Entertaining Angels Unaware

          The man struggled, the wooden boat over his shoulder, as he pushed up the hill away from the St. Johns River. The fisherman dropped it, leaving it upside down to drain on the green grass. Sweat dripped from beneath the straw hat down his face as he threw a huge fish into a white plastic bucket near his pickup truck. As we walked by, we said hi, and he called us over to show us his day's work. Three hours of early morning fishing produced an ice chest of small catfish and a bucketful of tilapia and perch. 

He sat on his tailgate to rest for a few minutes as he shared with us about how he had moved here from Guyana and how he serves God, not pagan idols like many do where he's from, how he used to do carpentry and now has his own fishing business, and how God blesses him. His weathered face spoke of struggles despite his positive focus.

When he told us his name, we all three marveled at the three Rs—Rubert, Rony, Rachel. Coincidence or something more, we wondered. Rubert jumped off the truck and beckoned us back to his boat, showing us the hole in the bottom he had to fix after buying it from someone who had hid the damage until after his purchase. We said it's a good thing he cemented it because we saw seven alligators in the river earlier. 

A few little ones, several big ones. The whole body-log floating, the one eye watching.

Rony helped him heave the boat over to the truck and into the back. As they worked, Rubert shared a story.   

“One time,” he told us, “I was in a boat even smaller than that one. I was trying to get to shore and the gators, they all gathered, stacked up, blocking my way. Fourteen, fifteen lined up between me and safety.”

“They wanted you to step out,” I realized, “get into the water?!”

“I wasn't getting out,” he said. “No siree. I waited. I waited. At first I waited. If anything, they crowded closer. I had a bucket in the boat and hit it with the oar. I mean I slammed it and…  Boom! The noise scattered them. At least a little.”

“So you got through,” Rony said.

“So I got through,” Rubert repeated. “I took the opportunity to row for shore.” 

He started loading his truck, and we thanked him for the conversation, for sharing his stories. “God bless you,” we said before we continued our walk along the path and over the bridge. As we meandered through the wetlands, we talked about Rubert and his story as inspiration in that, despite his struggles, he moved through his obstacles and found safe haven. 

The encounter with Rupert confirmed God is listening to us. God hears our prayers.

Transported

 

Dear UD,

So many years ago, a couple decades even, I wrote this short piece:

 

I spied a container full of pickled okra—placed two on my salad plate beside beets, tomatoes and cucumbers, strolled back to my table where I sat in my chair, picked up an okra by its head, bit into the sour end with a crunch; the seeds rolled on my tongue and— transported back ten years to dinner at Grandpa Bruce’s house where I ate pickled okra before playing bridge, hugging my grandpa so tight I never want to let him go, never want him to die, buried with a rain gauge and my daughter’s scribbled picture in the oak drawer of the coffin’s lid and a perfect grand slam dealt on his chest, leaving me missing his gray whiskered kisses, his smell of fresh outdoors, and his hands of no trump.

 

Since then, we lost grandma, grandpa, dad, you, mom. Years later, a decade even, the grief is still there. Dulled some from time. Lessened some from the activities of life. But still lingering, buried deep, ready to strike sharp and hard when transported. There are those moments, those memories, those sensory connections that transport us back in time, and the beauty of the memory clashes with the pain of the loss.

 

A kaleidoscope of shared images flows through my mind:

So many hands of no trump, road trips singing the soundtrack from Into the Woods, specially made omelets, your dogs lying at your feet, spring buds, Scrabble tiles, the bookshelves you made, the jungle gyms you built, the swing sets you constructed, garden tomatoes, roasted corn on the cob, the car racing over the ditch into the grass as you showed me how to drive and missed the sign for the sharp turn…

 

An orchestra of sounds floods my heart:

I can hear your hearty chuckle as we watched Bringing up Baby, your deep voice as you taught us to play the Broadway game you created, the bark of your dogs, the bubble of your chicken veggie soup, the buzz of the hummingbirds in your yard, the sizzle of a searing steak, the crackle of the fire under the pot of apple butter…

 

And sometimes it’s the new thing that transports: The new moments I treasure yet you are not there. The new beauty and wonder and learning I want to share with you. The new people and accomplishments I want to tell you all about. The craziness and folly all around that I want to discuss. The moments I want to call and hear your voice, your advice, your perspective on something. The hard truth—I still miss you, mom, dad. We all do.

 

So on the day you were born long ago, I choose to focus on the beauty and love and good from you living on this earth and being my uncle. I am so grateful for those years and those memories, and I hold onto all the good and pass it on to the next generations.

 

Love, Rach