A New Coat of Paint

      It was early autumn and things had slowed down on the farm. To keep our young hands out of mischief, the boss got creative and improvised chores. On this particular morning, Tony, the owners’ son, and I were saddled with painting the loafing barn. Being an almost all metal building, the only paintable surfaces were the wooden eves projecting from under the roof about twelve feet up. Enjoying pleasant temperatures with the sun occasionally peeking through the clouds, we laid out our plan of attack: each of us would take opposite ends of one side of the barn and work toward the middle. So, with a spring in our step, we got started.

      With reckless abandon, our young arms slung paint onto the eves as our shirttails flapped in the breeze. Perched at the top of the ladders like birds on a weather vane, we gained a whole new perspective of the cattle pen. Our new outlook stimulated thoughtful conversation at first, but soon deteriorated into mindless chatter. We talked of cows, cars, classes, teachers, and probably girls. Inevitably, corny jokes emerged, making for a chirpy devil-may-care atmosphere.

      An hour later we were about twenty feet away from each other and close to finishing the first side. We moved our ladders and began our assent to the next summit. As I dipped my brush into the bucket I heard Tony laugh and call out “Shoot! I left my brush down there.” He propped his bucket between the top rung of the ladder and the roof line and began climbing down. I shouted “Wait! I’ll get it and hand it up to you.” - I needed to reposition my ladder anyway. - But my words fell on deaf ears as he continued his descent.

      I glanced over at his bucket and then down to him. As he reached the bottom rung, he bent over to grab the deserted brush. With one foot on the lowest rung and the other on the ground, I noticed his ladder wiggle slightly. But before I could utter a sound it happened.

      Haphazardly placed, his paint bucket slipped from its perch and began its short free fall toward the ground. As it came down Tony rose to a standing position and turned his gaze in my direction (apparently responding to my unconscious gasp). The now upside-down bucket landed squarely on his head! As if by design, it positioned itself snugly about his ears like a crown. It couldn’t have fit better if he’d searched every hatter’s haberdashery in the county! He stood there stunned. I was speechless.

      To my amazement, not one drop of paint was lost. But that soon changed. Reacting to the bucket’s loving embrace, he dropped the brush and, with both hands, grabbed the sides of the inverted container. I shouted “Don’t . . . !” but it was too late. In sheer panic, he launched the pail straight up and all the paint gushed out. From head to heels, he was coated!

      Disgusted, he quietly turned and sauntered off across the road in the direction of the house. I watched as he wandered out of sight, and then returned to the project. But I was perplexed. Considering the various elements of the whole incident, “How did that bucket ever fit so conveniently on his head? I mean, what are the odds?” and “What does it take to remove that enamel paint?”

      About an hour or so later I found out . . . sort of. As I finished up the last side of the barn, a humbled and slightly blanched-looking Tony wandered around the corner. What little I did wheedle out of him comprised of a can of gasoline, a scrub brush, an outdoor bath in a makeshift tub, and the consoling words of a loving mother.

      After all these years, I’ve never forgotten that look on his face with the paint bucket firmly lodged on his head. Nor have I ever mentioned the incident to him or his Dad. Still, the recollection brings an impish grin to my face like a guilty pleasure.

By Michael L. Alumbaugh © November 2016

My Dairy Aire

By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2016

  It was a dark and dismal night; at least that’s how some stories begin, I suppose. But mine didn’t. Actually it was just the opposite. It was a bright and sunny mid-winter Saturday afternoon at a dairy farm. We had received a bit of snow with icy temperatures the last couple days and this was a nice break. Things were thawing out in the sunlight while the ground had become a little muddy.

  My boss Gene and I had worked out an agreement where we’d trade weekends to allow one of us a bit of relief from the menial duties of milking. Now it was my turn to do the milking and clean-up chores while he and his family took a well-deserved hiatus.

  Garbed in a stocking hat, coveralls, gloves, and rubber boots, I entered the stockyard to open the gates leading under the milking barn. It was no surprise that Downy was waiting at the main gate. She was a fully grown cow my high school classmate Tony had raised from a calf and was usually the first and friendliest of the herd, always cooperative, and a bit playful.

  Tony had shown me, when I first hired on, how to play with her. He’d walk up to her, slap her on the rump to get her attention, and then walk around to her front. There, he would affectionately rub her head and ears, speak soothingly and gently, and then, firmly placing his hand on her hornless brow, push her head down toward the ground. Her reaction was usually a powerful thrust upward, almost as if goring some intruder in an attempt to throw them over the barn into the next county! He would repeat the action several times until both were satisfied. Then, he’d proceed to open the outer main gate and walk into the interior to open the inner gate. 

  The inner gate was generally a precautionary measure. If not for that gate, these restless untamed freshened heifers would be like herding cats! Having recently calved and already being skittish, at the first sound of the milking machine vacuum they’d kick your arm with their hind leg, knock off their kickers, back out of the milking stall and run you ragged trying to get them back in. It was late enough in the year that we’d pretty much trained them to some level of sensibility.

  Being the “green horn” of the bunch, I decided a bit of “horseplay” was appropriate, so I tried my hand at the “head-game” with Downy. As I approached, I gave her the customary slap on the rear, offered some kind verbal greetings while rubbing her ears and, then, forcefully pushed her head down toward the ground. In her inimitable fashion, she retorted soundly, thus begging for a sterner, more aggressive response from me. We exchanged glances and gentle blows, each one getting a little less response from the other until, apparently, we’d both had enough. 

  By now the herd had gathered. Looking over the black and white cow-ography, I returned to the main gate, swung it open wide allowing her and the rest of the herd to enter the covered enclosure. The concrete was still covered with septic swill from that mornings milking. Entering the barn, I sloshed my way toward the inner gate. Downy followed suit accompanied by the sounds of her sluggish clomping hooves as they slogged through the sludge. 

  About halfway to my destination, unaware that Downy had caught up with me, I received a bold and brash surprise: she had one more butt left in her and I was the deserving recipient. In playful abandon, and unobstructed strength, she rammed her crown into the lower region of my posterior, knocking my legs out from under me, and lifting me heavenward a few inches. As I came down, my heels hit the slick surface and, not finding a footing, I landed flat on my back, skidding to a lengthy halt several feet into the inner sanctum. Laying there stunned and supine, I gazed upward into the rafters. Needless to say, indeed, this boy got his backside basted in barnyard bovine byproducts in that septic swamp!

  My entire hind side, from stocking hat to boot heels, was saturated in liquid cow-pies. Soaked, slipping, sliding and attempting to regain my posture, as well as composure, I offered a backward glance to my playful opponent. No! Could it be possible? I looked again but still . . . I seemed to denote a mischievous glint in the eye of that aged heckling heifer. If I didn’t know better I would have sworn she derived some sense of pleasure from my pratfall. I wondered.

  Uncomfortably, the rest of the evenings milking went unhampered and routine. There were eighty-five udders in and eighty-five out. Though soaked in putrid poop, I had managed. The milking clusters, tank and tubes were washed and ready for the morning milking. Now for the drive home . . . but how? I was a mess.

  My ’51 Ford coupe, which I’d paid $50 dollars for, probably already stunk from previous drives home so there’d be little loss. Fortunately, I found an old cloth, covered the seat and drove the eight miles back to town.

The golden glow of lights through the window curtains offered a wonderfully warm welcoming and hopeful appeal as I entered the driveway. It had been such a miserably uncomfortable evening, but now I was home. As I reached for the back door knob, to my surprise, the door suddenly swung open!

  It was my older sister. She was exiting to go to some social function. The action of the door ushered in the beneficent aroma which permeated and now preceded me. “Peeeeooowweeee!” she shouted, “You’re not coming in here!” and slammed the door in my face. A few moments later my mother showed up. Her only recourse was a chilling one: have me strip outside in the dusk light and hand over my soiled clothes, while my sister found a different escape route. I ended up entering the house pretty close to buck naked.

  To this day, I can still see the glint in Downy’s eye and I still wonder. 

"Watch Out For Snakes!"

By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2016

It was late August in Montana in the summer of 1976. The blistering afternoon sun was creating a glare across my windshield as we headed northwest toward a field just outside of Billings. Our harvest crew caravan was made up of a service vehicle pulling a small silver camper trailer for sleeping, followed by two harvest trucks towing trailers loaded with our machines.

As I trailed the pack, the caravan stirred the dust above the road in front of me. Easing back on the gas pedal did little to reduce the dust cloud ahead as it hung there waiting for me to burst through. I had both windows down on the cab for relief. The air movement allowed the cloud of debris in with the cross-breeze but it provided some comfort from the sweltering heat radiating from the landscape around me.

By now, I’d gotten used to dust in my face and dirt in my teeth. For the last two months I’d eaten a fair amount of both from roads and fields, travelling the silver Gleaners from field to field and town to town, making our way along the “Wheat Belt”. If it wasn’t road dust choking the air from me, it was chaff finding its way into places I had never imagined, but that was just another part of the job as a custom-cutter. I’d either wipe it away, itch it off, or spit it out and move on.

The hum of the engine and the singing of the tires were mesmerizing. It had been a long drive from Cheyenne, WY to Billings. At times the scenery was spectacular from the highway but it could not compare to the view from inside a combine cab where few ever see scenery from that perspective. Looking at the mountains as the sun cascaded its first rays of morning light on the golden heads of grain made each new day feel fresh and exciting. The glory of God’s creation was awe-inspiring.

We were almost to the butte containing the harvest we would be working. My thoughts drifted to past glories, giving little attention to the backroad we were following off Highway 3. It had been an interesting summer break from school. My classmate Al, a pastoral student, provided a job offer working for his Dad’s custom-crew till September.  With my previous experience working various farms through high school, the incentive to get “back to nature” was strong.

As we left Cheyenne, WY around daybreak, I reflected back on the incidents and places we’d been since leaving Cimarron, KS in early June. First, we headed to Wichita Falls, Tx. Just south of the Oklahoma line, I recalled seeing a tire bouncing past me on the right side of the road and disappear into some brush. As I wondered about that, a car on my left side began honking while its passenger waved frantically for my attention toward my trailer. Yep, the tire was mine! The wheel loss was due to an overzealous Skoal chewing hired man who had overtightened the wheel bearings just a bit. (Thanks for that, John.) Providentially, it was a tandem trailer so no further damage was realized. We found the wheel and tire, checked the spindle for damage, repacked the bearings, replaced the wheel assembly and we were off again.

Once we made it to the field skirting the Red River, I recall Al’s twelve year old brother David shouting, “Watch out for snakes!” With the exception of an occasional jackrabbit or armadillo, about the only threat I’d come upon were mosquitos large enough to impale a man and carry him off to his final resting place. Avoiding that destiny along the river that evening was fulltime between the service truck and the combines as we prepped the machines for the morning’s first light cutting. From that day to this, the only intimidating critters I had seen were just more rabbits and armadillos. We finished there and headed north gathering harvest all the way to Vona, Colo. The scenery wasn’t much to speak of, nor the varmints.

Even around Pines Bluff, WY, I saw little to interest me, save a distant view of the Rockies. That changed as we headed for Cheyenne, stopping off at the Vedauwoo State Park one Sunday afternoon to scale the rock faces in that unusual mountain range. The climb had been sobering as well as exhilarating. But, again, no snakes were found and David’s warnings were becoming a bit tedious.

My focus returned to the drive as we continued along the winding road. I could see ahead in the distance a range of buttes taking shape. Suddenly my attentions were drawn to the barbed wire fence and tall grass to my left. From out of nowhere an antelope appeared running at break-neck speed parallel to my truck inside the enclosure. Up ahead I saw the fence corner and the wire making a 90 degree turn in front of him. Travelling at around 50mph I pondered, “Would he ram through the wire and get tangled or jump it?” My heart began to race! But I was wrong on all counts. As quickly as he had appeared, and without missing a step, he gracefully turned “on a dime” and followed the fence line out of my sight. What a breath-taking view of agile strength and dexterity. I was speechless!

Then I saw it, the butte. It must have risen above the prairie floor a good 700 feet. At the mile wide base was a small sea of derelict machinery and vintage cars in varying conditions.  The farmers used them for erosion control. At the top was a caterpillar tractor with disk/plow implements spanning 70 feet or more. I was told later that the farmers would begin their day making only one pass and ending the day at the other end of the plateau. The next day they made their return trip in a new path, repeating the process until the field was totally worked.

My vision fell back on the cars. Apparently they had intrigued us all and the caravan stopped. Stepping out of our vehicles, the hue and cry was the song of David, “Watch out for snakes!” Again I muttered my disgust and headed toward the rest of our troop. Bringing up the rear of the convoy, I was cut off from them by a ravine filled with a variety of junk and brush. Surveying the lay of the land, my eyes set upon an apparent jewel of a car. It was a late 20’s or early 30’s Chrysler in above average condition lying on its side. It demanded a closer inspection! But how would I get to it?

I spied an old abandon tool shed standing between me and the prize. I made my way to the structure considering my approach. “Could I pass around it or would I have to go through it?” Rocks, crags, rusty implements and lumber offered no choice but to pass through.

Under a cloudless sky, I inspected the building closely. There was a door on each end, the closest being open. Carefully I entered, looking above and around for a possible nest of hornets, rats or who knows what. Sunbeams burned through knotholes and boards occasionally blinding me as my eyes adjusted to the inner darkness. I could see the outline of the second door just a few feet away. Whoever owned the shed must have used it for storage. There was an obvious path between them lined with clutter on each side. Cautiously, I made my way to the second door. I reached for the door knob, again watching for any lurking danger. Seeing none, I opened the door. The glare from the sun again temporarily blinded me as I stepped out of the darkened structure. I paused momentarily to allow my eyes to readjust.

But something made me stop. Looking down between my feet, I saw a long dark narrow object. Something inside me told me it wasn’t a stick. As my pupils finalized their dilation, I made out the distinct pattern and shiny scales of my worst nightmare. I was straddling a large diamondback rattler.

Stunned, I froze in place, not knowing he was as surprised as I was. I was just out stretching my legs and nosing around an old car. The snake, on the other hand, had probably intended to go to his favorite sunning spot, rub on a bit of tanning oil, and leisurely basking in the sun while enjoying a nice mid-afternoon snooze.

Adrenaline overtook me! Unconsciously I had jumped, landing a good twelve feet away, panting breathlessly and pointing to the spot where he laid. My gaunt panicked face told the story vividly. Al saw me and shouted, “Snake?” Though scared spit-less, I managed a cracking declaration. With every bit of my being I gushed forth, “SNAKE! BIG SNAKE!”

Al’s Dad called out, “Catch him!” while young David shouted, “Let’s see him!” Catching that python was not on my bucket list and being caught was not on the rattlers’. We both moved in opposite directions, me away from the building and him toward it. Quickly, a revolver and long knife were retrieved from the service truck. (Al’s father collected the rattles.) Al found a board and before the unsuspecting reptile could elude them the butt of the board landed on his head and a shot rang out. There I stood, heart racing, while the color returned to my face. No one really seemed too interested in the antiques around us. All eyes were fixed on the victim.

Carrying the prize back to the service truck, Al commented “Dad, he only has 13 rattles. The rest are broken off.” His Dad retorted, “Well, he was an old one. Probably pushing 20 years old or more by the looks of that last rattle. What does he measure?” Al took a tape measure from a side panel on the truck. “Here Mike, hold him while I measure him.” “No thanks” I replied. “Let someone else.” Al held him by the tail while his Dad pulled the tape and commented. “He’s a big one, sixty-two inches.  You should have him made into a belt.”

Needless to say, I passed on the belt idea and took a picture of Al holding the poor critter. Impressive as he was, I was just glad for the memories and being alive. I figured God had given me the granddaddy of snakes with enough venom for a whole platoon but with no fangs, just dentures, so I was safe. I thanked Him for deliverance and for David, then moved on.

My Dad: Heros Do Hard Things

By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2016,
published in June issue of Black River Times

“I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course,

I have kept the faith:” – 2 Timothy4:7

    The evening sun was casting long shadows across the tilled ground as we finished digging the last post hole. It was the spring of ’62 and Dad wanted a fence around the garden so the geese wouldn’t get in.

    The goose and gander came from a family in payment for some repairs he had made for them. Dad was a self-taught handyman who could fix anything from appliances to autos, and people knew it. They paid with poultry, produce, home canned items, fresh butchered meats, or cash; whatever they could afford or whatever he accepted. Times were tight with a wife and five kids to feed, so he took the geese.

    My older brother kicked the last dirt into the hole and tamped it tight around the post as I held it straight. He turned to see Dad dropping another post in the next hole a few yards away. That’s when we heard a familiar voice calling from the back of the house on the other side of the cedar trees. It was Mom announcing supper! We abandoned Dad, like one pig waiting on another, and ran into the house to get cleaned up.

    We washed up and sat down around the table as Mom placed the last dish. The room was filled with the wonderful smells of her cooking. Hungry eyes devoured the fare. She seated herself, prayed and watched us dig in.

    Dad hadn’t come in by the time we were finishing up the meal. With full tummies, we cleaned up the kitchen leaving a place setting and a bit of food for Dad. My older brother always washed the dishes while my older sister and I dried and put them away. Mom prepared baths of the two little ones.

    As was normal for Dad, he finished what he was doing before he would eat, so he pressed on alone. Daylight was limited and he wanted to get the wire up. We had school the next day so Mom sent us to bed. Lights went out and we were asleep before our heads hit the pillows.

    Meanwhile, Mom periodically returned to the back door calling to Dad, reminding him that his food was getting cold. (There were no microwaves in those days!) But still no Dad.

    It was getting late now, darkness had enveloped the yard. As she walked out the backdoor to the yard she listened and watched for any sign of her husband. Finally, as she rounded the end of the cedars, she saw his silhouette standing in the moonlight holding onto a post. “Did you hear me? The kids are in bed. Aren’t you coming in to eat?” No answer.

    As she drew nearer to him she heard a faint noise. His voice was weak and raspy. “I’ve been calling but you couldn’t hear me for the trees. I’ve lost my voice!”

     “Why didn’t you just come in?” she asked.

     “I couldn’t. I can’t move!”

    So what had happened? Life, old and new, happened.

    1920’s & the Depression: Dad was raised on a farm, experiencing some rather traumatic events. At around age 9, the early part of the Depression, he and his mother were struck by lightning while gathering eggs. She recovered fairly quickly but it took him a couple days to get back in the saddle. A few years later he was struck again.

    1930’s & the Dust Bowl: His parents struggled through lean times raising six children. His Dad worked hard and did what he could, nearly losing everything. But the farm family survived.

    A few years later, he and some high school friends drove over a set of rough railroad tracks, lost control of the car and hit a tree. The impact threw Dad from the vehicle and under the wheels, breaking his back.

    The attending physician had very few options in comparison to the medical profession today. Weighing Dad’s condition, he found a piece of stainless steel and fashioned a crude back brace from it, wrapping it in gauze and cloth for padding. This allowed Dad walk as he healed. But he never would heal completely. I recall seeing that brace hanging in the loft of our barn years later wondering what it was. Now I know. And he never finished school.

    1940’s & World War II: Dad met a lovely young lady and married her. While working with his dad on the farm, America got involved in the war. He saw his duty, left the farm and his bride to serve his country. But his country wouldn’t take him in his condition. He told the Draft Board, “If you won’t take me, I’ll find a branch that will.”

    The Army took him, placing him in the infantry. Stationed in France, he was blown out of a foxhole and hospitalized. Injuries sustained: shrapnel in his shoulder, wood embedded in his ears and frostbitten toes. Once he was patched up, he finished active duty guarding German POW’s.

    Receiving a Purple Heart, he shipped back home returning to his Bride. As they set up housekeeping, he again worked on the family farm.  While repairing a tractor’s leaky fuel tank, it exploded causing severe burns around his face, neck and eyes. Due to allergies he left the farm to work as repairman for John Deere.

    1950’s & a New Man: Continuing in service maintenance, he worked for Sears Roebuck several years as a travelling service repairman throughout the state. During that time he received a new perspective on life; he met Jesus Christ! That encounter gave him a new outlook and purpose. Turning from drinking and smoking to make a Christian home, he left Sears, moved his wife and four children to a small town and made a fresh new start.

    1960’s: A local Christian business man heard of his repair abilities and offered him a job including training in electrical wiring and plumbing. With the old back injury and the heavy lifting required by metal pipes, it offered no appeal so, leaning on his own wisdom, he declined. But the man persisted, showing him the new development of PVC piping. With promised training, never having to install lead pipe again and with a new child on the way, Dad accepted.

    Having learned to be self-reliant, Dad continued his full time employment but the income was still not adequate. He turned to moonlighting and planted a garden. But God had other plans.

______

    That night Mom found him in the garden paralyzed and drove him to the hospital. The doctors told him he had two choices: “You can leave this hospital paralyzed laying down or paralyzed sitting up. It’s your choice.” He thanked them, but said “I have a third option.” During that painful night he called out to God, “Lord, I have a wife and five children. I need to raise them! If you heal me, I’ll serve you till I die.” God heard his prayer and the next morning he walked out of that hospital.

    Without complaint, he lived with pain while raising us, and after 30+ years as a Maintenance Supervisor for a Christian college (and another lightning strike), he retired. He persevered! God honored my Dad’s commitment to Him and to us. He saw his Bride go to be with her Lord. He saw his children come to faith in Jesus Christ. I imagine my Dad, my hero, heard this from Jesus as he entered his final rest (ones I hope to hear as well): “. . . Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.” – Matthew 25:23

ANGL-FM (I Wonder If Mom Knows)

By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2016, published in May issue of Black River Times

“As a mother comforts her son, so I will comfort you,

and you will be comforted . . .” – Isaiah 66:13

  I have many fond memories of my mother. She was my favorite pianist, singer and best friend. I recall many times her and dad at the piano in the living room practicing a duet for church. Sometimes I’d even sing along. I learned a lot of hymns that way growing up.

   Arriving home from school, I’d usually find her reclining in an overstuffed chair reading her Bible. There I would come to her with my problems. Other times, we would share events of the day while peeling potatoes for supper. I could talk to her about anything. She would listen quietly, always with a warm and loving smile, advising or comforting as required when I was discouraged. She didn’t have a judgmental or critical bone in her body. Rather, she represented to my young heart unconditional love. Her trademark was the constant smile of contentment she wore everywhere. If I were to describe her in a word it would be “Joy!”

  Dealing with a pacemaker during the last few years of her life brought complications. But she never displayed any doubt or worry regarding her final destination. She had one focus: loving her family through the power of Jesus Christ with joy.

  A few months before her passing, my Bride and I announced the soon arrival of our fifth child. With the usual sparkle in her eyes and positive smile, she blessed my Bride with kind words of encouragement. Sadly, Mom would never meet that child.

  Her last month was spent in the hospital. As the end grew near, the family began the preparations for her home-going. I asked her one day if she had any favorite songs or hymns she would like played at the service. (I was confident I knew all her favorites . . . but I didn’t.) After she paused a moment, she handed me her list adding, “There’s one I don’t remember the name to, but the chorus goes ‘For angels never felt the joys that our salvation brings.’” I was a bit surprised. I almost panicked. I not only had never heard that line but had never heard her mention it or sing it before! I knew a lot of hymns and had a healthy collection of her old song books and hymnals along with ones I had redeemed from garage sales and bookstores. Where would I start to look?

  Arriving home I spent the next few days searching for that hymn. While making the arrangements for musical accompaniment, I asked the pianist if she had ever heard that line. She, being a seasoned musician and pastor’s wife, called me later with a possible title. Happily, I found it in one of the more obscure songbooks. But before I could verify it as the right one with my mom, she was ushered into the presence of her Saviour.

  The service was lovely as we celebrated her life. The pastor’s wife played the medley of mom’s list and then surprised us by singing the unfamiliar hymn. It was the first time I’d ever heard it. It was a wonderful moment for the family.

  Then, a couple months later, the baby was born. It was a boy! Then the thought struck me, “I wonder if mom knows he is born.” Little did I know how that question would be answered.

  Mysterious things began to occur. Being the proud father, I called sibling’s, relatives, and friends, announcing our newest arrival. During a call to my oldest brother, he surprised me by commenting, “Well, mom has a birthday partner. Too bad she isn’t here to enjoy it.” I was speechless! Being lousy at remembering birthdays, I stammered and stuttered through the rest of the conversation trying to regain some semblance of confidence. Was it a coincidence? I was skeptical.

  Then, a few months later I was locking up the house, tucking the kids in bed. As I approached my two older sons’ room, I remembered that one needed to get up early. I picked up the clock radio from the nightstand. As I did, for whatever reason, that question ran through my mind again, “I wonder if mom knows about him.” Set on a Christian station, I pressed the alarm button to check the volume. To my wonder and amazement I heard a choir singing “For angels never felt the joys that our salvation brings.” As my jaw dropped, a calm yet joyous assurance came to rest on my heart. It was as if Jesus was saying, “She knows.”

  That was the first and last time I actually heard that song played since the funeral. And though I find no scriptural support for my intuitions regarding her knowledge of earthly things, I rest in the assurance that she was made aware of her birthday buddy. I am equally confident she is joyfully enraptured by the One who bought her with His blood. Perhaps she is singing “Holy, Holy Is What the Angels Sing” to her King.

  The hymns author, Johnson Oatman, Jr., penned these words in 1896:

There is singing up in Heaven such as we have never known,
Where the angels sing the praises of the Lamb upon the throne,
Their sweet harps are ever tuneful, and their voices always clear,
O that we might be more like them while we serve the Master here!

Refrain:

Holy, holy, is what the angels sing,
And I expect to help them make the courts of heaven ring;
But when I sing redemption’s story, they will fold their wings,
For angels never felt the joys that our salvation brings.

But I hear another anthem, blending voices clear and strong,
“Unto Him Who hath redeemed us and hath bought us,” is the song;
We have come through tribulation to this land so fair and bright,
In the fountain freely flowing He hath made our garments white.

Refrain

Then the angels stand and listen, for they cannot join the song,
Like the sound of many waters, by that happy, blood washed throng,
For they sing about great trials, battles fought and vict’ries won,
And they praise their great Redeemer, who hath said to them, “Well done.”

Refrain

So, although I’m not an angel, yet I know that over there
I will join a blessèd chorus that the angels cannot share;
I will sing about my Savior, who upon dark Calvary
Freely pardoned my transgressions, died to set a sinner free.

Refrain