Angel in a Cornfield

It was one of those winter days when rain came down in sheets. We’d visited a construction site and were going back home. There was a quick way to get back to town, but she didn’t take it. Instead, we drove along country roads.

Occasionally we saw Christmas lights on farmhouses, coming into view like galleons over the hills. We stopped for peanuts at a dimly lit general store. A sign beneath a wreath read “no public toilets.”

The store, which was about the size of two large living rooms, smelled of tobacco smoke, the way stores did 50 years ago. Three people with deeply lined faces sat talking and smoking at the back of the store. One gave us some brownies she’d made. We paid for our soft drinks and peanuts at the counter where another hand-written sign said “NO CREDIT.”

Outside in the lamplight, a woman picked through a pile of sweet potatoes taller than she was. “Take some, ” she said. “They’re free.“

We drove away with our salted nuts and gifts, thinking about the mixed messages at the store. But it was the Christmas lights we watched. And as we were crossing a flooded creek, we saw an angel.