I don’t remember how our conversation, all those years ago started, but I remember his plight, his sorrows, not for the ex-wife he left behind but of his longing to be with his boys, who lived with their mother in his old country, a place where all I could envision were castles and knights riding glamourous horses as I struggled to comprehend the sorrow, his eyes told the rest of his story.
So this here is the story of Alistar, my angel. We met at a bar the more we drank the more difficult it was to understand his heavy brough. I was in deep despair, escaping my home, the marital discourse, the asshole who wouldn’t leave post serving me with divorce papers, for a few hours on a snowy winter’s eve. Oh, my was he handsome: well over six feet tall, blonde, and muscular, yet not my type. What’s wrong with me?
What would be ahead for me, shared custody of my children? An empty home on weekends? ‘They are mine!’ I scream from within as if they were being ripped from my womb. Here beside this Scotsman I found comfort on this stool. I am not alone.
We spoke about our arrival in this small town each of us arriving only the year before. It was a foreign land: for him half way around the world while for me just as foreign: only a mere eighty-three miles north-west, across a large body of water, river, and streams, to the other side of the mountain and down into the valley, far from any stool I ever sat on, here were the many friends of others, to me they were strangers all around. Yet, here amongst the others I found Alistar.
I began telling him the story of us, the year before looking for a house to buy in the area. I describe to him this brownish-red cedar plank house, the large yard enclosed with a short stone wall, how I was called into the backyard by a Power Greater than myself, beyond the wall was a massive treed slope hill, at the bottom of which I could hear a stream. “It was Paradise. I had to have this house.” I told him we put an offer on it with the contingency of the sale of our home. My husband, not being a risk taker when another offer came in he let the house go, ours not yet being sold. “We would have been happy there.” I told my new friend. “I felt this is where God intended us to be.”
“Oh, it’s a lovely house. I know it.” and he did. Alistar went on to say; “It is the house my sister and her husband bought, a year ago. They are very happy. I’m sure you would have been too.”
Letting that house go, for a week later to find a buyer in a very active housing market when the prices of homes began to soar pushed us beyond our price range into the colonial in the middle of a development, properties a third an acre, side by side, not how I envisioned life in the country. Swapping homes, yes considerably larger, mortgages the same, our stresses mounted, before we moved in I no longer liked the man I was moving with and should have cut my losses.
I heard, because I listen for the Great voice that guides me. I knew where we were suppose to be. I had faith. He did not. This was one of our many irreconcilable differences. Alistar knew this. We listen to the same God. We recognize the Stonehenge.
Image: David Ball – http://www.davidball.net
Over the years my friend Alistar will continue to return to me with messages to be told in different stories.
Have you met your angel?