coffee. He accepted a
mug, leaned back against the kitchen counter and after
taking a sip, asked me if I believed in angels. His
question caught me off guard, it didn't fit with our
conversation up to that point. I asked what prompted him to
ask me that question. He said he'd noticed I had several
angel and cherub paintings and figurines around my house
and garden. I felt slightly disconcerted and avoiding his
original question, I said yes, I did indeed collect them.
He then handed me a postcard from his tool box with
information about a store in Independence, Missouri, about
45 minutes from my home. He said I should go there some
time because the owner had many angel objects for sale. I
asked Marty how he found out about the store. He proceeded
to tell me an amazing story.
About six months before I met Marty, his only daughter had
been killed in a car accident on I-435, a nearby highway.
She was a passenger in the front seat riding with a couple
of friends. The driver's cellular phone rang and he dropped
it while trying to answer it. When he bent over to pick it
up, he lost control of the car and slammed into a concrete
barrier. Marty's daughter was the only person that was
killed.
She was in her early twenties at the time of her death. She
and Marty were very close and always had been. He loved to
grow roses in his backyard. He called them his babies. After
he got home from work during the warmer months, he would go
out to tend his roses. His daughter would often join him in
the garden. Marty would always cut one perfect rose and
wordlessly hand it to her. It was his way of telling her how
much he valued her and how beautiful she was to him.
Just a few days after her death, Marty had a dream or vision
of his daughter telling him that she was at peace and he
should move forward with his life. This dream gave him a
sense of calm and peace he said. Unfortunately, his wife
felt no such peace. She was despondent and could see no
point to anything in life. Marty tried to help his wife by
telling her about his dream, but she seemed to be out of
his reach.
A few months later, Marty and his wife were driving around
in downtown Independence. He was trying to get her to decide
where to go for lunch, but she was unresponsive. Marty's
anger from all the pressure building over the last few
months of his wife shutting everyone and everything out
threatened to explode. He took a deep breath and said he
was going to drive around the square until she made a
decision about where they were going.
He drove around and around, receiving no response from his
wife. When he had tired of driving, he stopped the car, and
turned to her to try to reason with her one more time. When
he turned to look at her, he saw they were in front of a
store called the Angel Lady. He previously didn't even know
this store existed. He told his wife they needed to go into
the store. He couldn't explain why, he just knew they
needed to go inside.
As they entered the store, Marty said he immediately felt a
sense of peace wash over him. The store is in an old house
and consists of several small rooms filled with angel
paintings, figurines, books, music -- anything you can
imagine with an angel theme. As they entered the second
room, Marty looked up and saw a painting of an angel
holding a rose. The angel's face looked just like his
daughter's. He showed it to his wife and said he must buy
it. For the first time since their daughter's death,
Marty's wife seemed to be alive. She agreed that they must
have the painting for their home.
This experience was the turning point for Marty's wife
accepting and moving beyond their daughter's death. He said
that was the reason he carried cards from the Angel Lady
with him wherever he went. He felt there were always people
that needed to experience the healing that he and his wife
had and he wanted to help them find it.
It was time for Marty to go to his next service call. He had
more appliances to repair, more souls to heal.
About the Author
Suzanne is a recovering intellectual/technical person who
rediscovered her love of truth and writing at the age of 39.
She now shares her quirky views of life with anyone that
cares to read them. Her main project of the moment can be
explored at Today, I remembered...
Written by: Suzanne Solle
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