Angels Through My Fingers

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The only response was silence. So, before another word, I turned on the ignition and went. Roy was one of our senior citizens. A nice old man, aging too fast but still able to get around. He owned several farms, and every day he'd pay a visit to the country. He'd putter about, stand by the fence and admire the calves, the colts, the lambs. He loved his farms.

Roy lived less than a mile north in a big old house, a real landmark. "Hurry, Charlie. This could be an emergency."

And it was.

Dashing up the steps, I found the front door locked. From inside came a moan, but because the curtains were drawn I couldn't see anything. Hearing the moan again, I rushed to the back door.

It was unlocked. I went to the living room and found Roy on the floor, bleeding. Knowing that action was more important than explanation, I checked his cuts and washed the blood away. Then when I had him clean and quiet, I helped him to the couch.

What happened, he said, was that he'd tripped over a stump behind the corn crib and broke his glasses in the fall.

"But how did you ever drive home, Roy? Six miles, seven? With your face cut and no glasses, how ever did you do it?"

"I don't know, Charlie. I guess the Lord was with me."

Within the hour, his wife arrived, and she took over. After hearing his report, the three of us joined hands and prayed.

As I turned to go, he said, "Thank you, Charlie. How did you know I needed you?"

I thought I should wait until later to tell him about those stubborn fingers on my car keys. So I answered, "I think it was an angel, Roy."

"Makes sense," he replied. "I was lying there on the floor, praying you would come."

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