And so,
I don’t suppose that you meet many people in your life who take part in such a way
And so,
I suppose it would be hard for anyone to subscribe to the idea that heroes are real and that Angels can, or will, or that they do exist and appear to us, here on Earth.
And so,
If you don’t know then my guess is you can’t know.
You wouldn’t know what it feels like to be rejected or unwanted and then, somehow, someone like the above comes to you with no agenda other than to let you know that yes, you do matter.
You are loved
You are noticed
Someone cares.
And if you don’t know, then I suppose you can’t know what it feels like to be touched by an Angel, here on Earth
There are not many.
But there are a few who I can say that they somehow absolved my hatred and softened my rage, and for no other reason but their own kindness; they literally killed the demons in my bloodstream.
and please, let me be clear.
I know who I am.
I know what I have done.
I know what I deserve (and don’t deserve)
I know all of these things.
And I know them well..
I am not a man who can claim to be innocent and nor am I someone who can claim to be clean or cleansed enough to say that I am either saved or that I am reborn, refreshed or bathed and baptized or anything of the sort.
No.
That is not me.
I am often an imperfect version of myself.
I am often the sum of my own thought and moments which I have added into different versions of assumptions and inaccurate math.
One could say that this is what happens when we live in a self-absorbed bubble.
Some could argue that paranoia can be a bitch—and yes, I agree.
Paranoia is a bitch
So is anxiety
So is everything else on our long list of unwanted traits.
I remember people who came to me in an honest and wholehearted sense.
They came to me with no angle, no reason or opinion, and with no ideas that I should repay their kindness or even appreciate what they said or did.
There are people who have offered themselves in such a way, or given themselves in a wholesome way, like an old man who asked about my life for no other reason than to ask.
I was DONE!
I was looking for the great exit.
This man asked me, “What’s so wrong?”
He used to tell me, “Don’t leave before the miracle happens.”
He always said this and joked with me, which I hated.
And then one day, I let the mask slip.
I showed him my dark side—or worse, I showed him my contempt for his kindness and exposed my ugly truth.
What miracle?
Look around . . .
Look at my life . . .
Look at me!
What miracle?
I shouted and showed my hate, seething, nearly drooling as if to approach him as a threat.
I responded with rage, as if this man were placed in a cage, alone, and with a beast who is eager to bite at his throat and eat his heart.
Rather than fight back, this man softened his expression.
He asked me about my life.
They were basic questions.
He asked me about the fact that somehow, I decided to stay around.
He exposed that somehow, I never followed through with the ugly plans or worse; I never quit or walked away.
Despite the pain, and despite the despair and my outrage; I kept coming back.
His eyes watered when he explained, “Son, if you don’t think that’s a miracle, then I don’t know what a miracle is.”
No one ever talked to me like this . . .
There was a man name Father Anthony.
He was the best.
And there was a priest who ran a retreat and pulled me to the side to say, “Son, I don’t know what you were doing before—but I know that you are here and you’re not doing it now.”
And then . . .
then there was Father Mike.
No one would talk to me.
No one cared.
No one took the time to say hello to me, let alone spit at me or even regard me as invisible.
If you don’t know then I suppose you can’t know. . .
. . . and if you don’t know, then you might never know what it was like to be hugged by my cousin Robbie, who had his shares and battles, just like me.
I always considered Robbie to be like the fellas from The Bowery Boys or Angels with Dirty Faces, meaning yes, we have our shared past, but Robbie . . .
Robbie had something special about him
You have never been hugged by a hug unless it was a Robbie hug,
Trust me.
If you don’t know what it feels like to be dirty or unwanted, hated, or enraged, and then someone like Ms. Joan comes up and hugs you.
And then she says “God Bless you,” or promises you that “you are going to be kay,” and somehow, the pain and the fear and the rage turn into some kind of turbulent eruption.
I explain it this way, as if the devil knows he is about to be evicted and so, —he rages and shakes the cage of the beast within to reject the purity—but even my impurities and the devil and all his demons cannot resist the purity of real love by real people.
especially Ms. Joan
I might not know much.
I might not be as smart as others in the classroom I might not have ever appeared on the honor roll. And to be clear, I might never make it to the so-called promised land but at the same time, I can say that I know what it feels like to be touched, spoken to, or hugged by an Angel on Earth.
All I can say is thank you.
And again, I might not have finished at the top of my class or in some cases; I might not have finished school at all.
But at least I learned enough to say thank you when someone does something kind.
But this?
The above?
This is more than someone being kind.
I call these things lifesaving.
Years ago, I used to tease someone at work. I was a punk kid back then. We all teased each other, all the time. And this man in particular, he was a nice man. |He played back and none of the teasing was cruel by any means.
I will call him Botch, because Botch was his nickname.
And Botch was special.
Botch thought differently and processed information differently.
Botch was somewhat childlike and it was said that Botch had the mind of a child.
However, age has proved something about Botch that might be overlooked.
Decades later.
I had grown both in age and certainly in size.
I saw Botch on Old Country Road.
I couldn’t believe it was him.
And it was.
Botch!!
Botch was standing outside of a fast food place and there was a small group of older teenagers picking on him. I think there was about three-or maybe four of them.
Botch was upset.
And this was clear.
So . . .
I decided to introduce myself and encourage the small group of young men to leave and go elsewhere. I offered them an opportunity to solve this problem both quickly and peacefully.
And no, I suppose my introduction was not as innocent or well-spoken or as calm as my description above.
And I am sure that some of the worst four letter words spewed from my mouth, same as the spit from my anger, which was fine because the small group decided to accept my suggestion to part ways and leave Botch alone.
Then I turned to Botch.
Or better, I turned to a man who supposedly had the brain of a child or to a man who was called “slow.”
I asked, “You alright, Botch?”
Botch had not seen me for more than a decade.
I looked nothing like I did when he saw me last.
And with a happy, loving grin, Botched looked at me and said, “Hi Ben.”
This blew me away.
In my life, I have been called a lot of things.
But I never been called Botch.
Then again, I don’t know if I deserve to be given a name like his.
Ms. Joan though . . .
. . . her hugs
she told me that everything is going to be alright and that I am going to be okay.
I have to believe her.
Very few people have touched my shoulder and healed me.
But there was:
– Botch.
– My cousin Robbie
– Father Anthony.
– Father Mike.
– The man who remains anonymous
(due to 12-step purity)
– The Priest from the A.A. retreat
– And the great, loving, and forever Mother of all kindness, Ms. Joan.
I seldom see myself as lucky
and I might not be lucky by any means.
But my life has been touched by at least seven different Angels
And I don’t know what that means
but I’m sure this has to mean something.
at least, I hope so.
The Written Addiction 