FOODFORTHOUGHT

ENTERTAINING ANGELS
Author Unknown
July 20, 2010

It was fifty years ago, on a hot summer day, in the deep south. We
lived on a dirt road, on a sand lot. We were, what was known as "dirt
poor". I had been playing outside all morning in the sand.

Suddenly, I heard a sharp clanking sound behind me and looking over my
shoulder, my eyes were drawn to a strange sight! Across the dirt road
were two rows of men, dressed in black and white, striped, baggy
uniforms. Their faces were covered with dust and sweat. They looked so
weary, and they were chained together with huge, black, iron chains.
Hanging from the end of each chained row was a big, black, iron ball.

They were, as polite people said in those days, a "Chain Gang,"
guarded by two, heavily armed, white guards. I stared at the prisoners
as they settled uncomfortably down in the dirt, under the shade of
some straggly trees. One of the guards walked towards me. Nodding as
he passed, he went up to our front door and knocked. My mother
appeared at the door, and I heard the guard ask if he could have
permission to get water from the pump, in the backyard, so that "his
men" could "have a drink". My mother agreed, but I saw a look of
concern on her face, as she called me inside.

I stared through the window as each prisoner was unchained from the
line, to hobble over to the pump and drink his fill from a small tin
cup, while a guard watched vigilantly. It wasn't long before they were
all chained back up again, with prisoners and guards retreating into
the shade, away from an unrelenting sun. I heard my mother call me
into the kitchen, and I entered, to see her bustling around with tins
of tuna fish, mayonnaise, our last loaf of bread, and two, big,
pitchers of lemonade. In what seemed "a blink of an eye", she had made
a tray of sandwiches using all the tuna we were to have had for that
night's supper.

My mother was smiling as she handed me one of the pitchers of
lemonade, cautioning me to carry it "carefully" and to "not spill a
drop." Then, lifting the tray in one hand and holding a pitcher in her
other hand, she marched me to the door, deftly opening it with her
foot, and trotted me
across the street. She approached the guards, flashing them with a
brilliant smile. "We had some leftovers from lunch," she said, "and I
was wondering if we could share with you and your men." She smiled at
each of the men, searching their dark eyes with her own eyes of
"robin's egg blue." Everyone started to their feet. "Oh no!" she said.
"Stay where you are! I'll just serve you!" Calling me to her side, she
went from guard to guard, then from prisoner to prisoner, filling each
tin cup with lemonade, and giving each man a sandwich.

It was very quiet, except for a "thank you, ma'am," and the clanking
of the chains. Very soon we were at the end of the line, my mother's
eyes softly scanning each face. The last prisoner was a big man, his
dark skin pouring with sweat, and streaked with dust. Suddenly, his
face broke into a
wonderful smile, as he looked up into my mother's eyes, and he said,
"Ma'am, I've wondered all my life if I'd ever see an angel, and now I
have! Thank you!" Again, my mother's smile took in the whole group.
"You're all welcome!" she said. "God bless you." Then we walked across
to the house, with empty tray and pitchers, and back inside.

Soon, the men moved on, and I never saw them again. The only
explanation my mother ever gave me, for that strange and wonderful
day, was that I "remember, always, to entertain strangers, for by
doing so, you may entertain angels, without knowing."

Then, with a mysterious smile, she went about the rest of the day. I
don't remember what we ate for supper, that night. I just know it was
served by an angel.

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