How Angels Get Their Wings

“Great,” I muttered, pulling off the side of the road as the snow drifted down around us. The gas gauge showed half a tank. From the sputtering of the engine and a quick calculation of miles driven since the last trip to the station, I was fairly certain the gauge was lying.

“What’s wrong, momma?”

“I think we’re out of gas, sweetie.” I glared at the gas gauge for a moment, silently cursing my reliance on its assumed honesty, then looked out the quickly fogging window at the falling snow and sighed. The closest gas station was a few miles away. If they were even open this late on Christmas Eve.

“Are we going to have to walk in the snow?” my oldest asked, staring wide-eyed at me from the rear-view mirror. “It’s cold outside.”

I glanced back at the baby, nylon-clad legs swinging in her booster seat. Black dress shoes flashing in the reflected light from the streetlamp beside us.

I sighed again, closing my eyes to send up a prayer to the heavens that the snow would continue to fall slowly, drifting softly to the ground until we could get back on the road again. If it fell any harder and accumulated…

I wouldn’t let myself finish that thought. It was going to be hard enough with the three of us walking three miles through the thin snow in dress shoes. Letting the girls see my distress would only make things worse.

Lord, please let them be open. Let them have a cheap gas can to buy. And please, please, please, let us make it home in one piece tonight.

We’d barely made it to the corner stop sign when headlights lit up the street around us and the loud crunch of tires resounded from behind us. “Excuse me! Do you need some help?” a resonant male voice called to us from behind the bright lights. “You wouldn’t be out of gas, would you?”

The lights turned off as we stared at the white pickup and his hazard lights began to blink a rhythmic pulse, creating a yellow halo in the snow-filled air.

“How does he know?” the little one whispered.

“I hope he isn’t a creeper,” the oldest muttered.

I cleared my suddenly dry throat. “Ye-yes. My gauge still shows half a tank, but the engine sounded like it was empty when it stalled.”

He had a really nice smile, dark brown hair and bright blue eyes that sparkled in the night like Christmas ornaments. “My truck is nice and warm if you’d like to put the girls in. I just so happen to have a can of gas in the back. It’s only about five gallons, but hopefully it gets you somewhere safer than walking down the side of the road at night.” Then holding his keys out towards me, he offered, “You can hold onto my keys, if you’re worried.”

Was it that obvious? I just stared at the keys, not sure how to answer and only half believing he was real or that he “just happened” to have a five gallon can of gas with him.

“Can I hold them?” my little one asked innocently, taking a few steps forward and reaching for the shiny keys before I snapped back to reality.

He let the keys slip into her pale, bare hand and then jogged over to open the passenger door for them. The warmth from within rolled out into the cold air and I sighed, before marching forward and lifting my children into the stranger’s truck.

Meanwhile, he had retreated to the back of the truck to grab a bright red, metal gas can and, I had to assume, to give me some space. I was clearly tense and as I closed the truck door, I rolled my shoulders so I could at least try to present some cordiality to this stranger that was doing his best to help us out. “My name’s Frank, by the way.”

Which matched the name painted across the side of the truck bed, “Frank Marshall’s Painting Services (843) 224-3555”. I quickly filed the phone number and name away in my memory, thanking my writer’s penchant for always keeping a pencil and paper in the glove box. I also made a mental note to put in a good review for Mr. Marshall once we got home.

“I’m Mary,” I murmured, opening the car door and releasing the latch on the gas tank cover.

He paused a moment as he ratcheted the gas cap off. “No kidding!”

I waited a moment for the rest of his thought, expecting something about it being Christmas and all, or his mom perhaps being named Mary also. He said no more about it though, and went about emptying the gas can into my tank.

The snow began to fall in thicker clumps as we stood there, two strangers lost in thought. “It’s kind of strange,” he began, “I really could have waited to fill the gas can after Christmas. There really wasn’t any reason to do it tonight. I was driving home, going passed the Kangaroo and saw they’d dropped the price. Next thing I knew I was putting the full can back into the back of the truck.” He laughed then, still staring down at the can as he shook the last few drops out. “As soon as I saw you walking away from the car, I just knew.”

Blue eyes met mine then and I began to open my purse impulsively. “Can-can I give you something for the gas? What is that, like twenty dollars?”

He laughed again. “Oh no! No, I can’t take that.” He shook his head emphatically. “I was sent to you, I’m sure of it. I couldn’t possibly take anything for it. Please, just pass it on. Do something nice for someone else.” Then gesturing to the driver’s seat, “go ahead and start it up just to be sure that was the problem. I’m not leaving you until I’m sure you’ll be able to get home okay.”

“Um, uh, right. Okay.”

With one turn of the key, the engine roared to life.

The gas gauge dropped instantly to a quarter of a tank.

The girls, eager to be back in the safety of our own car, immediately jumped out of the truck and ran back to climb in. My oldest threw the keys to Frank and thanked him as she slid up to me.

He stood silently beside the back of his truck as we climbed in, put the car into gear, rolled the windows down and yelled our thanks out into the silent night.

I tried to call the phone number as soon as we got home to let Frank know we’d made it safely, but the number came up as non-existent. Similarly, an internet search showed no Frank Marshall’s Painting Service listed anywhere in the state, or elsewhere, nor was there any Frank Marshall that I could find.

“Was he an angel, momma?” my littlest asked softly as I finally gave up the search and snuggled down onto the couch with my ladies to watch the lights on our Christmas Tree.

A whole host of angels gazed back at us from the tree. The first time I’d decorated with them.

I nodded slowly. “You know, sweetie. I think he was.”

I had gotten exactly what I had prayed for, and I took his request to heart, not just passing on his kindness to the next person I found in need of help but also passing on the simple request to pay it onward.

Every Christmas the girls and I make it a point to do something, even if it is buying a tank of gas for a family at the gas station, a car full of strangers needing an angel’s help.