When being raised by my solidly conservative parents, people I can confidently declare members of Tom Brokow’s Greatest Generation, they advised me never to discuss politics or religion in polite society. Simply not done, was the lore.

Polite society. What’s that? If one were to believe one’s lying eyes, there is none left to be found. Rights activists decry Christianity, protesters loudly chant against Muslimism, the social media is infested with Russian hackers bound to stir America’s pot, a pot that simmers a stew of discontent which people avidly read and believe. It’s a free-for-all out there. Uncontrolled kids feel free to sass and punch a teacher. Respect has become perverted. Others pick up a gun and run amok.

TV flouts violence – it’s a culture of “Monkey See, Monkey Do.
And the spirit of man goes begging.

So that opens the door to one of my favorite subjects, the Guardian Angel. You think you don’t have one? Think again.
Unless you’re so ba-a-a-d you think only evil, you surely have one. Don’t believe it? Doesn’t matter if you believe it or not.

Hovering behind the scenes, waiting to step in where he can, you have one.

Think of it this way. You are equipped with a guidance system from the cosmos, a.k.a. your inner voice, your intuition. Some avow prods from the Holy Spirit. You know, those scalp prickling moments when your inner alarm says “Blrrrt, blrrrt, don’t get in that elevator!” – and if you’re smart you don’t. Pity the ninny who wasn’t paying attention, or wasn’t tuned in, or shook off the warning with a frowning, self-admonished “Don’t be silly,” – and maybe ends up robbed, raped or dead.

Not all help is all that dramatic. And I contend we folk are meant to be angels to each other. I will share a recent encounter of my own. Right there in a Safeway parking lot. You’ll swear I’m crazy, but here goes.

The Tucson afternoon was smoking hot – so hot that when I fell and subsequently slid off my shoes to try to get up more easily, the tarmac wanted to sear my feet.

My husband was a handy grab; I had clawed him down with me. We both roundly thwhacked our sacroliacs; somehow a hips and shins got into the mix. Voicing dreadful pain, groaning on the hot oily blacktop, I figured this was it. Yep – finally my old seasoned bones had broken and I would need to plaster up and be put in traction. After a long life of damage-free tree falls, ski spills, and stair stumbles, woe woe woe the luck had surely run out. Arthritic points of contact were screaming at me. I hollered back.

My unladylike yowl had drawn a small crowd; “Are you ok, lady?”

“NO,” I sputtered, wailing.

Cell phones came out of pockets to dial 911.

Then something most extraordinary happened. A stranger appeared and stood over me. Quickly he crouched down and placed one hand on my shoulder, taking my head in his other, and brought his face close to mine. As if by silent mandate, I placed my hand behind his head. His eyes locked onto mine; his penetrating gaze filled my consciousness, and an odd warmth.

He commanded, “Let the Peace flow in.” Again he said, “Let Peace come in.”

And so I did, and it did. Peace, the peace that “passeth all understanding,” swept through me, and pain vanished into nothing. How could this be? Remarkably, I was all right.

Someone’s arms came behind me to lock and lift me up, but I exclaimed “NO! NO! I‘m too heavy!” Never mind – I was absolutely ignored. Behind my back, unseen arms grabbed under my armpits, in front of me my husband’s hands took mine, and in a rush, like a weightless feather, I was whished upright and standing.

I looked about to find my Helper – he was nowhere. NO where.

I wasn’t left unmarked by our fall. I say “our” because as surely as my coccyx thumped the tarmac, so did my poor husband’s when I pulled him down with me. But he didn’t hit as hard.

Today I peer at fading black bruises and ponder the man who was there, and wasn’t.

And I reflect on that healing peace.

My guardian angel stepped in for me.
I know what I know.