might not be sent below.”
“He died tryin’ to murder two men,” Tempest said and I had no answer. I knew how I would have gauged Jessup G. Peterson’s sins.
“You are innocent, Tempest,” I said.
“How can I be innocent when I killed my friend?”
The weight of eternity suddenly came down on my human heart. I experienced, once again, the terrible pain that is, part and parcel, the conflicted nature of the human soul.
“I’ll come to see you this Saturday, Tempest. We’ll talk together and maybe we will come up with some kind of answer.”
Class
When an angel is discussed On High he hears it as the rumbling of distant thunder. On that sunny Monday afternoon, on the bus ride to the state penitentiary, I heard booming in a clear sky.
Another thing about angels is that they have persuasion over unsuspecting mortal minds—when the objective is impersonal and there is no relationship involved. This is why, when I first came to earth, I thought that it would be a simple task to convince Tempest Landry that he was a sinner deserving of hell.
I have so far failed to argue Tempest around to heaven’s point of view but I was able to convince the deputy warden of his prison to allow me to teach a literacy class at the joint (as Tempest calls it) and to allow my earthly charge to be my aide.
Even though I am charged with sending him to hell, I feel that his suffering, due to heaven’s conspiracy against him, is unjust.
Angels are united by the nature of our spirits but we are not compelled to agree with one another. So while the heavens above thundered I was led to a classroom replete with a barred window that looked out on a field where six black-and-white cows grazed. The bovines couldn’t hear the thunder but now and again one of them would toss a gaze at my window.
Dumb animals know angels for what they are.
Promptly at 2:30 seven prisoners were led into the classroom by two guards. The convicts were all shackled to make sure they didn’t revolt and take me as hostage.
Fourteen students were enrolled in my basic reading and writing class but there were always absences due to punishments meted out for infractions. A few times I had students that had been wounded in fights with other convicts or guards. One of my students, Terry Other, died of a heart attack—he was twenty-nine years old and weighed in excess of four hundred pounds.
—
“Hey, Angel,” Tempest, who led the line of learners, said as they entered the room.
His smile was only at half power. I knew that he still felt guilt over killing his friend, Jessup G. Peterson. This was one of the reasons I decided to teach my class. Tempest needed a friend and even though I was also his enemy I had come to understand that being mortal was a complicated, intricate dance that often allowed for contradictions such as this.
“Ezzard,” I said in greeting, using the name of the identity heaven had foisted upon the abused Landry.
“We’re all here and ready to learn,” he told me.
I smiled and the men seated themselves.
There were six black men and one white kid, Tony Anthony of Staten Island.
In spite of their chains the men liked my class. This attraction was partially due to the window, which was six feet wide and four high; an unusual gift in the dark halls of the prison. They also, though they didn’t know it, were moved by the angelic timbre of my voice. I am, after all, at least in part, a celestial being and a moment of grace in the wretched lives of men such as them.
The guards also subconsciously enjoyed my lectures on literacy.
The only one who was unmoved by my nature was Tempest. He was, usually, immune to the Voice of Heaven and had therefore been able to deny judgment when Peter sentenced him to hell.
—
“Anyone care to start?” I asked the class when they were seated and settled.
There was that moment of quiet when the class searched their hearts for the courage to speak out.
It is a misnomer to say that these men
“He died tryin’ to murder two men,” Tempest said and I had no answer. I knew how I would have gauged Jessup G. Peterson’s sins.
“You are innocent, Tempest,” I said.
“How can I be innocent when I killed my friend?”
The weight of eternity suddenly came down on my human heart. I experienced, once again, the terrible pain that is, part and parcel, the conflicted nature of the human soul.
“I’ll come to see you this Saturday, Tempest. We’ll talk together and maybe we will come up with some kind of answer.”
Class
When an angel is discussed On High he hears it as the rumbling of distant thunder. On that sunny Monday afternoon, on the bus ride to the state penitentiary, I heard booming in a clear sky.
Another thing about angels is that they have persuasion over unsuspecting mortal minds—when the objective is impersonal and there is no relationship involved. This is why, when I first came to earth, I thought that it would be a simple task to convince Tempest Landry that he was a sinner deserving of hell.
I have so far failed to argue Tempest around to heaven’s point of view but I was able to convince the deputy warden of his prison to allow me to teach a literacy class at the joint (as Tempest calls it) and to allow my earthly charge to be my aide.
Even though I am charged with sending him to hell, I feel that his suffering, due to heaven’s conspiracy against him, is unjust.
Angels are united by the nature of our spirits but we are not compelled to agree with one another. So while the heavens above thundered I was led to a classroom replete with a barred window that looked out on a field where six black-and-white cows grazed. The bovines couldn’t hear the thunder but now and again one of them would toss a gaze at my window.
Dumb animals know angels for what they are.
Promptly at 2:30 seven prisoners were led into the classroom by two guards. The convicts were all shackled to make sure they didn’t revolt and take me as hostage.
Fourteen students were enrolled in my basic reading and writing class but there were always absences due to punishments meted out for infractions. A few times I had students that had been wounded in fights with other convicts or guards. One of my students, Terry Other, died of a heart attack—he was twenty-nine years old and weighed in excess of four hundred pounds.
—
“Hey, Angel,” Tempest, who led the line of learners, said as they entered the room.
His smile was only at half power. I knew that he still felt guilt over killing his friend, Jessup G. Peterson. This was one of the reasons I decided to teach my class. Tempest needed a friend and even though I was also his enemy I had come to understand that being mortal was a complicated, intricate dance that often allowed for contradictions such as this.
“Ezzard,” I said in greeting, using the name of the identity heaven had foisted upon the abused Landry.
“We’re all here and ready to learn,” he told me.
I smiled and the men seated themselves.
There were six black men and one white kid, Tony Anthony of Staten Island.
In spite of their chains the men liked my class. This attraction was partially due to the window, which was six feet wide and four high; an unusual gift in the dark halls of the prison. They also, though they didn’t know it, were moved by the angelic timbre of my voice. I am, after all, at least in part, a celestial being and a moment of grace in the wretched lives of men such as them.
The guards also subconsciously enjoyed my lectures on literacy.
The only one who was unmoved by my nature was Tempest. He was, usually, immune to the Voice of Heaven and had therefore been able to deny judgment when Peter sentenced him to hell.
—
“Anyone care to start?” I asked the class when they were seated and settled.
There was that moment of quiet when the class searched their hearts for the courage to speak out.
It is a misnomer to say that these men
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