Friday night was not a good night – not me at my best. I am a morning person. There are things that I am capable of doing on a morning that completely defeat me on an evening, particularly a Friday evening – like reversing the car. I had gone to pick up my husband from the city centre. Current building work has meant that my usual pick up point is not available. We agreed on a carpark just opposite the Chinese takeaway.
Workmen had filled the end of the carpark with a large container. There was probably enough room to do a three point turn. Perhaps more of a multi-point turn, but it was a Friday, and an evening, and not a time when I can do these things. The container made the space that much smaller and I got stuck. There were one or two car park spaces but the cars on either side of them were more abandoned than parked and it would have been a tight fit. I would have tackled it on a morning.
I tried to reverse out of the carpark, but it wasn’t working. I went backwards, then forwards, then backwards again, and forwards. My mind just couldn’t figure out how to get out of the carpark. The large container was in the way.
With each forward and back manoeuvre I was getting more agitated. I muttered. I didn’t swear. I broke down in tears and I loudly berated my husband for his poor choice of a pick-up point. “Loudly berated” doesn’t really convey the way I spoke. I don’t think I have ever visited that side of hysteria before.
“That was bad,” said God, as I crawled into the throne room, “but it really didn’t measure up to Venice.”
Venice? We are not going to resurrect Venice, sufficient to say it was bad. When my husband talks of Venice, it is with affection. I think we must have been on separate holidays. Affection isn’t the word that comes to mind.
Apologies didn’t seem to be enough once we got home. It was bad. What horrified me was that all those horrible words were just inside, hiding somewhere, waiting to spill out. I was devastated that I could cause so much harm to someone that I loved.
The next day was a Breathe Writer’s morning. And this is where my angels show up. The cloud I had whipped up the previous evening was still raining down on me. I didn’t really think about not showing up. Writing is my release. I printed off a couple of poems to share if there was the opportunity, squared my shoulders and headed off.
I’m not talking about the heavenly angels but God’s earthly messengers. We talked about all sorts of stuff. My friend, Marion, was there. My heart lifted and the cloud shifted just a little. Marion had signed up for an on-line prophetic writing course and led us through one of the exercises. List twenty words about spring and then write a poem or a short story without using any of them.
We picked through our pieces of writing. I had forgotten to put my hearing aids in ad probably missed a lot of what people were saying. Each poem, prose passage or narrative seemed to be a launching point for sharing God’s truth. I was being ministered to and being put back together. It was a blessing. My peace was restored.
Later on in the day, the evening, the car parked in a sensible place, the Poetry Club continued the good work from the morning. Being surrounded by godly people and sharing stories and poems was so good.
Angels and Peace – God’s gifts to someone that really needed them.
Thank you, Father.