Strolling along the beach, one often sees incredible sights. The most incredible today was a giant of a man running towards me in swimming shorts, with muscles bulging everywhere, and tattoos bulging on the muscles.
The incredible bits were his gigantic size, and his tattoos which all signified something dark or dangerous. Evil-grinning skulls shone from each shoulder. Knives and swords were needled down each arm and leg. Each hip had realistic tattoos of gun-handles, as if the barrels were poked inside his shorts, ready to draw for a shoot-out.
The man stopped running near me, where his clothes lay on the beach. He picked up a towel to mop sweat from his face. He was an intriguing specimen of humanity.
I walked towards him. "Hello," I said. He didn't look at me, and just grunted a response. "Hello," I repeated, looking at the gun tattoos. "Do those guns mean you're a tough guy?" If you'd seen the size of the man, it was a fair question. I didn't expect his response though. He laughed.
"Maybe," he replied. "Maybe not."
"I'd rather see you with an angel tattoo," I smiled. Sometimes it's possible to confront in a way that's disarming. Not on this occasion.
"No way," he said emphatically. "An angel on my skin? I'd rather be dead."
I changed the subject. "So what's your job?" I asked, expecting him to work for something dark and dangerous. I didn't expect this response either.
"I'm an anaesthetist at the local hospital." A smile broke through his craggy features.
It didn't seem possible. So I told him my true story of being wheeled into an operating theatre, the anaesthetist swearing in a stressed-out way, and me offering him stress-reduction therapy before I was put under and unconscious.
"That's terrible," the giant replied. And he proceeded to reel off a long list of things my anaesthetist should have done for me, including which drugs should have been used. He ended by encouraging me to make a formal complaint, and explaining hospital complaint procedures.
"Thank you," I said. "If you're an anaesthetist, and doing such good work, why are all your tattoos about death and destruction? An angel tattoo would represent your good work."
He grinned, then explained softly. "I had a tough upbringing, in a tough neighbourhood. You wouldn't want to know what I've seen. These tattoos remind me there's a choice in life. You can choose darkness and evil, or you can choose the path of the angels. I made a choice."
"I hope if we meet again, I'll see at least one small angel tattoo on you?"
"Never! I'll never have an angel tattoo! Why would I want an angel outside my skin, when I'm an angel inside?"
It was my turn to grin. Angels on Earth come in all sorts of sizes and guises. It was simply the first size and guise I've met of that sort.
You may never know if you've talked to an angel already this week...
The incredible bits were his gigantic size, and his tattoos which all signified something dark or dangerous. Evil-grinning skulls shone from each shoulder. Knives and swords were needled down each arm and leg. Each hip had realistic tattoos of gun-handles, as if the barrels were poked inside his shorts, ready to draw for a shoot-out.
The man stopped running near me, where his clothes lay on the beach. He picked up a towel to mop sweat from his face. He was an intriguing specimen of humanity.
I walked towards him. "Hello," I said. He didn't look at me, and just grunted a response. "Hello," I repeated, looking at the gun tattoos. "Do those guns mean you're a tough guy?" If you'd seen the size of the man, it was a fair question. I didn't expect his response though. He laughed.
"Maybe," he replied. "Maybe not."
"I'd rather see you with an angel tattoo," I smiled. Sometimes it's possible to confront in a way that's disarming. Not on this occasion.
"No way," he said emphatically. "An angel on my skin? I'd rather be dead."
I changed the subject. "So what's your job?" I asked, expecting him to work for something dark and dangerous. I didn't expect this response either.
"I'm an anaesthetist at the local hospital." A smile broke through his craggy features.
It didn't seem possible. So I told him my true story of being wheeled into an operating theatre, the anaesthetist swearing in a stressed-out way, and me offering him stress-reduction therapy before I was put under and unconscious.
"That's terrible," the giant replied. And he proceeded to reel off a long list of things my anaesthetist should have done for me, including which drugs should have been used. He ended by encouraging me to make a formal complaint, and explaining hospital complaint procedures.
"Thank you," I said. "If you're an anaesthetist, and doing such good work, why are all your tattoos about death and destruction? An angel tattoo would represent your good work."
He grinned, then explained softly. "I had a tough upbringing, in a tough neighbourhood. You wouldn't want to know what I've seen. These tattoos remind me there's a choice in life. You can choose darkness and evil, or you can choose the path of the angels. I made a choice."
"I hope if we meet again, I'll see at least one small angel tattoo on you?"
"Never! I'll never have an angel tattoo! Why would I want an angel outside my skin, when I'm an angel inside?"
It was my turn to grin. Angels on Earth come in all sorts of sizes and guises. It was simply the first size and guise I've met of that sort.
You may never know if you've talked to an angel already this week...
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