IT ONLY TAKES ONE | Kathe Campbell |
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Each year, around birthday time, I take stock of my mind and shrinking chassis as I make a beeline toward eighty, this mountain mama having made it through another 365 days without major calamity. The old bod serves me well as I coddle the remnants left by our 600-pound jack donkey's attack--the why still a mystery. My saving grace is knowing that some of us harbor angels with only one wing so they can fly by embracing one another. The day began when I told my husband Ken that I was going out to beef up Smart Ass' fence. I drove my ATV to the west pasture, unchained the jack's gate and shut it behind me. The stallion came over for a rub between his ears, then left to savor new sprouts of grass. In an unthinkable flash he had me brutally pinned on the ground with only my head and right arm exposed. I tried to free the other arm, but was trapped while my right forearm was being horribly gnawed. With heart pounding and all the strength I could muster, I freed my left arm, bellowed in the beast's ear and wrapped a shaky hand around his nostrils to stifle his air. He didn't like that and quickly got up, rendering severe damage to other mundane parts with his hoof. Then, as suddenly as it all began, this much-treasured champion returned to his graze while I languished scared out of my mind alone in a field on that hot and terrifying Memorial Day morning. Suddenly a cooling breeze drifted over me, as if an angel of mercy had taken pity. I never thought much about angelic encounters as a young person other than prayers at my bedside taught this adoptee by a terrific mother. Sometimes it takes a good smack to jolt us, and occasional flashbacks tell me I have been smacked a time or two. Ken and I enjoy our exchanges about God's unique masterpieces with no agenda except to love, their wings taking up residence on the backs of the most unlikely folks, and yet nobody in particular. I came to know this angel of mine, Olive--her name sprouting up from nowhere. I see her in my waking hours, but more often in my sleep and simply adore her rumpled old bony face and body harboring one crippled wing. A skinny little thing about my age, her halo askance and unruly graying tangles draped over a disgruntled frown, she grumbles... "Well, my dear, you've really met your waterloo this time, and I suppose you want me to pull you out of this mess?" Yes, it had to be Olive, or maybe a band of angels delivering that refreshing breeze that helped me safely home. Holding the grisly remnants of my arm close, a feeling of relief swept over me as my life spilled red upon the earth. Mercifully, I felt no pain and began cajoling myself into thinking I could steer an even course across our far-reaching yard. With head reeling and knees buckling, I staggered onto our deck, crashed against the storm door, faintly recall Ken's wail of shock, then nothing. Specializing in a branch of medicine dealing with custom-built prosthetic devices, mortal angels from extraordinary places encouraged my fight in a distant hospital. Family and friends traveled far to spur me on, local pastors became lifelong friends, and fellow broken bodies demonstrated a grim future. Improving my frame of mind, Ken goaded me on with crossword puzzles, jiggly left-handed scrawls finally legible. A maze of straps and Velcro were adjusted across my back and under my left arm to flex back muscles and pull cables. I felt doomed in the contraption as fellow amps applauded their approval watching me open the hook to grasp that first buckle. And Olive? She was there bossing me around. Realizing God never made anything as resilient as the human spirit, I prayed silently beneath beads of sweat . . . "I'm trusting in your wisdom on this crazy journey, girl." Having been awakened to something so spiritually wonderful as Olive, I could hardly wait to experience her craggy old face again. Have you ever welcomed something so trivial as winds playing with your hair whistling tiny storms that blow away your cares? Maybe a vicarious warmth, a soft touch upon your shoulder, or that penetrating feeling of warning that halts you in your tracks? Cruelly, when left to its own devices, rheumatoid arthritis began drifting my good hand at near right angles to my wrist over the years. Could I brave it all as sullen days left me an old crab? It was the last time I recognized my carefully crafted left-handed signature at book signings, for scribbling my initials in public became a last indignity. A raft of new meds were applied and I was told to keep it moving. "Keep it moving? Dear God," I cringed, "are you testing me?" Waging war with the newest blues, I trampled out hollow days that crept in like hoar frost leaving me coldly bummed. Tested or not, I found myself poking the keys on my old electric typewriter, seeking enough grit to peck out notes for a nagging new piece. I think Olive had her eye on this sparrow to buoy me and challenge creative longings, for what was lost didn't matter anymore. It's what I was doing with what was left that counted. Insisting I practice left-handed daily, my savvy son set me up with my first computer. The big hulk of a thing atop my desk left me leery and half scared, though I was certain God had a hand in that lovely keyboard. I learned the ins and outs until I was typing lickety split single-handed, turning out articles in medical journals and a couple dozen published works in America's favorite anthologies. At the very bottom of my soul, and I am actually grateful for my imperfections. Whenever I choose I can escape them through my passion for nature, words, and a host of angelic spirits. God's angels keep me from the brink of my three D's--disaster, despair, and depression. My savior has left me in deep waters often, not to drown me, but to cleanse me from wearing a mantle of defeat. Losing faith and failing to survive is the worst thing that can happen to anyone. Hopefully, I am being prepared to exist as a redeemed soul in the realms of heaven, so it's not surprising that I allow angelic spirits into my life. Maybe one day, like my friend, Olive, I will hover over a wounded being to help it live, or guide an adoptee like myself into the arms of a birth mother reunion. Or maybe I'll become a single-winged angelic spirit flying paired, for one wing will do. Just think, if we were all like angels, our world would be such a heavenly place.
Kathe Campbell lives her dream on a Montana mountain with her mammoth donkeys, a Keeshond, and a few kitties. Three children, eleven grands and three greats round out her herd. She is a prolific writer on Alzheimer's, and her stories are found on many ezines. Kathe is a contributing author to the Chicken Soup For The Soul series and numerous anthologies, RX for Writers, magazine articles and medical journals.
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