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 toward 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 like “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.

About the Author

Jaye Lewis is an award-winning writer and contributing author to the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Jaye, who is a committed Christian, lives with her family in the beautiful Appalachian Mountains of Virginia. Visit Jaye’s website at http://www.EntertainingAngels.org or email her at jayelewis@comcast.net.

We prowled through the second hand bookstore the day after Christmas, just my husband Louie, our daughters, Jenny and Helen, and me. This was a precious time for us. We would be splitting up as a family in just a couple of days. It had been a tough eight months since my husband had retired from the Navy. We hated every good-bye, so we had manipulated the military system while on active duty, preventing some. Now, we were retired, and we were eight months into our longest separation. We assured one another of our love, and we clung to our faith that this separation would soon come to an end.

Military families seem to fall into two categories: those who look for affectionate opportunities, and those who avoid close contact, because “good-byes” are painful. In our military career, we had become painfully aware that anything can happen during the briefest separation. We were shocked to discover that the only job available for Louie, after retirement, was in the city of Norfolk, Virginia. Our dream was to live out the rest of our lives in the mountains of southwestern Virginia, six-and-a-half hours away. My asthma had gotten so bad that it was impossible for me to stay with Louie in the city. We had finally settled for a separation, praying that a job would become available in the beautiful region that we love.

There we were, the day after Christmas, delaying another departure by passing time in a second hand bookstore, before the girls and I headed back to southwest Virginia. We were as broke as we’d ever been, with Louie supporting two households. Even so, we were thankful for every moment together, and we seized upon every opportunity for extra hugs, shared daydreams, and laughter.

Besides the proprietor, there was only one other person in the bookstore, a lovely, well-dressed woman, about my age. I noticed her costly clothes, her shoes, and her expensive handbag. I wondered what it would be like to be rich enough to walk into a bookstore and have the money to buy any book my heart desired. We were having so much fun, however, that I quickly forgot the woman.

We joked as we continued our treasure hunt, clutching our spending money of five dollars apiece, all hoping to be the first to find the oldest, least expensive book. It was a bitter-sweet excursion. Frequently Louie and I would brush past one another, finding excuses to touch or to give one another’s hand an extra squeeze. Jenny remembered that there was an ATM machine not far from the bookstore, and she decided that she needed another twenty dollars that she had squirreled away.

“No fair!” I cried, laughing. “The rest of us can only spend five dollars, and here you’re going to have twenty-five dollars?!” We all laughed, and we began to tease Jenny mercilessly, but she was able to convince her Dad that she must have that twenty dollars, in order to get that irresistible book.

“Come on, Jenny,” Louie laughed. “I’ll drive you to the ATM.” Then we did another round of hugging and kissing, not wanting to be apart for even a few minutes. It must have been a curious ballet, this emotional family scene, but we were oblivious to what others might think. Unmindful of the impression we made, we continued to give kisses and hugs all around. I have to admit that we are a “huggy-kissy” family, so looking back, I realize how odd we must have appeared.

Finally, in between another hug and kiss, I spied my perfect book! It was a hundred years old, and it was on my favorite time period, the Middle Ages. Oh, how I wanted that book! I quickly checked the inside cover for the price, and my heart fell.

It was twenty-five dollars! We just didn’t have it. I looked up at Louie, already knowing the answer. He must have wanted me to have that book, because I could see the pain in his eyes. Louie reached out and gave me an extra hug.

I understood his “Honey, we just can’t afford it” message, so I leaned into his sheltering arms. I couldn’t help but notice that the well dressed lady was touching the book that I wanted. Ah well, let her have it. I gave Louie an extra hug.

“Oooohh, I wish I were rich,” I murmured, as my eyes locked with the woman’s.

“It looks to me, as though you already are,” she said, with a smile.

There was a pause that stretched through eternity, and my heart filled with comprehension. I looked up at my husband, and I gazed at my daughters, wrapped as we were in the arms of love, and I knew it. I was rich. Very rich. I quickly turned to thank the woman for her gentle reminder, but she was gone!

Who was she? I don’t know, but what she did for my outlook was nothing short of miraculous. I will never forget her. Where did she disappear to? I can’t say.

Strangely enough, within days my husband received a job offer in southwestern Virginia. In less than two weeks, he was hired and we moved to the place that is now our home. The job notice had been sent out two days before Christmas.

So, even as we hugged and kissed; even as I wished; even as I heard the words, “It looks to me, as though you already are,” events were already in motion to reunite our family. I am quite certain that it was all part of God’s plan to remind me of what being “rich” is all about—faith, love, family, and friends. When I get to heaven, I will not be at all surprised to discover that God sent an angel to a second hand bookstore, to give me this rich message, the day after Christmas, not so long ago.

About the Author

Jaye Lewis is an award-winning writer and contributing author to the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Jaye, who is a committed Christian, lives with her family in the beautiful Appalachian Mountains of Virginia. Visit Jaye’s website at http://www.entertainingangels.org or email her at jayelewis@comcast.net