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Touched by an Angel Named Lambros
Part 1
"What time is it?" I asked the woman. Five minutes to go. In ten minutes, I arose to talk to the doorman for the third time, the last time having been lightly chastised: "I promise that we will not let it leave without you," he had said.
"It left without you," he gulped. Dispatch could not get it to return; they apologized profusely. I was hot. I complained to everyone who would listen until my behavior became obnoxious even to me. Yet at the same time I was throwing my tantrum, I told myself that things happen for a reason; let God handle it. As many times as my Higher Power has demonstrated His ways to me, I still balk when I don't get my way.
Management hailed a cab (twice the price of a shuttle), and I huffed and mumbled my way into the front seat, not willing to relinquish control by sitting in the back. The driver, a short dark-skinned man, opened the door to my left, jumped into the driver's seat, and cheerily inquired as to how I was.
"I'm angry." Then I burted out my tale, knowing it sounded petty.
Delicately, as if from thin air, he pulled out a small orchid and laid it in my palm. I gazed down at the soft lavender petals. Always believing flowers and butterflies are signs from the Divine, I relaxed and actually smiled. His accent revealed that he wasn't born in New Orleans, or even in the United States. "Where are you from?"
"Greece," he grinned. I spoke of being in Greece the previous fall with my mother, and he pointed out a tour book on the dashboard. "For pleasant memories," he explained, as he had me thumb through it. "Where did you like the best?" he asked.
That was easy, "Patmos, where John wrote the Book of Revelation." He knew exactly what I meant and where I'd been. The Greek gentleman beside me had also walked the old cobblestone path up through the pithy scent of eucalyptus and pine, past the goats and small boys in shorts who, in broken English, gave tourists directions to John's cave. I recalled memories of standing on a rocky bluff halfway up the hill and watching sunlight dance across the bay, toying with the faraway boats where fishermen sold sponges they dove for.
"You won't get in," a woman from a village boutique assured me. "The priests close it on Saturdays past mid-day." Yet the still, small voice inside me urged me to go. Verifying my inner voice, the priests had left it open for a special tour group. I traipsed lightly down the stone stairwell and slipped into a cave alight with numerous long thin candles, casting shadows on the already soot-coated walls. I had felt holy in there, with a coolness radiating from the stone walls, along with celestial energy--an energy eliciting prayer from me, and worship, and awe, until the bearded priests in long black robes nodded for me to leave.
"John was the only apostle allowed to die naturally, you know," the cabbie told me. "Although I am from Hilos, I studied theology for four years on Patmos."
I wondered how a man who had studied on Patmos and felt the allure of those stone walls could end up driving a cab in New Orleans. "You didn't become a priest or minister?"
"No, I didn't study for that reason. I studied because I wanted to become more human." Most people would say "to become more spiritual," yet this man said, "to become more human." It was curious.
"Yes, more human. So I could empathize with my brothers. Let me tell you how it happened. My name is Lambros, and I used to be a ship's captain. Then I had an experience that changed my life. We were in the Indian Gulf with 28 other ships and there was an earthquake on the ocean floor. Five point something. It caused three huge waves over a hundred feet high. There was no place to go and nothing to do as I stood at my helm and watched the waves coming. So I prayed, 'God, I am a Christian. Maybe not a really good Christian, but, in any case, I beg You, if You can't save me, please at least save my passangers.' After it was over, my ship was in bad shape but still afloat. All the other ships were destroyed. No one on my ship died. After we hit Australia, I flew back to Greece and started to study with the priests on Patmos."
Lambros glanced over. "I went back to the ship for a while and soon met my wife in a port. She works at the university here and when she retires next year, we will move back home." The traffic slowed us to a crawl and, as if reading my mind, Lambros added, "Don't worry, we'll make your plane on time."
"Well, even if we don't, I learned something important. I missed the shuttle, but if I hadn't, I would have missed this ride with you. I needed to hear this story of your going to theological school to become more human."
"Yes, it's a wonderful thing to be human. What was your workshop on?"
"Dreams. Dream therapy. I write books, and I wrote a book about using dreams to help addicts," I answered, twirling the orchid and thanking God for this taxi ride with Lambros.
"God talks to us in our dreams," the Greek noted.
"Yes, I agreed. "It says in Job that God talks to us in our dreams." He also talks to us through people, like now in this encounter, I thought. Why did I keep doubting God's good intentions for me? Like a petulant child, if I didn't get what I wanted when I wanted it, I became impatient.
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