24 continued... Even Michael’s snore was somehow familiar. Careful not to wake him, you take your grandmother’s prize quilt of its display rack and gently cover him with it. Surprisingly, you barely give pause to the fact that you treasure this handcrafted heirloom given to you by your beloved grandmother more than any of your other worldly possessions. As you turn to walk back to begin your culinary task in the kitchen, something arrests your attention. It is his ragtag, filthy coat folded neatly and placed on the floor next to your now fully reclined and covered houseguest. Stooping to pick it up, an idea occurs to you that Michael might appreciate a clean coat to go with his hot chili. Since washing and drying the tattered garment will just about coincide with your famous chili being ready to serve, you decide to go ahead with the thoughtful gesture. As you unfold the humble coat to wash it, what is revealed causes a chill to run down your spine that drops you to your knees in shock. Waves of emotion rock you to and fro; you hit your head against the washer and fail to even notice. The inside lining of the stranger’s jacket is an exact replica of your grandmother’s prize quilt! On your knees on the cold, utility room floor you grasp the coat tightly with both hands, burying your face as far inside as possible to muffle your sobs. “What is going on?’ you cry into the colorful but faded patchwork, ‘who is this man and why is he here?” You look up for answers and there is only silence. You wonder, “Have I been given 24 hours to live AND forced to endure this mental torture as well?” The despair you have avoided since making your awful discovery of the note, now surrounds you and is closing in from all sides. You decide that it is better to die now, on the floor next to your washer and dryer, than to face any more painful reminders of your lost loved ones. Minutes of weeping into Michael’s coat pass, you are neither sure nor do you care how long, before you feel a tender hand on your shoulder. Surprised, you look up from the floor directly into those hollow, sparkling eyes. Without a word, Michael places a tanned and wrinkled arm around your shoulders and helps you to your feet. The irony of a homeless man helping a dying, middle-class man to his feet fails to register with you. Instead, the man, the coat, his eyes, his hands, and the few hours you have left to exist on earth transfix you. And all you can come up with to ask him is, “What do you want from me?” Helping you out of the utility room, your hands still clutching the strange garment, Michael flashes his funny grin and replies, “Something hot to eat.” Like a rainbow after a thunderstorm, his dry humor dries your tears and calms your spirit. “Well, it will take a little time but my delicious chili will be worth the wait,” you state with restored focus. “I know”, adds Michael. While you prepare and mix the ingredients for the chili, you smile at the memory of your mom teaching you how to make her “secret” recipe. She was the best cook you had ever experienced and you have sampled many cooks’ finest work. More importantly, she was the best friend you ever had and your greatest supporter. Her untimely death had left a palpable void in your life and in your family’s lives and she was simply irreplaceable! Michael sits quietly at the kitchen table studying his ever-present Bible, while you cook. After the chili is placed on the stove to simmer, you take a seat beside your guest, your mind brimming over with questions. “Michael, may I ask where you purchased your coat?” you inquire. “It was made for me,” the answer, without looking up from his study. “Please tell me by whom?” continuing the interrogation. “By my grandmother.” Still focused on his reading. Sensing his desire to concentrate on other matters, you stop. The chili is about ready anyway. As you take two bowls out of the cabinet, the clock on your microwave oven flashes a sickening, unwelcome reminder. You have 12:38 left to live. Slumping against the kitchen counter, the gravity of having spent half your last day on earth writing your family and hanging out with a homeless man hits you with a heartless fury. Gathering yourself, you take two spoons out of the drawer, and dish out your mama’s delicious homemade chili. As you set a bowl of the steamy, spicy Nirvana in front of Michael, he stops his reading and gives you a grateful look that lets you know that he is finally pleased. Both of you eat for a while in silence, until another question from you breaks it. “What are you reading now my friend?” “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me”. Then the King’s friends will answer him, “Good King, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?” The King will reply, “I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.” “Please tell me what that means?” you ask. “It means many things to many different people but only those that experience its truth can understand what the Author meant when it was written.” Frustrated that he is reticent to enlighten you more, you ask to see his Bible. Taking it carefully into your hands considering its delicate condition, you read the passage yourself. What grabs you instead is not the quoted text but the handwritten notes filling the margins. Your hands trembling now, you turn page after page and on every one, the notes inundate the margins. Hands now perceptibly shaking, you look at your mysterious guest with lightening in your soul and fire in your eyes, turn the open Bible towards him, and haltingly sputter, “This is without a doubt my Grandmother’s Bible, this is her handwriting, these are her notes, I would know them anywhere, how did you get it?” Without answering, Michael reaches out with those big calloused, mangled hands and touches yours. Immediately, your shaking ceases and your fire is doused. Broken in body and spirit, you cry out to no one in particular, “I do not understand any of this. Am I to be punished even before I die?” “On the contrary my friend,’ comes the answer, ‘you are being rescued from something much worse than death!” Not expecting any further clarity regarding that statement you seek it anyway, “And what might that be?” “My dear friend, to live without passion and a purpose is not really life at all. It is going through the motions of life but it is not life! You were in grave danger of falling into the bottomless abyss of passionless living and I was sent to rescue you from that fate.” The perplexed look on your face encourages Michael to continue. “I am a messenger from your departed loved ones whose earnest desire is to help you reset your sails and head in the right direction again. You have been drifting through life, blown about by the winds of time and circumstance and were heading for a shipwreck. Signs have been sent throughout your life to help guide you back to safety but you have pride fully and stubbornly ignored them. Your departed family and friends decided to step in with drastic measures.” “But you have been standing at that intersection for months, asking for a handout, and now you are telling me that you were sent here for me along. I am still confused!” “Your family just knew that you would stop and help and eventually try and find out my situation. The plan was for me to ask you for a hot meal. They said you would invite me to your home and ask a lot of questions. Well, they got most of it right!” “Anyway, when you stopped at the intersection, all you ever did was hand me a few bucks and hurriedly drive away without really looking at me. The whole mission was about to be aborted until she stepped in and convinced everyone to keep trying.” “Who is the she you are referring to, my grandmother?” you implore. “No, your mother. She refused to allow anyone to give up on you. She said given time and the right sign, you would turn your life around and really start living again. When Sister Joy gets her mind set on something, she always gets her way!” “You mean even up there my mom runs things?” you ask incredulously. “Pretty much that’s so’, replied Michael with his biggest crooked grin, ‘she convened a committee of all your family, your grandparents, your aunts and uncles, your teachers, and a few of your friends to plot a strategy to wake you up. It was the committee’s idea to send signs that would remind you of your family. They decided it was the only way to make you believe.” “Michael, you mean to tell me that decisions are made by committee in Heaven?’ you skeptically charge, ‘that sounds like hell to me!” Michael, now practically laughing, “Not all the decisions, not the most important ones, just where it concerns trying to help someone turn their life around. That is the truth behind the passages I quoted you. People on Earth are sent messengers anytime they start drifting, to try and convince them to get their priorities straight. Feeding the hungry; clothing the poor; visiting the sick and imprisoned; protecting innocent children; and helping the homeless is right living. It is when people take the focus off of themselves and, instead, focus on the less fortunate all around them that they really begin to live!” Well, what about the note and my clocks, am I really going to die in (walking to the microwave) 10:36?” Michael turns away from you, apparently suppressing an otherworldly belly laugh, “The note was not your mom’s or the committee’s idea. It was your best friend Jerry who convinced everyone that you would NEVER wake up unless hit square between the eyes with a baseball bat. The note was a bat and he was right!” Tears fill your eyes again as you realize that your best buddy was still watching your back, even from the beyond. Relief envelopes you like a mother’s love surrounds her children and you slump down in your chair, exhausted emotionally and physically from the days events. One last question presses you to be answered, “Who are you actually?” Your personal messenger’s face becomes serious and resolute as he responds, “Why my dear friend Michael, haven’t you figured it out yet? I am YOU if you heed not this warning and fail to change course!” Tick, tick, tick, BBRRNNGG ~ vp ~
Posted on: Sat, 05 Jul 2014 14:50:34 +0000
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