July 25, 2001
� 2001, by Kathleen Gibson
The Angels Are Still Among Us
We were four women setting out to attend a play. I was driving, but it was Rita�s car. �Turn right here,� said Mary Ann at an intersection that branched onto a gravel road. Then, �Do you want me to drive?�
I like paved roads. But, �I�m fine,� said I, proceeding with caution. Not enough. I sensed trouble when the car�s back end pulled out to pass.
I clenched the wheel, wrenching it due north, then south. But Rita�s car, which had seemed like such a nice car, was determined not to mind. A volley of instructions poured from the other women. �Don�t step on the brakes!� �Turn into the skid!� �Take your foot off the gas!� �Turn the wheel all the way to the right!� They were like a choir of worried chipmunks.
The car slewed to the right, then the left, the back end still trying to go on ahead. Gravel sprayed, the passenger side lifted ominously. Then, from the back seat, came my daughter�s voice. Calm. Confident. �Mom, take your hands off the wheel.� Senseless. For lack of a better idea, I raised my hands about six inches. The chipmunks fell silent.
In one smooth, nauseating motion, the car swept off the road and down the embankment�finally stopping in long grass, one rear tire resting on a large flat rock. Upright. All alive. Amazed. Breathing heavily.
�Uh, Kathleen,� said a gracious voice. Mary Ann�s voice. �Would you like me to drive now?�
Hours later, after a young farmer braved the mosquito herds, generously changed our blown front tire and set us back on the road, after the play (to which we arrived only a half hour late�Mary Ann driving); after the purchase and installation of a new tire�after all that, we sat at a restaurant table, giddy and grateful to be alive.
We discussed what we were thinking as the car waltzed around on that gravel ribbon. (�.�I was wondering what I could tell you to do.� �I was wishing I was driving.� �I was planning how to move so I wouldn�t fall on Mary Ann.�)
I turned to my daughter. �Amanda, who knows what may have happened if you hadn�t told me to take my hands off the wheel when you did?�
She looked at me strangely. �I didn�t. I said to take your foot off the brake.�
Mary Ann and Rita nodded. �She�s right. No one told you to take your hands off the wheel.�
I searched their faces, incredulous. �No way. I heard her, clear as a bell.�
They shook their heads, and that was when the little hairs on the back of my neck started tingling. Theirs too, by the looks on their faces.
It appears that even heavenly agents can�t drive when someone else�s white-knuckled hands are gripping the wheel. It also appears that they can talk in a daughter�s voice, when necessary.
May God�s angels accompany you too, on all your ways.
One more thing. Watch those gravel roads.
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