ANGELS AND DOWNTURNS
The sound of anxious footsteps made me jolt awake. My wife whizzed past the living room couch I had been sleeping on ever since that horrible night, heading into the kitchen. The morning sun peered in through our windows. The sound of coffee pouring into my wife’s mug from the kitchen Keurig machine filled the air, and she appeared back in the living room.
“Since you’re gonna be home today, you’ll have to drop AJ’s medication off at his school,” she whispered curtly.
“Fine,” I muttered.
“Have a good day.” With that, she blew me a half-hearted kiss and walked out to her car.
I shook my head. Gosh, is she ever gonna forgive me for losing my job?
After I dropped my son’s medication off with the school nurse, I walked back to my car, and an idea dawned on me. St. Frances de Chantal Roman Catholic Church was nearby. I hadn’t been to that particular church in a while and wanted to stop in.
It was Lent. A crown of thorns rested on a table in front of me. Off to the side, a man was praying the Stations of the Cross. I surveyed the crown of thorns, negative thoughts filling my head. How could I let this happen? Boy, I felt like a failure. How long before I would find another job? As anger swelled within me, I picked up the crown of thorns. Studying it briefly in my hands, I wanted to put it on my head and hurt myself.
“Hey!” the man praying the Stations of the Cross whispered angrily.
I turned to him, and he was now glaring at me.
“Put that crown of thorns down!”
I defensively held my hands up and said, “I’m sorry. Here.” I replaced the crown of thorns on the table.
The man charged toward me. He was built like a football player. Tattoos covered his meaty arms. “Don’t disrespect my Lord!”
My body trembled. “I wasn’t trying to,” I said, my voice cracking. “Honestly. Please, don’t get crazy.”
“I’m not crazy!” he argued.
“Okay,” I said, pivoting on my heel, “I’ll leave now.”
I started toward the exit. So much for quiet reflection in a different church.
“Wait!”
I paused and turned toward the man.
“I’m sorry,” he pleaded, his face now displaying a contrite smile. “I didn’t mean to get like that. I have an aggressive personality sometimes. I’m just very protective when it comes to God. Can you forgive me?”
“Of course,” I said, my awkwardness melting away. “And I wasn’t gonna walk out with that crown of thorns. Honestly. Can you forgive me?”
The man chuckled. “I just did. Can I just ask what you were doing, though?”
I mentioned my job loss, the anger I felt toward myself, the impulse to inflict bodily harm on myself.
“Do you wanna talk?” he asked, compassion in his eyes.
“Sure. I’m Jeff, by the way.”
“I’m Justin.”
We shook hands and sat in one of the pews.
At first, we engaged in small talk. About my former career in the financial industry. About his twenty years with the New York City Fire Department. About my children’s autism. About his grown daughters and toddler grandsons. Then Justin revealed that he was a full-time demonologist. It was ironic how he had made a living putting out physical fires. Now he was putting out spiritual ones!
Our conversation progressed to a deeper level. For the next ninety minutes, Justin shared details with me about God. About Jesus. About the Blessed Mother. Even about angels. And the devil. In fact, one of his tattoos was of Our Lady of Fatima. It was a wonder how such a macho man could have such a soft spot for the Virgin Mary. That intrigued me, but I was more impressed with the knowledge he bestowed on me. He revealed that when Peter denied Jesus three times, he was denying each of the Three Persons in the One God. He mentioned that when we die, Jesus will judge us from the Cross. He discussed the differences between Novus Ordo and the pre-Vatican II Latin Mass. And several other things, too.
As Justin talked, I appreciated that he forgave me enough to want to give me all this knowledge about our faith. He even encouraged me to consider my job loss a cross to carry during this Lenten season.
After our conversation, Justin walked me out, a bigger smile on his face this time. He grabbed me in a bear hug, and we went our separate ways.
For months after that chance encounter, I considered myself lucky. Had I still been at that miserable job getting screamed at by that tyrannical lady, I would not have dropped my son’s medication off and then stopped into that church. That conversation with Justin would never have taken place, and I would not have made a new friend.
Justin had been my angel that day, and in addition to everything that I learned from him, I realized that I needed to ignore the misconception that all angels are feminine and gentle. I learned that they can also be rough around the edges at times. But whether they are soft and delicate or rough and challenging, all angels serve the same purpose – to bring us closer to God.
©Copyright by Michael C. Vassallo
Image by lbrownstone from Pixabay
