Angels that I Met on High (First Appeared in the Contra Costa Times)

     I was on my way to heaven when I met three angels.  They may have saved my life.  They certainly saved my car.

     My son and his wife live high in the hills above a San Francisco Peninsula valley.  Their home is on a rocky knoll where they can almost reach out and touch the clouds.  On a clear day, they can see five bridges.

     It’s a long trek up the mountain, and there are two ways to do it.  One route goes forever past meadows and through canyons, then residential areas, and the road is good.  If you stay alert and watch the road signs, your chances of making it are excellent.

     The other road also climbs interminably but is far more difficult to navigate.  It is substantially a single lane thoroughfare upon which a complicated negotiation ensues if you meet a car coming the other way.  On one side of the road, banks rise steeply.  On the other, the roadside drops abruptly to a meandering creek that becomes a rushing stream in winter.  This road, however, is far more beautiful, hence a more interesting journey.

     All the rain of this winter reminds me of a perilous journey I took on this road some time back when it was plagued with slides.  On the way to visit my family, I made a last minute disastrous decision to opt for beauty.  A big mistake.  The gate across the narrow road was latched back, so naturally I thought the way ahead was clear.

     Shortly after I began the climb, I could see that the road was being repaired. Tractors and earthmovers were parked along the roadside, which made moot any thought of turning around.  My only choice was to proceed.  The high banks on my left were being scraped and sprayed to prevent new slides, and the movement of repair equipment had torn up the surface of the roadbed.  Recent rains had deposited mud at the base of the high banks and spattered it across the pavement.

     I knew I was in trouble as the reconstruction continued, and the road worsened and narrowed.  All I could do was go on.  By this time, I was becoming frightened, and the way had never seemed so long.  On and on I went, endlessly upward, until finally the last gate loomed ahead, a beacon marking the end of my ordeal.

     I put on the brake, got out of my car and approached the gate.  A chain and padlock secured the portal—an appalling betrayal on the part of the company doing the repairs.  And there I was, at the top of a torn-up narrow road with mud on one side and the sloping creek bank on the other.  For some reason, my cell phone would not work.

     All I could do was to start backing down the several twisting miles I had just painfully traversed.  It was almost impossible to make much progress with my foot on the brake as I tried to stay on the road.  About fifteen minutes and one-quarter mile later, I saw a car coming up behind me.

     I got out and explained our predicament to the three women inside.  Together we decided that there was a slight chance of turning a little farther down, and I begged them not to go off and leave me alone.  After many back and forth maneuvers they finally succeeded in pointing their compact downhill.  Then it was my turn.

     Those three angels stationed themselves around my car and literally inched me around.  I could never have made it without them.  Shaking with relief, I got out of my car to thank them.

     They nodded, but no one smiled.  Then one of them said quietly, “I knew there was a reason we drove up here today.”