Tuesday was the day I was scheduled to attend a meeting at a
city of 10,000 population where I served as planning consultant. They had a
short agenda that night, only one slightly controversial item involving a re-zoning
from residential use to quiet commercial. The town boasted a nice restaurant that
served good steaks, for after the meeting. I never knew whether it was that fact
or the opportunity to share my charming, witty company that convinced her.
Anyway, Tuesday came and we were on our way. The ride took a
little over an hour. I used the time to enlighten her on what to expect. Back in
the late 1800s, I explained, a movement began to make cities more livable and
beautiful. Cities developed and adopted plans, then produced municipal laws to
carry out those plans. Some of those laws involved zoning properties for selective uses.
Someone in our target city wanted to change the zoning of
his property and had requested a hearing to plead his case.
She nodded and expressed an interest, but I noticed she carried
a book with her.
We reached the meeting venue. She took a seat in the very
back of the room and began reading. In this city, I sat at a table in front
with the planning commissioners, which meant I faced her, albeit at a distance.
The meeting started well. They approved the minutes of the
last meeting, dispensed with old business and moved to the new. The chairman
announced that only one item awaited their consideration, and noted that
several people had come to speak on it. First, the applicant explained why he
wanted to change the zoning. When he had finished, the chairman called a public
hearing to allow anyone in the audience to speak on the matter.
Three or four folks spoke. Some wanted information. One
supported the request because the city needed more commercial areas. One felt
it might be too close to a city park and the traffic could be a problem. I looked
to the back. Brenda was reading away, oblivious to this demonstration of democracy
in action.
Just as the “citizen input” seem finished. A lonely figure
behind the rest of the audience stood and walked forward. It was a woman maybe
in her mid-forties with longish hair more in the style of a college girl than a
woman her age. She wore a soft cover over a white blouse and a tailored skirt. A
pearl necklace dangled from her neck, matching her earrings. She spoke softly, giving her name and
address.
“I’ve been instructed to speak on this matter,” she said, pausing
for effect. “You don’t know me, but I have this one unique insight.” She paused
for effect. Everyone in the room leaned forward. Brenda looked up from her
book.
“I’ve been gifted,” the woman said, “with the ability to see
and talk with the angels.”
A thunderous silence reverberated through the room.
“I visited the angels today,” she said, piercing the silence
with her soft voice. “They are concerned about the children, their ‘precious lambs’
as they call them. They asked me, the angels did, to come here tonight on
their behalf and ask you to turn this request down … for the children, the precious
lambs. It’s never wrong, by the way, to listen to the angels.” She paused
again. “Try,” she said. “Maybe you can hear them now.”
There was no way I was going to look at Brenda directly. I appeared
to study my report, praying, as only a fully depraved person can, that nobody
would ask me a question. I did raise my head just enough to glimpse Brenda. She
was bending over with her head a few inches from her book as if the secret of
life had just appeared there.
Thank heavens, perhaps the angels themselves, but the woman
had finished and was gliding back to her seat as if her feet never touched the floor.
I can’t, for the life, of me, remember what the decision was, but I expect the
angels prevailed.
As we left the meeting, I shared with Brenda what I would
have done had she exhibited even the slightest sign of amusement.
She just laughed.
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| I've led an interesting life. |
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