"Aha! And yet remarkable solutions to seemingly impossible problems often occur in these moments of clarity. Itâ€™s what gurus call higher consciousness. Biologists call it altered states. Psychologists call it super-sentience. And Christians call it answered prayer. Sometimes, divine relation simply means adjusting your brain to hear what your heart already knows." – Leonardo Vetra
Spending time with my father is generally a cause for some degree of pain. Today it was exceptional. I visited my parents as my mother offered to watch my small men while I attended a purse party given by a friend. I spent less than an hour with my father and came treacherously close to wanting to slit my throat after doing so.
I don't know how or why but the upcoming election came up in conversation. As reported previously, my parents are not the most educated, well informed individuals. They support primarily white conservatives. How surprising. My father ran off at the mouth about Obama being an Iraqi, seeing him with a turban on, not having enough experience to lead. I countered with the state of the country and how well the Republicans had been doing for us all the past eight years. I reminded my father of the current financial crisis, the fact that my company stock (including my own 401K) plummeted in recent weeks (maybe if I made it more personal and close to home he might have a different view), war, military, McCain, Palin and more.
He would hear none of it. He yammered on incoherently in words and thoughts that made absolutely no sense. Expressions that I am even embarrassed to write here as well, this is my gene pool. Not comforting.
I know, truly know, what is at the core of my fathers dislike of Obama – his skin color. There is no question in my mind that this what truly bothers my father. If Obama were white, his alleged lack of leadership skills would not be an issue. If his name was Joe Johnson and he was white, my dad would likely be all over him. Even more so if he name was Stosh Polishguyoski. That would be utopia for my dad. A Polish Catholic in the big old White House. Praise the Lord!
But Obama is half black and my father is 100% racist.
I left the living room the instant I heard my mother arrive at the back door.
She greets with me with a smile and a kiss on the cheek and begins to tell me how much she loves her current priest.
I scan the kitchen for a sharp blade. Throat slitting might be in order after all.
I smile back at her, busying myself by rummaging through her cabinets looking for cookies and hoping I find them and not communion wafers. Behind me, she continues on about Father Lynch and how her friend Marion invites everyone over to her house after Mass for bagels and coffee and a discussions of the sermon.
"Do you have any diet coke?" I ask.
"What? Yeah, in the fridge. On the door" my mother responds. "Don't you think that is wonderful of Marion to host everyone after Mass?" she asks.
"Um, yeah, sure. If you enjoy it, thats great for you." I respond. Secretly I couldn't care less about Marion and her bagels but I do wonder if she still wears that horrid blue eyeshadow she wore when I was a kid.
My father enters the room and asks what we are talking about. I continue to rummage for cookies. I figure if I am lucky and I don't find any I can at least squish myself into the cabinet and avoid further talk of Jesus and Obama.
"Oh, I was telling Susan how great Father Lynch is. I just adore him." my mother answers my father.
"Oh, please, you and that church talk. Does it ever end?" dad responds.
I smirk behind the oak cabinet door.
My sons come bounding into the room and my father teases my youngest about not saying hello when he arrived. My oldest joins the cookie hunt with me. I realize this could be the perfect time to leave.
I check my iPhone for the time.
I gasp and show the phone to my oldest son.
He smiles and laughs.
"Tell Gramma that story" he says.
And so I do.
For the past two months or more, every single time I look at a time source (usually my phone or computer) the time is always three identical digits. It 1:11, or 2:22 or 3:33 or 4:44 or 5:55. It happened a few times in a row and I was amused but it has been happening consistently for two months now. I started to get a bit freaked.
I explain the situation to my mother and she gives me this sideways, kinda, knowing smile. The kinda smile she gets when she thinks we are in the presence of Jesus or some magical force.
I ponder how far I should take this conversation.
"So, I googled it. It freaked me out. I wanted to know if anyone else had ever experienced this. Maybe I have weird brain tumor that causes me to look at the clock only when it is triple digit time." I say half jokingly.
"What did google say?" asks my mother.
"Oh, not much. I found one yahooo answer that said it meant guardian angels were trying to send you a message" I say with laughter.
"Uh, huh. And what are they trying to tell you? Are you listening?" Mom asks with that same god-is-telling-you-something tone in her voice.
"Mom, its just a freak coincidence. Its unsettling me, yeah, but guardian angels? Who would be my angels? Should we call Father Lynch?" I say before I squeal in delight over the vanilla wafers I found. Wafers, but not communion wafers, thankfully.
"I need to go mom. I should be at L's house by now." I say as I take out my iPhone once again and use the maps utility to get directions to my friends house.
I press the little locater icon on the bottom left of my phone to have the service find where I currently am. I then enter my friends address.
A few seconds later the phone returns the directions.
I am begin to review them and find myself confused.
"Whaaa" I start to say.
"What?" my mother asks.
"Mom, this is weird. My phone decided I was on Eleanor Street. Isn't that kinda spooky? Its usually always exact. Its never been wrong. Why did it find me on Eleanor street? I did not even know there was an Eleanor Street in town."
At this point my mother gasps. A few moments later she is able to speak.
"There is your angel." she says with a sly smile. "Keep listening. They are trying to tell you something"
"Oh, mah, come on. Strange, I agree but really…" I say with an attempt to deny what she is suggesting.
My mothers deceased sister and mother were both named Eleanor. There is a great deal of family legend surrounding odd paranormal events occurring around my mothers sister and her death.
My mother sits there smugly and says "God is trying to tell you something, Suz. Are you listening?".
"Oh boy, I gotta go." I say with an eye roll as I leave through the back door.
"Listen, Sue, listen to what the angels are trying to tell you" my mothers voice bellows from behind me as the doors closes with a low screech.