On Whispered Wings

Chris Piombo

Description

On Whispered Wings tells the stories of people in crisis who are rescued by individuals who are not who they seem to be.
Have you ever had a stranger, someone you’d never seen before, come up and offer an encouraging word at just the right time? Have you been in crisis situation, facing danger, when a person comes out of nowhere to help you, then vanishes? In On Whispered Wings, author Chris Piombo shows readers that the extraordinary can come from the ordinary and messages of love and hope are sometimes delivered by people who just might not be who they appear to be.

Sujets

• Ángel (desambiguación)
• Angels
• Short Stories
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Balboa Press
• Date de parution: 08 février 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9798765238202
• Langue: English

Extrait

ON WHISPERED WINGS
 
 
 
 
CHRIS PIOMBO
 
 
 

 
Copyright © 2023 Chris Piombo.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
Balboa Press
A Division of Hay House
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.balboapress.com
844-682-1282
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 979-8-7652-3819-6 (sc)
ISBN: 979-8-7652-3820-2 (e)
 
Balboa Press rev. date:    02/07/2023
Dedication
To Annette, Anthony, and T alia
Without you, there is not hing
Contents
Shields
Release Point
Beyond Closed Doors
Lifeline
Through the Darkness
Divine Frequency

Shields
O fficer Evan Phillips was suffocating. It was a typical Southern California morning-dry and hot without a cloud in the sky. The region was locked in a severe drought and every day was the same-arid and unfriendly. It was only 9 a.m., but the air conditioner in his black and white Ford Explorer patrol vehicle was on high as he drove slowly down Hutchins Street. He closed the mobile data computer laptop on the center console and held his right hand open in front of the vent in the middle of the dashboard. The cool air caressed his palm but he still felt soggy and heavy, his thick black patrol vest weighing him down. He’d just finished a call involving two guys arguing over recyclables and the black dry-fit t-shirt under his uniform was soaked. He was so tired of those calls. He’d hit the street at 7:30 a.m. and had already handled three homeless-related incidents. His eyes were grainy and tired, a sure indication he was dehydrated. He slowly pulled into a stall near the baseball field at Emerson Park; he just needed a break.
He took stock of his situation. His shift had barely started and he was spent. But it was more than physical fatigue. He shook his head wearily as he contemplated the next eight hours. Suddenly it came crashing down on him, all the things he’d experienced over the eight years he’d been a police officer in an underrepresented neighborhood strangled by poverty and crime. Scenes of death and destruction rose inside of him- murders and suicides, meth addicts and fentanyl overdoses, accidents and assaults, trafficked women and abused kids, and the mentally ill screaming at the sun. City politics and a society that turned its back on cops had combined to create a malaise amongst the ranks that had enveloped him.
On top of that, there was his officer-involved shooting two years ago. The district attorney determined Phillips was justified, but the faces of those involved lingered in his psyche. And worst of all, he recalled looking at the caskets of two of his academy classmates as the bagpiper played Amazing Grace while the chief handed neatly folded flags to their spouses. He choked up sitting there alone in his patrol car. It’s not worth it anymore, he lamented. In the beginning, he had a strong desire to make a difference in a chaotic world. But that was once upon a time. Isn’t that how fairy tales start? He pondered. Once upon a time. Fairy tales are fiction.
He sat motionless, listening to the calls for service going out over the radio. “ Domestic violence in progress ,” “ Shots fired behind Antonio’s ,” “ Man stealing cart full of meat from Apple Market. Reporting party doesn’t want anything done .” Bitterness tightened his throat. What am I even doing here anymore? This is hopeless . He looked down at the silver eagle top badge pinned over his heart and focused on the bright gold ribbon on the upper part of the shield that read Los Alamitos Police . The words Police Officer and his employee number, 2907 , were engraved on the smaller gold band below. The badge was only a few ounces, but the responsibility that came with it weighed a ton. Maybe it was time to turn it in.
“ Two David Twenty Nine .” Dispatch was calling him. He grabbed the microphone from its holder and replied, “Two David Twenty-Nine, Elm and Church, go ahead.” “ Two David Twenty Nine, homeless man, panhandling blocking the driveway at Rexall creating a traffic hazard. 2210 Franklin Avenue. Described as an African-American male in his 50’s, 5’7”, with gray hair, thin, blue hooded sweatshirt, purple shorts. Manager wants the subject warned about trespassing. ” Phillips closed his eyes. “Two David Twenty-Nine copy.”
He knew how the call was going to go. The manager would demand he do something but not be willing to place the homeless man under citizen’s arrest due to liability concerns. The district attorney wouldn’t file charges even if Phillips cited the guy. The transient would give him a hard time and maybe, just maybe, pick up his junk and move down the block. It was an exercise in futility, something he’d experienced dozens of times over the past few months. He slammed the steering wheel with his right hand. “I can’t take this shit anymore!”
Phillips put the SUV in gear and slowly made his way out of the parking lot. It was only five blocks, but it seemed like much more. He’d suffered from TMJ the past two years and made a conscious effort not to grit his teeth on the drive over. He’d encountered hundreds of panhandlers over the years. He’d listen to their excuse, point to the No Loitering/Trespassing sign posted nearby, and wait until they gathered their belongings and left.
Frauds posing as the homeless galled him the most. Sunday was their most profitable day, with people leaving church feeling charitable and believing they were doing the Lord’s work by giving money to someone in need. Once, he’d spent a half hour one Sunday watching a guy asking for money in front of Lucky’s Market. Eventually, the man walked to a new blue Chevy Tahoe parked discreetly in the shade on the other side of the lot. Curious, Phillips drove up and contacted him. The man eventually admitted he made $300 a day panhandling. That angered Phillips. People on the street who truly needed a couple of bucks weren’t getting them because of swindlers like Chevy Tahoe guy.
Phillips felt the bump as his SUV drove over the curb into the Rexall lot. “Two David Twenty-Nine, on scene.” He scanned the area and caught sight of an older African-American male with white hair, a scraggly light gray beard, a stained black hooded sweatshirt, and baggy blue Nike basketball shorts standing up ahead on his left. That must be the guy. The man seemed thin and frail, but weren’t most of them like that? He’d seen the individual around his beat the past two weeks but never had a reason to contact him. Phillips didn’t feel like going through the hassle of parking his unit, so he cruised up and lowered his window. He noticed the guy was holding a cardboard sign in his hands that said Have Mercy in neat black letters. At least the guy’s original, Phillips thought.
The male was standing in some dry bushes off to the side and wasn’t actually blocking the driveway. Phillips debated just making a computer entry indicating that he could not locate the panhandler and drive off. Technically the subject wasn’t causing a traffic hazard, and he didn’t match the description exactly. Phillips was looking for an excuse to head off down the road, but the guy’s sign made him pause. Have Mercy. That was different.
Phillips got out of his SUV, walked up to him, and asked, “How you doin’’’” more to fill the empty space than actually caring about the guy’s plight. Phillips assumed most of them were ripping off the public in one way or another, and the wording on the transient’s sign was just another avenue to free money. The man looked over at him and replied, “Good. Is there a problem, officer?” Phillips didn’t bother to take off his dark Oakley sunglasses and stared into the distance. “Yeah, what’s your name?” The man smiled at him through stained teeth. “Michael. My name is Michael.” Phillips sighed. “OK, Michael, you see that over there?” Phillips pointed at a small white metal sign with green letters in the scrub bushes-” No Soliciting, No Loitering, No Trespassing, LACC 12.03.01.”
“It says you can’t be here.” Michael squinted at the sign, then responded quietly, “I’m not bothering anyone, and I’m not asking for anything. I’m just trying to remind people of something.” Phillips retorted, “Yeah, I bet you are. Are people giving you money?” Michael answered, “Once in a while, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m donating the money to the Loaves and Fishes mission down the street. You can ask them.” Phillips fixed his gaze on the top of the five-story Ritter Insurance building several blocks away. “I’