Summoned

When little, there were fears: the big bad wolf, a nail in the foot requiring a tetanus shot, being chosen last for a game. In nursing school, the fears matured with me: a test with 500 questions, the first time I administered an inoculation to a real person. But you see no one can hurt me anymore, and I’ll never finish nursing school. Earthly feelings were scattered in the fields of corn and beans; gut instincts took flight with a chilling breeze; previous influences departed. I am free and yet I am not.
A piercing chirp catches my attention. A brilliant red bird sits on the County Road B 20 signpost surveying the situation. And then an additional sound—the rumble of yet another car approaching. A grizzled farmer dressed in chore clothes, much like my dad wore, driving a new Pontiac. I recognize Joseph Turner, an elder in our church. He pays no attention to my lifeless body in the early morning gloom or the blood puddle in the middle of the road—his thoughts elsewhere. The right blinker kicks in, and the Pontiac turns into a farm drive several miles down the road. It is his brother, Jacob’s house. A dog barks; the bird chirps repeatedly.
I contemplated things I’ve never considered before… Am I here because I long for justice? I wonder and, yet, it does not weigh on my soul as you might think. I have angry, bitter, or revengeful moments. But they are brief flashes, and I have found that grace is surrounding me, protecting me, humbling me.
I’m still me, not a Siamese cat slinking about, not an Eagle soaring above some cliff. I don’t believe in reincarnation. In fact, I’m more me than you are you. And, I am not an angel. God created angels to be angels. I am not one of them. I can’t see inside a person’s head nor will anyone feel my presence. I’ve landed in another spot—a place where my heart and soul have been shifted--waiting for an end that feels finished.