Automobile Angels.

Clunk, clunk, clunk. The churning slows and lurches at a sloth pace and I stare out the window, rain pelting against the shield and clouds dreary and casting over me. The solemn process plugs to a halt at the side of an off ramp and I sit back and sigh, sinking inside and slouching into the leather. Rain. A Sunday. "Christmas" day. A borrowed car. A gas-less engine.

Stupidity falls like shadows cast by clouds, as the brightened gage leaks orange at me. But I humph and decidedly shrug it off. Oh well. I'll figure it out, I tell myself, and slouch back a little more.

A beige Buick pulls up, speedily past me, nails the break, that backs into parallel-park position against me. He hops out and lets the rain dance around him as if natural unaffects him. I roll down my window to his fifty year old face, wrinkles and glasses not withholding optimism.

I laugh at myself, explain the situation, and with eagerness and apt energy, he says he'll be back in less than ten minutes, here's his card and number, and he has an extra gas tank in his trunk. Then, voila, as fast as he came, he disappeared into the Buick and into the rain.

Surely, ten minutes later he zooms past, yanks into park, and exits the car, mini red plastic gallon in hand. I offer to pay, for gas and his service, but he smiles. I ask if he's on his way to or from church, as he is dressed in navy slacks appears so, he responds "something like that" and refuses my second offer of cash. I ask if he simply looks to aid, working to help, remarking that he's an angel. He shrugs and says, "probably the ugliest angel you've ever seen" and finishes spilling the 3-odd dollars of petroleum into the tank. My dollars still protrude towards him from my hand. He says, "No, put it in the plate the next time you go to church. And if you don't go, then start." Then smiling and dutiful, he slips the cap on, rain dripping from the creases of his coat. I thank him overly again, and slip into the leather and let my thankful heart rise.

Roadside assistance. Some call insurance, some call family, some call their legs to walk to a station. But I call on angels. Automobile Angels.

I was sixteen. A late night scooping cones of Butter Pecan and Superman, and then driving "home" to Gun Lake, nearing 12:30 at night. Lights sped across the median, swishing side to side, approaching the cross street at with increased pace. Drunk, labeled, known. I lay on the breaks and wait for impact in the dark. He crushes the railing, bounces against my rear tire, and squeals to a stop fifty yards behind.

I'm trembling. Scared. Wondering. What will he do? I'm sixteen and alone. In the middle of fields. Under the cover of only night.

My fingers tremble at the keys, plugging numbers into the phone. "Mom, I just got hit. And I think he's drunk." The call no mother cares to hear.

I wait. Watching him beat his truck, kicking the tires and throw materials around. Darkness only protruded by our headlights. The stop sign still yards away. I wonder. Unmoved.

A Taurus, green and normal, pulls beside. She rolls down her window, a mom, perhaps. Nearing forty. She calls the cops. Says she'll stay until arrival, and for me not to get out of my car. I wait. Still watching the uproar behind.

He approaches my car. I squeak down the window an inch or two. Ask if he's drunk. Only six beers he says. I turn to steel and say nothing more.

My mom arrives, the cop arrives, my dad surveys the scene. My mother, in her robe, issues her anger "Don't you ever drink again!" while hugging my shoulder.

The cop makes him walk the line. He passes out on the side of the hood. My dad calls a wrecker.

I should have been dead. I should have been killed. Ten feet forward and he would have hit me face on, killed instantly. Ten feet back and he would have hit me front center again, bounced from the guardrail, killed dead. Done.

But I wasn't. Divine? But I looked for her, to thank her for her protection on this lone night. And she was gone. The mother in the Taurus. No where to be found. Seen by no one, but me. But she was there. Reigning protection over me.

I can't help but see angels. But wonder how they are near. But know their presence. But share their story, sought in me.

I-94. Connector of Chicago and Detroit. Five lanes of traffic, whizzing by. I join the race, like Fast Five, speed and swerving my companions. Pride my badge. Another wedding behind me. Then without warning, the thump, thump turns to thump, thump, thump, thump with fast, swirling motion speed. I know the sound. I recognize the beat of it in the car.

I find myself on a crowded five-lane highway, full with semis and traffic, void of off ramps or aid stations. Encompassed with field, brown stalks standing up, only cut by the slice of road I sit on. I get out, walk around, and see the damage. A flat. Sure enough. I refuse to learn to fix one. Even looking at it, I still do. Its a man's job. I am not a man. But I am a woman, alone on the side of the highway, with nothing to help in sight.

Hands on my hips, I lean back into my heels and wonder, peer around.

The cattails behind me shift. I turn to watch. From their overgrowth rises a man, full beard swallowing his mouth, eyes shining with cheerful anticipation. I let my perplextion go wayside and explain the dilemma. He grabs the spare from the trunk, and gets to work, jacking the little Cavalier up.

He works with sure hands, I chat at his side. We talk about church and faith and life and being believers. He tidies up the equipment and I shove a twenty toward him. He refuses. Says this is what believers do, and smiles. I try again, but find his confident, peaceful demeanor refuses my offering, blessing me instead.

I crawl back inside my car and start the engine. The man, I watch. He crawls back into the cattails and disappears, no other vehicle insight.

I shrug.

Wouldn't that just be God? Brining an automobile angel from the brush of cattails? Wouldn't that just be his protection, a woman waiting at midnight? Wouldn't that just be his mysterious way, sending a man in the rain?

I am awed by automobile angels. I am in wonder, in faith, in mystery. I am thankful, I am fulfilled, I am sharing, his provision over me.