She couldn’t even be sure how she finally made it back to the cabin that late afternoon. But somehow she did. By the time she reached her driveway, her vision was almost completely obscured by the swirling snow and a bluish light that was fading fast. She went inside, stripped off her snow-coated, sweat-soaked clothing, and collapsed into bed without even eating dinner.
That night she dreamed she was caught out in the woods—in the midst of a howling blizzard and waist high snow. She was freezing cold, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t push her way through the deep snow. She felt trapped in quicksand and could feel herself being pulled down, down, down. And after a while she lost all strength to resist. She no longer cared. She entirely lost her will to fight. Better to give in, to just allow its cold forces to swallow her up. And then she would be no more. Feel no more. Escape.
But just as she yielded, resting her face in the cold, white snow, two angels appeared—one on either side. They were brilliantly white, even whiter than the snow! She couldn’t see the features on their faces because they glowed so brightly—like burning kerosene lamps. Still she could feel them near her, and each one held securely to an arm as they guided her through the snowstorm. They even lifted her up as if she were lighter than a rag doll, her feet trailing helplessly through the snow. And then they carried her up higher, as if she were lighter than a feather, and the three of them flew like birds above the evergreen treetops, up over the falling snow and the layer of clouds. She wanted to ask the angels their names but was so awed by them she was unable to find her voice to speak. It was a delightful dream, really, and she was sorry to wake up. But flying through the snowstorm with the angels had made her cold, and when she awoke, she was shivering in the darkness.
She looked across the coal-black room to see the fire had gone completely out. And why not, when she hadn’t even bothered to stoke it up after her wild and reckless walk? Now she paid for her mistake as her feet touched the icy floor and she struggled with freezing fingers to wad up old newspaper and stack the kindling. Her hands shook from the cold as she lit a match and held it to her little mound, blowing gently to help the fragile flame grow stronger.
Wrapped in a quilt, she huddled before the fire for more than an hour before she finally began to feel free of the icy grip that had laid hold of her. And by then, despite the hour, she was wide awake and unable to
sleep, still fascinated by her captivating dream. Finally, she made a pot of strong coffee and went over to look at her two recently painted canvases, hopeful she might see something worthwhile in their content. She stared for a while then frowned. Nothing more than boring snowscapes—layers of white upon white upon white. Lifeless and blah. Not even good enough to be reproduced into Christmas wrapping paper!
How long she stood there, she couldn’t remember, but suddenly like a flash of light in the midst of hopeless darkness, it hit her. She moved a couple of lamps nearer her easel, then picked up a fresh pallet and opened a tube of paint. Those paintings simply weren’t finished yet.
She worked with a frenzy—a creative compulsion unlike any she’d ever known before—only pausing on occasion to stretch out her stiff arm and briefly sip on her long since cold coffee. Still working, she hardly noticed when the sun came up, although she appreciated the improved light, but she continued relentlessly on until it was nearly noon. Finally, her back and shoulders burned like fire and she was forced to stop, to step back and simply close her eyes.
Without even allowing herself the opportunity to pause and evaluate her work (for fear she would be sadly disheartened) she turned toward the kitchen area and opened a can of tomato soup, quickly heated it, then sat down at the table to eat in silence. She imagined how she must look, unwashed and unkempt, huddled there still wrapped in the worn quilt, eating her lukewarm soup with only the sound of the clock ticking and the clink of the spoon against the ceramic bowl.
“I’m a madwoman,” she said aloud as she set the empty bowl into the sink with a loud thunk. Suddenly, she imagined her favorite artist—Vincent Van Gogh—and the way he had cut off his ear and done other strange things, and for the first time she thought perhaps she almost understood. Sighing loudly, she paced the floor, careful to keep from accidentally seeing her recent painting, still unwilling to look at her work. “And now I’m even starting to talk to myself,” she mused.
Then in sheer exhaustion, she stoked her dwindling fire and allowed herself a short nap before she returned once again to her unsettling creation. She worked until dusk this time and, lamenting the loss of good light, turned the easel toward the wall (still afraid to really look) and fixed herself a bowl of undercooked oatmeal for dinner. She knew her eyes were too tired to keep painting anymore tonight, especially if she didn’t want to sacrifice the quality of her work—assuming there was any quality. And so she simply sat in the easy chair and closed her burning eyes, wondering how in the world she would ever be able to survive this soul-wrenching loneliness. It was odd though, while she had definitely felt the pain of loss, she hadn’t really noticed the loneliness so much before. In fact, her solitude had been somewhat welcome when she’d first come to the cabin. But somewhere along the line, something in these circumstances had changed. Maybe it was her.
Just then, she heard a scratching sound followed by a sharp bark.
“Mike!” she cried, leaping from her chair and dropping the quilt to the floor. Sure enough, when she flung open
the door, there was the dog all covered with snow. She told him to come, and, as he gave himself a shake, she ran for the towel, happily drying him off by the fire.
“Oh, what on earth are you doing out in this horrible weather, you silly old dog?” Then she hugged him, and he wagged his tail. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.” She quickly found his dishes and filled them with food and water. She set them before him, watching with pleasure as he hungrily devoured every bite. She knew she should contact Rick. But she didn’t have his phone number. And besides, it was dark out, and she wasn’t eager to see him standing on her doorstep tonight. It would have to wait until morning. In the meantime, she would simply enjoy this unexpected visit from her dear old friend.
Having Mike (or Michael as she had decided to call him) made it easier to go to bed that night. It was such a comfort to hear the dog’s even breathing as he slept by the warmth of the fire. But before she drifted to sleep she prayed. First she thanked God for returning Michael to her, and then she asked that she might somehow keep him for good this time. She knew it was a long shot but figured she had nothing to lose.
The next morning she awoke early, refreshed by a good night’s sleep. She couldn’t actually remember if she’d dreamt of angels again or not, but she was heartened to see her friend Michael still sleeping peacefully by the fire. But his head popped up as soon as he heard her footsteps. Soon his tail was thumping against the planks of the wood floor, and she knew he was waiting to be let out. She watched him make his way down the porch and into the snow, his limp barely noticeable now. She
knew she had to make some kind of an attempt to reach Rick today, but she was in no hurry. And once again she prayed that God would somehow allow her to keep Michael.
After breakfast, she went over to yesterday’s canvas and hesitantly turned the easel around, allowing the morning light to wash across it. She felt her hand go to her mouth as she gasped in wonder. Had she really painted
that?
She moved closer and, narrowing her eyes, studied it carefully. Incredible! There amidst the trees and snowy background she’d painted a few days back were several—what would she call them—celestial beings? No, they were simply angels. And they were artfully tucked here and there, almost so that you wouldn’t notice. Some angels were partially hidden behind trees, some translucently visible in the foreground. But each angel was painted in varying shades of white—in fact the entire picture was little more than shades of white upon white. If you squinted, it looked like little more than a snowstorm. But if you looked closely, the angels were clearly there. It was amazing, really. She closed her eyes and shook her head sharply, then looked again—almost thinking she’d imagined this whole thing or was dreaming again.
“Did I really paint that?” she said aloud, drawing the attention of Michael who walked over and looked up with canine curiosity. She turned to him. “What do you think, boy?”
His tail wagged as if to give approval, although Claire knew he was simply responding to her voice. And then she began to laugh. “Oh, man, Jeannie’s going to think
I’ve gone totally off the deep end.” She went to put on the coffee. “First of all, I’m talking not just to myself but to a dog as well. And next off, I’ve started to not only believe in angels but to paint pictures of them too.”
She took her coffee mug back over to the painting, ready to look again, to see if it was really as good as she’d first thought. Perhaps she wasn’t really seeing things as they were—another symptom of insanity. But this time she liked the painting even more. Of course, this alone should have disturbed her since she didn’t usually like her finished work at all. And despite the opinions and approval of others, she was always her worst critic. “Maybe I am losing it, Michael,” she said, taking a sip of hot coffee. “But I really think God’s sending me angels to help me through this—this thing.” She reached down and patted his head. “And if I’m smart I’ll keep this little bit of information to myself. But I honestly think you might be an angel too.”
Still, and as much as she hated to, she knew she needed to make an attempt to reach Rick. Finally, she decided to just get it over with and dialed information, but was informed that his number was unlisted. She decided to call Lucy at the store and see if she might know something more.
“Yeah, Rick got your number from me the other day, but he didn’t bother to leave me his number for you.” Lucy cleared her throat. “He’s not the friendliest guy around, if you didn’t notice.”
“Well, he picked up his dog the other day, but late last night he came back.”
“Rick?” Old Lucy let out a hoot. “Why, he’s a married man—still, I wouldn’t put it past—”
“No, no. Not Rick. The
dog
came back.”
“Oh, well, that’s not so bad. But still, that’s a nuisance now, isn’t it? Rick ought to be fined for letting his animals run wild like that.”
“I don’t really mind. I mean I like the dog, a lot. I honestly wish Rick would let me buy the dog from him.”
“Well, why don’t you then?”
“I offered, but he didn’t seem too interested.”
Lucy made a noise that sounded like
harrumph
. “Well, from what I’ve heard, that man has more dogs than a body needs, and his own family hardly has food on the table. Fact is, he’s run up his bill at the store again.”
Claire sighed. “Well, if you see him, would you tell him I’m willing to pay good money for this dog?”
“
Good
money?” Lucy laughed. “You sure you want me saying it just like that? Don’t you know he’s bound to take advantage of you?”
“Well, say it however you think best. You’re the businesswoman, Lucy.”
“That’s absolutely right, honey. You leave it all up to me and I’ll have that man paying you to keep his dog.”
“Oh, I don’t want that—”
“Well, one way or another, you just trust me, and I think we can work this thing out just fine.”
“Thanks, Lucy.”
“By the way, how’s your painting coming along these days?”
“Actually, I think I’ve made a real breakthrough.”
“Well, good for you, honey. You keep it up now.”
Claire hung up the phone feeling slightly more optimistic. She knew Lucy would be a better match against someone like Rick than herself, but she still wasn’t too sure he’d be willing to part with his “good ol’ dog” as he’d put it. Although, now that she thought about it, she’d given up awfully easily. She knew Lucy wouldn’t give in like that.
Claire got out the other snowscape now, the second one she’d painted, the one with beams of sunlight filtering through the trees. With trembling hands, she set it on the easel and stepped back. But before she picked up a brush, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, attempting to remember the vivid angel dream from the previous night. And then she prayed that God would guide her hands, and her heart, and she began.
It was after two o’clock by the time she paused. She felt Michael’s nose pressing against the back of her calf, as if to gently get her attention. She sighed and stepped back, glancing down at the dog. “I’ll bet you need to go out again.” He wagged his tail. Noticing hunger pains, she grabbed an apple and a chunk of cheese; the latter she shared with Michael, then she got her coat and hat and headed out the door.
“I think you could use a little exercise today,” she said, heading toward the road. “Not too much, mind you, but just enough to keep that leg getting stronger.” They walked slowly down the trail; it was still slightly packed from yesterday’s trek, although a fresh layer of snow softened her previous tracks. The sun was trying to break through a thin veneer of fog that hung suspended through the trees like a transparent fluffy quilt,
resulting in a soft, gentle sort of light—almost heavenly. It would be the perfect backdrop for her next painting! She paused now and again, allowing Michael a chance to rest his leg as she tried to memorize the scene before her. Would she be able to capture that kind of mysterious light, that downy softness? She played with various ideas for technique while she walked, praying once again that God would continue to lead her along this intriguing artist’s journey she seemed to be on.
She went as far as the dead tree, curious whether or not she’d see those two sets of tracks today. But spying no fresh tracks, she decided to turn back. “I think this is far enough for you, Michael.” She felt a keen sense of disappointment as they walked back. She had so wanted to see those tracks again, for as much as they disturbed and frightened her, they also gave her a strange sense of hope. Oh, she knew they couldn’t
really
be angels—at least not likely—because angels surely wouldn’t go tramping through the woods in snow boots. And she knew it wasn’t
really
Scott and Jeremy—despite her wild imaginings. For that was impossible and ridiculous, a little insane even. But something inside her, something she dared not consciously consider let alone acknowledge, still longed for a miracle.