~Those who ride on the wings of an angel ride in the arms of God~
~~Janice T. Connell
~~Janice T. Connell
A True Story about Angels
The phone rang one evening, it was Michael's mother calling. She was in tears and sick with worry. Michael was in a hospital somewhere in Texas, and she didn't know what to do if he didn't make it home.
"Where is he?" I asked. "What's the name of the hospital?"
"Oh, I don't know," her eighty-six year old voice trembled. "Somewhere just outside of Dallas."
She was beyond upset and we talked for some time. I knew, in spite of doctor's orders, Michael was determined to go to Texas and say good-bye to some of his old friends. He had been ill for years and looked so bad he wouldn't see his kids.
"I don't want them to see me like this," he told me. I didn't agree with his decision at the time, but in hindsight, looking at photos of him, it might have been the best thing.
Michael and I have two children. He talked on the phone with them and they wrote letters, which of course he never answered. When his health failed, it was his decision to live in his mother's basement and the kids and I stayed in Colorado.
After talking to Mom, I called one of my daughters. "You better start calling Texas," she said. "You know he always said he wouldn't live to be fifty and that he'd die in Texas."
How does one call Texas? It's a big state, but she was right. He always said those exact words; I hated hearing them but I remember them well.
Hanging up the phone, I prayed. "God, I've got to find him. Please help me."
Shaking, I dialed Dallas information and told the operator what I needed to know even though I didn't know the name of the hospital.
"Ma'am," she said softly, "there's a long list of hospitals, but I think you should try this one first," and she gave me a number to call.
Well, the first angel had guided her. It was the right hospital and he was there in ICU. The ICU nurse was great. She told me everything about his condition. She was very kind, but also totally honest.
"I don't think he'll make it through the night," she whispered. "How long will it take you and the children to get here?"
"About seventeen hours, I think. I've never made the drive. I'm not sure he would want me to come or if he would want me to bring the children."
"He's been in and out of consciousness for two days," she answered, "but let me see if I can talk to him. Can you hold on?"
She left the phone for what seemed like a long time. When she returned she said Michael was more responsive than he'd been since his arrival. He said I should not come to Texas but the children and I should go to Seattle and take care of Mom.
I really didn't know what to think right then. Was he planning to die there or what? I had always respected his wishes, so I began to make plans for the trip.
Fearing the worse news possible, the next morning I called the hospital again. He was out of ICU and had been moved to a private room. It was wonderful to hear the sound of his voice. The second angel pulled him through the night and here we were talking, making plans to meet in Seattle as soon as he could travel.
The children and I talked to him several times each day for three days. He and I laughed and cried together and the conversations he had with our son and daughter were cherished forever. He promised them he would do everything he could do to get home. Oxygen was going to be delivered the next morning and he would fly home with his two friends who were with him. He had booked a flight at 3 p.m. on April 20th.
The weather had been cold but clear and driving to Seattle, some 1400 miles, would take time. My family wanted me to fly, but I had an awesome sense that I should drive and I didn't really know why. I just trusted it and insisted on driving.
We left about 10 p.m. on April 19th, and while cold, the roads were dry and the Colorado sky was clear and bright. When we got to Cheyenne, I headed west on I-80. I remembered that intersection well as several years before I had dropped Michael off there so he could hitchhike to Nevada to see his sister who was dying of cancer. The memory was so vivid. I hated leaving him there, but we only had one car and he wouldn't take it and leave me and the children without transportation while he was away. He was as determined then as he seemed now.
Within minutes the snow began to fall, heavy and thick flakes covered the ground so quickly, I was in white-out conditions by the time I'd driven thirty miles. The road was snow-packed and I couldn't see where I was driving. Our twelve year old daughter was awake in the front seat.
"Mom, she cried, "I'm scared. How can you see? Are we even on the road?"
"God will protect us. We'll be safe, but I really can't see the road and I'm going to have to stop at the next rest area."
I drove about ten more miles and the rest area was so full of cars and trucks that by the time I parked at the end of the line, the front of the car was actually sticking out into the road. Two vehicles almost hit us.
I pulled out onto the highway and drove about another hour. Finally I spotted a place to turn off. A winding road took us up and away from the main road. The snow stopped and the air was filled with what looked like diamond dust twinkling under the lighted parking lot. There wasn't another car up there. We settled in with the blankets we had in the car and would start out again in a few hours, hoping for better driving conditions with daylight.
Just before I fell asleep at 2:30 a.m. mountain time, I looked out the back window. Sparkling particles in the air were all illuminated and a peace came over me that I hadn't felt in a long time.
"Oh, Michael, you're already gone, aren't you?" And I knew. Angels were all around protecting us and keeping us safe, and so was Michael's spirit.
The children and I awoke well rested about 6:30 a.m. The highway was clear now and the sun was just about to rise. Driving west toward Utah, a hawk soared in the sky above us. Our daughter noticed it first and remarked that is looked as though it was guiding us on our trip.
After we ate the breakfast I'd packed, I asked the children, "What if dad doesn't make it home?"
"Well, we know he's going to try," my daughter said, "and that's all we can ask of him." Our son agreed.
We drove all day and into the night and crossed the Washington state line shortly after 2 a.m. From the first rest area, I called our friends who were expecting us and who were taking good care of Michael's mother. They had been the best man and matron of honor at our wedding.
"We're finally in Washington," I said. "Do you have any news?"
"Oh, you haven't heard," Char replied, dropping her voice.
"No, but I already know." I told her about the snow storm and the hawk and how it had remained with us for most of the trip.
By now, our daughter had come from the ladies room.
"Is dad home, is my dad home?" she asked, walking toward me, her little face beaming.
I said a quick good-bye and lowered the top of my head to hers. "No, honey, Daddy didn't make it. He died just before we hit that snow storm last night." I don't know how I choked out the words.
Our son remained quiet, turned away for a moment and bowed his head. We stood; silently hugging each other in the darkness...it wasn't even close to sunrise.
"Let's go. I don't like it here in the dark," I told them.
Sittings safely in the car, doors locked with the tallest of evergreens standing sentry around us, we talked about Michael.
"Mom, the hawk. Remember that hawk?" my daughter asked. "It was the spirit of our Dad!"
"I think you're right, honey," I said as I turned the key in the ignition. But the engine didn't turn over. I checked to be sure I'd turned off the headlights and tried again. Nothing, not so much as a little click.
The isolated rest stop was totally deserted. Heavily surrounded by lush Washington foliage and evergreens so tall we couldn't see the sky, the sound of silence impressed me. Not a sound, even the birds slept.
We sat for several minutes when I saw headlights coming toward us. It looked like a pick-up truck.
"Oh, God," I quickly prayed, "let it be a good person," as I got out of my car and started waving my arms.
A man slowed his truck and stopped. He leaned across the seat and unrolled the passenger window. He was alone. I explained the whole situation, hoping that if he was inclined to prey upon innocent women and children, he would think twice about hurting children hurrying home for their father's funeral.
He didn't say a word, he just looked at me with such compassion that I needn't have worried. He pulled in beside my car and got out his jumper cables. When they were hooked up, he told me to turn the key. Nothing! We tried again after several minutes. Nothing!
Finally he insisted on trying to start the car himself. He no sooner eased into my seat when he got out of the car with a smile on his face. It was a look that was all too familiar.
"Darlin', you must have been in a real hurry when you pulled in here," he said as he pushed his Stetson back revealing a twinkle in his eyes. "You left the shift in drive and it needs to be in park to start the car."
I stood there in shock. Michael always called me Darlin' and I'd looked into those eyes before.
Stupid does not begin to describe how I felt, and at the same time I wanted to reach out and touch him. We exchanged places, I closed the car door, and glanced at the kids before turning the key. The car started immediately. I pressed the button to lower the window and leaned my head out to thank him.
He was gone. His truck was gone, too. If he'd been wearing a Superman cape he couldn't have left that fast. I touched my wedding ring; there were no words to say.
Exhausted, we rolled into Seattle about 4:30 a.m. and went straight to Grandma's house, where Michael had lived since his health started to fail. Even at that hour, she was sitting in her chair in front of the picture window. The children run up the steps and when she opened the door there were hugs, kisses, and tears. Our son finally cried.
After some well-deserved rest, we went over to Rick and Char's house. Rick had to stay in Texas with Michael and fly home after the arrangements had been made with the funeral home. Another friend who made the trip with him remained and he would be bringing Michael's ashes home in a couple of days.
Friends started stopping by. Although he spoke of them often and shared pictures, they hadn't seen Michael's children for years. Looking into their eyes, they could see Michael. They all remarked how his daughter had his sense of humor and his son had many of his mannerisms.
Rick got bumped from his stand-by flight and arrived home the next night. He and Michael had been best friends since 2nd grade and the flight home alone had been tough for Rick. When he walked in and saw our son he said his heart felt lighter. "I looked at Jess, and there was Mike; he's still with us," Rick said with tears in his eyes.
We waited for Ray to get back with Michael's ashes and made hundreds of calls to inform friends about the wake and service. The house began to fill up with people and food--Michael was so loved by so many people.
About noon the following day, Ray arrived carrying a beautiful blue-flowered urn with gold trim and a small black box bearing the label Blessings Funeral Home--all that was physically left of a man we all loved. He explained to the children that all of the ashes wouldn't fit in the urn.
Finding a quiet place, the children watched as he opened the box and the plastic bag with the dusty broken particles. The dust made an impression of me. That's what returning to dust is all about, I thought. We all held those ashes like we would have held him. We touched them like we would have touched him, and we all let him slip through our fingers, just like he did. Our daughter wanted some of his ashes to hold, so Ray put some in a small jar and she kept them in our room until after the funeral.
The next morning we gathered at the church where Michael was baptized and Sunday-schooled. The church was filled to capacity, barely standing room only in the back. Those who wished to speak did so, but most of us were too choked up to talk. Pictures surrounded the urn on the altar, and I smiled knowing the urn which held most of him was a Jim Beam decanter that Michael had given to a friend in Texas twenty years ago. I think the preacher might have been shocked, but I'm sure he never knew.
We'd planned a wake for that afternoon. It was a great healing experience for the children to see their father through the eyes of his friends, and for them to see Michael through his children. We laughed and cried; we ate and danced in his memory.
The children purchased a small notebook which they passed around to all of Michael's friends. Each was asked to write something about their Dad so they would have the memories to keep. One of Michael's friends, a Native American, wrote:
"Okay, you can write me off as nuts--but I'm still in touch with Michael. I gave him the spirit of the hawk to soar in the winds and forever be free. I gave him my walking staff. He didn't know where he was so I told him he could write his own ticket. I gave him a start with some snow-covered mountains and a 70 degree day filled with sunshine, a trail to follow, and I sent him the gift of the hawk so his spirit would forever soar with the winds and be totally free."
And so our daughter was right; the spirit of her father soared with the hawk.
The following morning the drive up to Miller River and its beautiful rapids took about an hour. Michael fished there and it was where he wished to have his ashes scattered. We were a caravan of about twenty vehicles. We gathered on the bridge and a few of us climbed down the embankment to the huge rocks that jutted out over the fiercely flowing river.
Our daughter emptied her small jar of his ashes first and as the heavier bits of her father fell into the water, the dust floated up into the air. As she came down off the rock and I held her little sobbing body, her brother wrapped his arms around us. When Rick and Ray finished scattering Michael where he wished to be, we went up to the bridge and someone passed around a bottle on Jim Beam. I don't drink, but this day was an exception. A touch of fine bourbon to my lips for a fine gentleman whose pain was gone forever--he would never need to drink again. A final toast to Michael, the one and only love of my life, whom we all dearly love, who no longer suffers to take a breath, who soars with the hawk and rides on the wings of an angel. It goes without saying, the ride home was silent.
A few days later, the children and I left for Colorado. We drove first to the farm where our son was raised and where our daughter was conceived. We drove past all the places we used to go when we lived there, and then I got a spiritual message to drive further west to the ocean, the place where Michael and I walked many times. A voice in my head reminded me that the children had never seen the ocean and I was to take them there.
We walked a narrow path to the shore. It was deserted; the children's eyes wide at the power of the crashing surf and the vastness of the blue-green water. We walked along the beach collecting sand dollars, shells, and driftwood. I warned them about jellyfish washed up on the shore and how they could still sting just as Michael warned me the first time he and I walked there.
Our daughter picked up a stick and wrote "Dad" in the sand and watched the ocean wash it away. And, hearing a noise, a call from the sky, we looked up to see the hawk. It swooped down right in front of us and then out toward the other side of time. It soared and swooped against the waves as though it was stitching up the seams of all our broken dreams as the three of us stood holding each other.
We only saw the hawk when we were alone. Perhaps he knew when we needed him most. The hawk was with us all the way back to Colorado.
I don't know how far from home hawks fly, but when Heaven is your home, I guess you can fly anywhere.
Miller River
The water charged past the boulders that jutted out into the river,
while your best friend wrapped his arms around our little girl's waist,
to hold her, to keep her safe, as she leaned out over the mist
that rose above the water where it thundered into the rocks.
Gripping the urn with both hands,
holding all of you she'd held never before,
she let your ashes spill where you wanted to be left.
The dust of your very self rose above her.
Clutching the empty vessel, she turned and buried her sobbing body into mine;
Our son's arms found their way around us both, I watched the current carry you away,
quickly, like you left us and I wondered at that moment
just how far away you really were.
I wanted to run, downstream, where the river pooled and softened,
draw you up to me with my cupped hands, let you wash over my face
and taste you on my lips again. But I couldn't;
you were gone too fast.
Copyright December, 1995 - 2019 by Patty MacFarlane and Ashlin Abbey Publishing, LLC
"Where is he?" I asked. "What's the name of the hospital?"
"Oh, I don't know," her eighty-six year old voice trembled. "Somewhere just outside of Dallas."
She was beyond upset and we talked for some time. I knew, in spite of doctor's orders, Michael was determined to go to Texas and say good-bye to some of his old friends. He had been ill for years and looked so bad he wouldn't see his kids.
"I don't want them to see me like this," he told me. I didn't agree with his decision at the time, but in hindsight, looking at photos of him, it might have been the best thing.
Michael and I have two children. He talked on the phone with them and they wrote letters, which of course he never answered. When his health failed, it was his decision to live in his mother's basement and the kids and I stayed in Colorado.
After talking to Mom, I called one of my daughters. "You better start calling Texas," she said. "You know he always said he wouldn't live to be fifty and that he'd die in Texas."
How does one call Texas? It's a big state, but she was right. He always said those exact words; I hated hearing them but I remember them well.
Hanging up the phone, I prayed. "God, I've got to find him. Please help me."
Shaking, I dialed Dallas information and told the operator what I needed to know even though I didn't know the name of the hospital.
"Ma'am," she said softly, "there's a long list of hospitals, but I think you should try this one first," and she gave me a number to call.
Well, the first angel had guided her. It was the right hospital and he was there in ICU. The ICU nurse was great. She told me everything about his condition. She was very kind, but also totally honest.
"I don't think he'll make it through the night," she whispered. "How long will it take you and the children to get here?"
"About seventeen hours, I think. I've never made the drive. I'm not sure he would want me to come or if he would want me to bring the children."
"He's been in and out of consciousness for two days," she answered, "but let me see if I can talk to him. Can you hold on?"
She left the phone for what seemed like a long time. When she returned she said Michael was more responsive than he'd been since his arrival. He said I should not come to Texas but the children and I should go to Seattle and take care of Mom.
I really didn't know what to think right then. Was he planning to die there or what? I had always respected his wishes, so I began to make plans for the trip.
Fearing the worse news possible, the next morning I called the hospital again. He was out of ICU and had been moved to a private room. It was wonderful to hear the sound of his voice. The second angel pulled him through the night and here we were talking, making plans to meet in Seattle as soon as he could travel.
The children and I talked to him several times each day for three days. He and I laughed and cried together and the conversations he had with our son and daughter were cherished forever. He promised them he would do everything he could do to get home. Oxygen was going to be delivered the next morning and he would fly home with his two friends who were with him. He had booked a flight at 3 p.m. on April 20th.
The weather had been cold but clear and driving to Seattle, some 1400 miles, would take time. My family wanted me to fly, but I had an awesome sense that I should drive and I didn't really know why. I just trusted it and insisted on driving.
We left about 10 p.m. on April 19th, and while cold, the roads were dry and the Colorado sky was clear and bright. When we got to Cheyenne, I headed west on I-80. I remembered that intersection well as several years before I had dropped Michael off there so he could hitchhike to Nevada to see his sister who was dying of cancer. The memory was so vivid. I hated leaving him there, but we only had one car and he wouldn't take it and leave me and the children without transportation while he was away. He was as determined then as he seemed now.
Within minutes the snow began to fall, heavy and thick flakes covered the ground so quickly, I was in white-out conditions by the time I'd driven thirty miles. The road was snow-packed and I couldn't see where I was driving. Our twelve year old daughter was awake in the front seat.
"Mom, she cried, "I'm scared. How can you see? Are we even on the road?"
"God will protect us. We'll be safe, but I really can't see the road and I'm going to have to stop at the next rest area."
I drove about ten more miles and the rest area was so full of cars and trucks that by the time I parked at the end of the line, the front of the car was actually sticking out into the road. Two vehicles almost hit us.
I pulled out onto the highway and drove about another hour. Finally I spotted a place to turn off. A winding road took us up and away from the main road. The snow stopped and the air was filled with what looked like diamond dust twinkling under the lighted parking lot. There wasn't another car up there. We settled in with the blankets we had in the car and would start out again in a few hours, hoping for better driving conditions with daylight.
Just before I fell asleep at 2:30 a.m. mountain time, I looked out the back window. Sparkling particles in the air were all illuminated and a peace came over me that I hadn't felt in a long time.
"Oh, Michael, you're already gone, aren't you?" And I knew. Angels were all around protecting us and keeping us safe, and so was Michael's spirit.
The children and I awoke well rested about 6:30 a.m. The highway was clear now and the sun was just about to rise. Driving west toward Utah, a hawk soared in the sky above us. Our daughter noticed it first and remarked that is looked as though it was guiding us on our trip.
After we ate the breakfast I'd packed, I asked the children, "What if dad doesn't make it home?"
"Well, we know he's going to try," my daughter said, "and that's all we can ask of him." Our son agreed.
We drove all day and into the night and crossed the Washington state line shortly after 2 a.m. From the first rest area, I called our friends who were expecting us and who were taking good care of Michael's mother. They had been the best man and matron of honor at our wedding.
"We're finally in Washington," I said. "Do you have any news?"
"Oh, you haven't heard," Char replied, dropping her voice.
"No, but I already know." I told her about the snow storm and the hawk and how it had remained with us for most of the trip.
By now, our daughter had come from the ladies room.
"Is dad home, is my dad home?" she asked, walking toward me, her little face beaming.
I said a quick good-bye and lowered the top of my head to hers. "No, honey, Daddy didn't make it. He died just before we hit that snow storm last night." I don't know how I choked out the words.
Our son remained quiet, turned away for a moment and bowed his head. We stood; silently hugging each other in the darkness...it wasn't even close to sunrise.
"Let's go. I don't like it here in the dark," I told them.
Sittings safely in the car, doors locked with the tallest of evergreens standing sentry around us, we talked about Michael.
"Mom, the hawk. Remember that hawk?" my daughter asked. "It was the spirit of our Dad!"
"I think you're right, honey," I said as I turned the key in the ignition. But the engine didn't turn over. I checked to be sure I'd turned off the headlights and tried again. Nothing, not so much as a little click.
The isolated rest stop was totally deserted. Heavily surrounded by lush Washington foliage and evergreens so tall we couldn't see the sky, the sound of silence impressed me. Not a sound, even the birds slept.
We sat for several minutes when I saw headlights coming toward us. It looked like a pick-up truck.
"Oh, God," I quickly prayed, "let it be a good person," as I got out of my car and started waving my arms.
A man slowed his truck and stopped. He leaned across the seat and unrolled the passenger window. He was alone. I explained the whole situation, hoping that if he was inclined to prey upon innocent women and children, he would think twice about hurting children hurrying home for their father's funeral.
He didn't say a word, he just looked at me with such compassion that I needn't have worried. He pulled in beside my car and got out his jumper cables. When they were hooked up, he told me to turn the key. Nothing! We tried again after several minutes. Nothing!
Finally he insisted on trying to start the car himself. He no sooner eased into my seat when he got out of the car with a smile on his face. It was a look that was all too familiar.
"Darlin', you must have been in a real hurry when you pulled in here," he said as he pushed his Stetson back revealing a twinkle in his eyes. "You left the shift in drive and it needs to be in park to start the car."
I stood there in shock. Michael always called me Darlin' and I'd looked into those eyes before.
Stupid does not begin to describe how I felt, and at the same time I wanted to reach out and touch him. We exchanged places, I closed the car door, and glanced at the kids before turning the key. The car started immediately. I pressed the button to lower the window and leaned my head out to thank him.
He was gone. His truck was gone, too. If he'd been wearing a Superman cape he couldn't have left that fast. I touched my wedding ring; there were no words to say.
Exhausted, we rolled into Seattle about 4:30 a.m. and went straight to Grandma's house, where Michael had lived since his health started to fail. Even at that hour, she was sitting in her chair in front of the picture window. The children run up the steps and when she opened the door there were hugs, kisses, and tears. Our son finally cried.
After some well-deserved rest, we went over to Rick and Char's house. Rick had to stay in Texas with Michael and fly home after the arrangements had been made with the funeral home. Another friend who made the trip with him remained and he would be bringing Michael's ashes home in a couple of days.
Friends started stopping by. Although he spoke of them often and shared pictures, they hadn't seen Michael's children for years. Looking into their eyes, they could see Michael. They all remarked how his daughter had his sense of humor and his son had many of his mannerisms.
Rick got bumped from his stand-by flight and arrived home the next night. He and Michael had been best friends since 2nd grade and the flight home alone had been tough for Rick. When he walked in and saw our son he said his heart felt lighter. "I looked at Jess, and there was Mike; he's still with us," Rick said with tears in his eyes.
We waited for Ray to get back with Michael's ashes and made hundreds of calls to inform friends about the wake and service. The house began to fill up with people and food--Michael was so loved by so many people.
About noon the following day, Ray arrived carrying a beautiful blue-flowered urn with gold trim and a small black box bearing the label Blessings Funeral Home--all that was physically left of a man we all loved. He explained to the children that all of the ashes wouldn't fit in the urn.
Finding a quiet place, the children watched as he opened the box and the plastic bag with the dusty broken particles. The dust made an impression of me. That's what returning to dust is all about, I thought. We all held those ashes like we would have held him. We touched them like we would have touched him, and we all let him slip through our fingers, just like he did. Our daughter wanted some of his ashes to hold, so Ray put some in a small jar and she kept them in our room until after the funeral.
The next morning we gathered at the church where Michael was baptized and Sunday-schooled. The church was filled to capacity, barely standing room only in the back. Those who wished to speak did so, but most of us were too choked up to talk. Pictures surrounded the urn on the altar, and I smiled knowing the urn which held most of him was a Jim Beam decanter that Michael had given to a friend in Texas twenty years ago. I think the preacher might have been shocked, but I'm sure he never knew.
We'd planned a wake for that afternoon. It was a great healing experience for the children to see their father through the eyes of his friends, and for them to see Michael through his children. We laughed and cried; we ate and danced in his memory.
The children purchased a small notebook which they passed around to all of Michael's friends. Each was asked to write something about their Dad so they would have the memories to keep. One of Michael's friends, a Native American, wrote:
"Okay, you can write me off as nuts--but I'm still in touch with Michael. I gave him the spirit of the hawk to soar in the winds and forever be free. I gave him my walking staff. He didn't know where he was so I told him he could write his own ticket. I gave him a start with some snow-covered mountains and a 70 degree day filled with sunshine, a trail to follow, and I sent him the gift of the hawk so his spirit would forever soar with the winds and be totally free."
And so our daughter was right; the spirit of her father soared with the hawk.
The following morning the drive up to Miller River and its beautiful rapids took about an hour. Michael fished there and it was where he wished to have his ashes scattered. We were a caravan of about twenty vehicles. We gathered on the bridge and a few of us climbed down the embankment to the huge rocks that jutted out over the fiercely flowing river.
Our daughter emptied her small jar of his ashes first and as the heavier bits of her father fell into the water, the dust floated up into the air. As she came down off the rock and I held her little sobbing body, her brother wrapped his arms around us. When Rick and Ray finished scattering Michael where he wished to be, we went up to the bridge and someone passed around a bottle on Jim Beam. I don't drink, but this day was an exception. A touch of fine bourbon to my lips for a fine gentleman whose pain was gone forever--he would never need to drink again. A final toast to Michael, the one and only love of my life, whom we all dearly love, who no longer suffers to take a breath, who soars with the hawk and rides on the wings of an angel. It goes without saying, the ride home was silent.
A few days later, the children and I left for Colorado. We drove first to the farm where our son was raised and where our daughter was conceived. We drove past all the places we used to go when we lived there, and then I got a spiritual message to drive further west to the ocean, the place where Michael and I walked many times. A voice in my head reminded me that the children had never seen the ocean and I was to take them there.
We walked a narrow path to the shore. It was deserted; the children's eyes wide at the power of the crashing surf and the vastness of the blue-green water. We walked along the beach collecting sand dollars, shells, and driftwood. I warned them about jellyfish washed up on the shore and how they could still sting just as Michael warned me the first time he and I walked there.
Our daughter picked up a stick and wrote "Dad" in the sand and watched the ocean wash it away. And, hearing a noise, a call from the sky, we looked up to see the hawk. It swooped down right in front of us and then out toward the other side of time. It soared and swooped against the waves as though it was stitching up the seams of all our broken dreams as the three of us stood holding each other.
We only saw the hawk when we were alone. Perhaps he knew when we needed him most. The hawk was with us all the way back to Colorado.
I don't know how far from home hawks fly, but when Heaven is your home, I guess you can fly anywhere.
Miller River
The water charged past the boulders that jutted out into the river,
while your best friend wrapped his arms around our little girl's waist,
to hold her, to keep her safe, as she leaned out over the mist
that rose above the water where it thundered into the rocks.
Gripping the urn with both hands,
holding all of you she'd held never before,
she let your ashes spill where you wanted to be left.
The dust of your very self rose above her.
Clutching the empty vessel, she turned and buried her sobbing body into mine;
Our son's arms found their way around us both, I watched the current carry you away,
quickly, like you left us and I wondered at that moment
just how far away you really were.
I wanted to run, downstream, where the river pooled and softened,
draw you up to me with my cupped hands, let you wash over my face
and taste you on my lips again. But I couldn't;
you were gone too fast.
Copyright December, 1995 - 2019 by Patty MacFarlane and Ashlin Abbey Publishing, LLC
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