I can almost smell Mawmaw’s house as I tell this tale.

There once hung a picture in my Mawmaw’s house that every grown-up claimed not to notice and every child could not look away from. It showed two barefoot young’uns inchin’ across a rickety footbridge that wouldn’t have passed inspection by even the kindest county official. Behind them stood an angel, tall and calm and bright as a lantern in midnight fog, her hand outstretched like she was keepin’ the world from fallin’ apart.

Mawmaw kept that picture right above the sofa where no less than a dozen cousins had sat through childhood sickness, heartbreaks, groundin’s, and more than one whuppin’ we all claimed was unjust. Through it all, that angel watched us with the expression of a schoolteacher who knew we were trouble but loved us anyway.

Now there are two kinds of children in this world.
There are the ones who see an angel in a picture and feel comforted.
And then there are the rest of us.

I belonged firmly to the second category.

To my young eyes, that angel looked less like a guardian and more like a witness. She was forever starin’ down at me with that serene half-smile, as if she knew every lie I had ever tried to tell, every frog I had stuffed into a shoe, and every cookie I swore to my mother I had not touched before supper.

I used to swear up and down that if I so much as blinked slow, her wings would flutter. Mawmaw would shake her head and say I was lettin’ my imagination outrun my sense, but I noticed she never denied it out loud.

Now, folks around Piedmont will remember Salem Creek, though some of the younger ones might call it more of a ditch. But back in my own tender years, Salem Creek was deep enough to drown your pride if not your body, and the old footbridge over it was just crooked enough to keep life interesting.

One late summer afternoon, Mawmaw sent me down to fetch a bundle of mint she grew near the creek bank. I was feelin’ bold that day, because I had been good for nearly an hour, and that was a record that deserved recognition. I skipped down the trail, hummin’ a tune I learned in Sunday School, and hopped onto the footbridge with all the confidence of a boy who had not yet learned the value of fear.

But halfway across, a board groaned a mournful sound that could only be described as a plank reconsiderin’ its life choices. I froze. The water below glinted dark, cold, and eager. The wind rustled the weeds like it was whisperin’ my eulogy.

And I swear to you, as plain as I swear the sun rises in the east, I felt a presence behind me.

I didn’t look back, on account of bein’ afraid that if I did, I would see those painted wings spread wide in the Alabama daylight. Instead, I put one foot forward slow and careful, whisperin’ promises to God that I would behave for the rest of my natural life if He would just get me across that bridge.

When I made it, I fell to my knees in the mint patch, convinced I had escaped death by the width of a gnat’s eyelash.

I raced back to Mawmaw with the mint with my heart racin’, my pride dented, and my spirit tremblin’ like a wet kitten. Mawmaw looked at me and raised one eyebrow, that universal grandmother signal that says she knows exactly what happened without your sayin’ a word.

She pointed to the picture on the wall.

“She was watchin’ you,” Mawmaw said, as calm as sweet tea on a Sunday afternoon.

“Mawmaw,” I whispered, “did that angel ever move?”

She smiled.

“Sometimes,” she said, “but only for young’uns that need lookin’ after.”

I glanced up at the painting.
The angel’s hand hovered above the heads of the two little ones like a blessing poured straight from the sky. Her smile seemed a touch wider than before. Her eyes seemed to shine just a little brighter.

I blinked quick, afraid she might catch me doin’ it slow.

Now, I don’t claim to know if angels ever sat watch on Salem Creek or if Mawmaw’s picture had more truth in it than we realized. But I can tell you this. Any place where love dwells quiet and steady, where grown-ups keep an eye on young’uns even when they pretend not to, is a place where miracles show up in small ways.

And sometimes, all it takes is a paintin’ on a wall to remind a child that the world is wider and kinder than it feels.

Mawmaw has been gone a long time now, but that picture still lives in my mind as plainly as if I stood in front of it yesterday. The angel’s gaze is still gentle. The children still inch toward the safe side of the bridge. And I reckon I’m still that nervous little boy now and then, hopin’ she’s walkin’ behind me.

Not guardin’ me from danger.
Just guardin’ me from myself.

*****

New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.