I Think I Was Touched by An Angel

It didn’t feel so good.

My religious upbringing was definitely not what any sane person would consider rational.

My mother was raised as a Catholic. My father spent most of his formative years as an atheist.

We spent our Sundays in the pews of an extremely conservative Southern Baptist church, while my days in school were with the Lutherans.

Lots of exposure, and lots of confusion.

We were in poverty, though I didn’t really recognize that in my younger years. I was sure things were different for me compared to those I would consider friends, but I couldn’t pin down how those differences applied.

Our house was a trailer, one of hundreds of others lined up in rows in the crappiest neighborhood on the south side of town. Sure, mom tried to make it look nice, and I suppose it was in comparison, but it was still nowhere near the life of luxury. Things were hard and getting worse by the day.

One shining light, my golden beacon of joy, was the park. I could look out of my bedroom window and see it sitting there, calling out to me all the time. It had one swing set, a set of monkey bars you could climb on to your heart’s content, and … well, that was about it.

But it was my park. I knew it was my park, because I was four years old and no one else, in my young little mind, deserved that space as much as me.

I would go there as often as I could, spending every waking moment outside of church or school playing on those bars and having the time of my life. I was usually alone, though, since the trailer court we lived in had a second, much bigger playground a few blocks away.

That one was for the snobs, though. Teenagers filled it whenever I would go there, who made me feel like crap for being in their space and bully me constantly.

I hated that place.

No, I wanted my park and was ever so happy being there.

One day, my parents were standing outside of our house talking with some neighbors. Dad was drinking, of course. He always seemed to have a beer or a big glass full of whiskey and rye in his hands. Mom regaled the people with some story or another while I made my way to my piece of heaven on earth.

When I was there, I could ignore dad yelling. I could drown out mom crying when I imagined I was striking down the deadly troll who liked to hide in the big bush along the fence.

He was my nemesis. My Goliath.

When I would send the troll to his doom (only to come back again the next day, of course), I would climb those monkey bars and dream of places beyond our own. It would sweep me away in my imagination, allowing a moment of peace from the discord my little brain could not understand, at the time, was a horribly abusive childhood.

All I knew was the park was mine, and there I was safe.

I don’t know if it’s a matter of looking back on things through the lens of a person who no longer exists, or if it’s because of the passage of time, but something that day felt different from the others I experienced in that place.

A tinge of darkness, perhaps, hung in the air. Shadows normally not there among the fence lines toyed with me, catching the corner of my eyes before fading away. A moment later, they showed themselves again, teasing my thoughts.

I glanced across the road, seeing mom and dad there with their friends. Things looked normal, but the shadows filled me with trepidation.

My legs carried me toward the street, and I was on the pavement with little effort.

The dark things around me piled in, sweeping around the fringe of my vision. I pushed faster, but as the shadows creeped inward, time seemed to slow to a crawl.

A rumble echoed around me, vibrating through the pads of my shoes into the legs that now seemed like molasses. I twisted my vision sideways and saw the car.

In the 1970s, there were very few compact cars. Most autos were akin to land yachts, taking up a lot of space on the road and carrying a lot of weight behind them.

This one was definitely one of them. It was only a second or two in actual time, but things in that moment seemed so slow that it was as if I was torn from my body.

Like I was watching it from the outside.

I saw the car coming, its driver unaware of the presence of the small child trying to cross the road. My mom’s mouth and arms were just beginning to open wide, perhaps with a scream on her tongue as she noticed what was happening.

I saw, too, the Child-I-Was trying to stop himself from moving, but those dark shadowy patches seemed to prompt him forward.

Then there was a flash.

My awareness came back into my body with a jolt as something slammed into my back.

A strength I had never felt before picked my body up and flung me across the road into the waiting arms of my mother.

All the tension, the pressure, released as the horrendous screech reached my ears. The car came to a stop, leaving strips of rubber behind as his foot hit the brakes.

Then the tumult of confusion and cries from everyone set in.

He hadn’t hit me. There were no marks on my body anywhere outside of ones that already existed. The driver swore he never felt a thump or anything before he hit the brakes.

My mom, too, was as positive as she could be that it did not hit me, but heaved by some unseen force from in front of the car. Her eyes were on me the whole time, so I feel I can trust her thoughts.

No one else seemed to catch the shadows, or the flash of light that crashed into me.

For thousands of years, people have talked about and debated the existence of angels. They’ve also tried to figure out their counterparts in history, the demonic realm.

I’m not sure of anything else, but I can say it is my full belief I was, that day, touched by an angel. I don’t know if I liked it, but I am still here, and alive.

That’s got to say something about their intentions, I suppose.

There have been many other times in my life I have come close to going to the other side. I don’t know what’s kept me here on this little ball of dust we call home, but I’m glad.

Whatever it was, and whatever it means, I might not discover for sure until I do make it to the afterlife. For now, though, I’ll stay satisfied with knowing I had an experience few others have.

An angel touched me. I’m not sure if I liked it, but I am grateful to be here.

About me:

I am an author with over a dozen books and dozens of short stories published. I have experience with both traditional and self-publishing and love to discuss the pros and cons of both.

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