Mickie and the Angel

Mickie talks to the angels. She also converses at great length with the mentally retarded and developmentally disabled people who work at the Arc Thrift Store. She talks to the elderly, probably when they don’t even want to talk. There is no patronization in Mickie conversing with the people she talks to; conversation is her ministry, and with simple conversation and anointed listening skills, countless lives are made a bit better by Mickie's ministry.

No one questions that Mickie talks to the angels; everyone who knows her recognizes this as fact. We have all been brought angelic messages or given angelic insight through Mickie. It is just a fact of everyday life in Mickie’s world.

Mickie has been our employee and our precious friend since I was seeking employees in the Safford area. I was on the payphone in front of Mt. Graham Market when the angel told Mickie to approach me.

“Hi, I’m Mickie,” she said with a big smile. “I’m a certified nurse assistant.”

“Hi, I’m Mary,” I replied, placing the phone back on its hook. “You’re hired.”

That intoduction began a friendship which has become a golden treasure in my soul. Mickie is trustworthy; you can trust her with your secrets, your heart, your money and your elderly clients.

I had not seen Mickie since David’s funeral (although she had placed many unanswered calls to me), and indeed, did not want to see her; I wanted to see no one from the outer world. God had sent me Bishop Jakes, and I was slowly (very slowly) getting better, but not yet ready for “people.”

I was in a deep sleep, safely ensconced on my sofa and cuddled up to my little black cloud, when, to my surprise, I heard a tiny voice softly singing (slightly off-key), “Oh, I’ve got joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart, down in heart…”

I rolled over and clicked off the TV remote to get a closer listen. “…down in my heart to stay…”

Mickie’s big smile popped into the living room before she actually entered. “Good! You’re awake!” she said, and bounced across the room to the edge of the sofa.

I pulled the pillow over my head. “Mickie, how did you get into this locked house?” I was irritated. She woke me up.

“Oh, yeah, that…” she laughed. “Well, the angel told me that the sliding door in the back was unlocked.”

“Mickie, tell your angel to mind his own business!”

She pulled the pillow off my head. “Oh, it wasn’t my angel,” she smiled down at me. “It was your angel!”

Good grief. “Mickie, don’t talk to my angel,” I growled.

She grabbed my arm. “C’mon. It’s time for your shower.”

“What?” I half yelled at her. “Are you my caregiver?”

“Looks like you need one.”

“I don’t need a shower.” The pillow went back on my head.

“Oh, yes you do.” The pillow came off my head.

It seems I remember a bit of a scuffle, then being in the shower. “Now, don’t just play around in there,” I could see Mickie through the opaque shower door. “I can see you!”

After the shower, Mickie gave me a back massage and a facial. Then she asked what I wanted for dinner.

“Ice cream,” I said. “Rocky Road.”

“Ice cream?” She grimaced. “For dinner?”

“It’s what I eat.”

Mickie started rummaging through cupboards and found some chicken noodle soup. She pulled some dead, slimy vegetables out of the fridge and tossed them. “Hah! Cheese!” She found some Colby behind some year-old-at-least salad dressing bottles. “We’re having chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese sandwiches!”

“Look at that cheese,” I protested.

“It’s only mold. It trims right off with no harm done.”

I didn’t know until after dinner, but Mickie had come for a week. “You need some exercise,” she told me. “Do you know how physically weak you are?’

I did not know until the next day; I could barely walk to the end of my driveway without being short of breath and extremely tired. “That’s okay,” Mickie said. “We’ll make it around the block by the end of the week.”

Every day we walked a little farther, fighting and arguing, and by the end of the week, we had made it around the block. I was surprised to find that I felt a sense of accomplishment – like I had just run the Boston Marathon. It felt good to be on my feet.

On Saturday, Mickie decided it was time that I drove “a little farther than the MinitMart,” so we made the thirty-five mile trip to Willcox for a few groceries, then came home via the road that follows the base of the Chiracahuas then circles back to Pearce. All the way home we sang “Joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart.”

Perhaps Mickie can talk with the angels because she is one of them.