Belinda Whitley had come to realize far too late in life, the true value of simple things. Stage four cancer had an odd way of making that happen. Now she lay in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling and awaiting the nurses to enter. Chemotherapy and other horrifying, invasive procedures were almost worse than the disease. But four children and seven grandkids were pulling for her, depending on her. Who would cook the turkey next Thanksgiving? Decorate the house for Christmas? Plant eggs for the grandkids all over the property during Easter?

To say that life was too short seemed like a set of empty words, and considering the amount of bad people in the world, it seemed patently unfair that she of all people should be chosen by a Higher Power for so horrid and undignified a fate. The nurses were kind, patient, helpful, but behind those smiles and trained “upbeat” mannerisms, was the silent echo of dread. The unspoken thoughts of “making arrangements” and possibility of going home on hospice care to be with loved ones in her final weeks. As one of those kind, pleasant nurses left the room, an odd young man entered with a mop and bucket.

He could not have been more than 19 and his crop of lengthy, red hair, partially covered a freckled, youthful face.

“Belinda Whitley?”, He said as he laid his mop aside and peeked out the door as though he were preparing to rob a bank.

“I am she.”, Belinda responded with caution, wondering who this young man was while trying not to question his station in life. Perhaps he was yet another agent from the insurance company, sent to further harass a dying woman for money.

“No.”, Something screamed in Belinda’s mind. This was something different.

“How can I help you, young man?”, She announced politely.

“Uh, I’m kind of new to this and it’s really a long, crazy, story, but I was sent here to rescue you.”, He blurted out, with the verbal clumsiness one would expect from a Georgia teenager trying to get a last-minute date.

“Oh, really?”, Belinda announced, her finger crawling towards the alert button in case this were some perverse person or worse yet, recently escaped patient from the hospital’s mental wing.

“My name is Bud Gainer, and I was sent by The Big Boss. I know this sounds super-crazy, but it’s true.”, He fumbled out, yet again.

“The Big Boss?”, Belinda echoed, realizing it sounded like some mafia figure or the title of one of the bad kung-fu movies her sons used to watch.

Bud straightened the janitor’s uniform which he’d “procured”, clearly and comically two sizes beyond his slender frame, and braced himself. Searching for some diplomatic, “mature” way to pour out words that might upset or shock this already ill woman.

“I was sent by God, The Everlasting, The Most High, to heal you.” He let the words settle on her disbelieving face. One that looked as though she would call security any second.

He went on. “Yes, you probably think I’m some teenage nutbag trying to get hits on YouTube, but you have my word, it’s nothing like that. I recently received a gift that even I don’t understand along with some instructions from a very big guy, so here we go.”

He touched the tip of her right, big toe, which was protruding from beneath the hospital blanket and then it happened. A tingling, warm sensation ran up her leg like hot electricity and quickly all over her body. Her finger involuntarily pushed the button, and she looked up just long enough to see that young, freckle-faced smile in the oversized janitor’s uniform. The next moment that uniform collapsed to the floor empty, and he was gone.

The nurse entered the room seconds later to find Belinda sitting up on the bed, looking different. Her headscarf was removed, and her hair had begun to bud anew. The readings on her monitors had also changed. Only a pile of clothes on the floor and mop in the corner providing any clue as to what had taken place. Weeks, countless questions, and medical tests later, Doctors, scholars, and scientists were utterly baffled. Never had they seen or read anything even remotely like this. Some questioned if Belinda were the author of some outrageous hoax. Their raging debates and lab tests yielded only more confusion and questions.

Belinda Whitley was now home. Baking, feeding her dog, more energetic and happy than ever. She relished in spending time with her family. They were elated but also perplexed every time she recounted the story of her teenage “Angel with a mop”.

Secretly however, Belinda found herself consumed to near-madness with the need for some further explanation. A life-altering miracle was not something one could simply dismiss out of hand. She used every spare second perusing the internet in search of her young savior.

“I will find you, my redheaded Angel. I will find you...”