Irish: An Angel's Journey
Page 17
The Great Fisherman
The message reached Grace at the same time, and she sighed almost not wanting to go. She turned to Gaafar, "Thank you, Gaafar, for being here for us. I’ve got to go, now. Take care of Irish for what’s left of your journey. The Great Fisherman has called me home."
She disappeared and appeared near a quiet cove on the lake. There was no angel war here, just a man standing on the shore waiting for her. As Grace approached Him, he turned and smiled. He wore faded blue jeans with some broken-in New Balance sneakers. His bright, white, cotton shirt with its button-down collars contrasted with the glory coming from Him. His short and rather uneven, shoulder-length hair made Him look more like a modern Israeli fighter; except, His eyes were filled with the glory of the sun. The brightness of His face was so awesome that even Grace couldn’t stare at Him for long. He quelled His glory for a moment when he saw a man in his bass boat motoring to one of his favorite fishing spots.
"Are you ready?" asked the Lord.
"Yes, sort of, yes, of course," she replied as she reached for His hand.
As she touched Him, her eyes turned into wonderful rainbow colors so glorious that all around her even the leaves of the trees reflected it. She knew she was heir-servant at last.
As they turned to walk away, Jesus turned to the man fishing offshore and said to Grace, "I just can’t miss a chance like this. Hey, mister, have you been fishing for long?"
"Yes, I’ve been up at the far end away from all the weather all morning and haven’t caught a thing. Look, I got eight lines out and nothing to show for it. Got any ideas?" The man could barely see Jesus, but felt he knew Him, like you know the voice of an old friend.
"Pastor, fish just to the right of your starboard bow." Jesus pointed to the place.
The pastor turned his little boat around and cast them again so all the lines were in the right place. He wondered, "How did he know I was a pastor?" Every line popped under the strain of biting fish. He could barely keep the lines from breaking. He was pulling fish in as fast as possible and throwing his lines back out for more.
Jesus turned to Grace as they disappeared back into heaven saying, "Old habits are hard to break."
Angel White Flags
Irish climbed into Gaafar’s cab while thousands of angels, powers, heir-servants, and her younger angels helped pick up their wounded. Apollyon sent five legions of his own dark angels to do the same. No one bothered them this time. No angels fought. Both sides were too occupied cleaning up the mess from the battle and getting back to their selective domains to repair from the harm. Every once in awhile, a dark angel would bump into a power as each helped their injured comrades. There would be a grunt, sometimes an "excuse me" or "sorry." It was all clinical, polite, sterile, and emotionless.
Gaafar looked around at the mess and shook his head in disbelief. He watched as a path was made through I-24, and several powers with red flags motioned him to go through.
He wondered out loud why the angels didn’t fight anymore. "My lady," he said to Irish, "why aren’t the angels fighting anymore?"
"That’s easy," said Irish. "When we fight—we fight. When we clean up—we clean up. When we rest and repair—nothing else matters. We're all very single-minded about it all."
Gaafar squinted in misunderstanding and shrugged it off. It still didn’t make sense. He still didn’t move forward, not knowing whether his cab could. The battle made his cab look like it had been through a demolition derby. There wasn’t a piece of glass left in it. There was angel blood practically covering the outside and scattered in large blotches on the inside. On his hood were several chunks of angel body parts that didn’t do much to make him feel better. He got out and walked around the cab whistling in disbelief. Big holes were prominent and even cuts from the angels' swords where they took swings at him trying to get him to slow down and stop. Their swords effectively cut the car open like a tin can. Pieces of torn metal stuck up at various places and looked like it was a sardine can with wheels after a major kitten feeding. Surprisingly, the tires were intact. He figured that the angels’ lack of knowledge about human vehicles was the reason. What would an angel know about automobiles—lucky him? How would they know to go for the tires?
Irish was content to sit in the front seat resting her head back against the partially bloodied headrest.