by Wayland Jackson

During the conflict between Hamas and Israel, three Israeli soldiers on patrol came under fire. The lead soldier fell after receiving injuries. His companions judged his injuries were life threatening, and he was so far ahead of them their own lives would be lost if they tried to rescue him. Under heavy fire and with little time to consider all the factors, they concluded that his life was probably gone, and they should retreat. Reluctantly, they withdrew, returned to post, and reported their leader MIA.

Later, a peddler, a former Hamas soldier, came along and saw the Israeli soldier lying in the ditch, badly injured, but alive. Without hesitation, the peddler stopped and with difficulty helped the soldier into the backseat of his car. From his first-aid kit, he brought out antiseptic to cleanse the wounds and painkillers to ease the soldier’s distress.

The peddler drove to the next village held by IDF, the Israeli Defense Forces. When they saw the Israeli soldier, they came and helped him into a mobile hospital facility. The peddler said he was headed for the next town but would stop by on his return to check on the wounded soldier. The Israeli unit filled the peddler’s tank with gasoline and sent him on his way.

On a Tuesday in May 2023, the Fresno Poets Workshop met at Fresno’s Gillis Branch Library at 2:00 PM. At the small table where we met in the center of the library, I spotted the blue tote bag of our leader, Bill, a published poet, but Bill was not in sight.

Instead, there sat a middle-aged woman, without possessions or adornment. Although there was no evidence to support it, I assumed she was there to join our little group.

“Are you a poet?” I asked.

With a furtive glance, she replied, “I had a poem published in a book once.” When she spoke, I saw she needed dental care. Although she was neat and her dress was clean, it was not a stretch to guess that she was homeless. Her furrowed brow showed deeply ingrained lines. I could only describe her expression as desperate. She looked like she might tear up at a moment’s notice.

“I need help,” she pleaded.

I was 92 and used a cane to walk, still I drove. While I was struggling to remember the name of a women’s shelter, Bill appeared. I barely knew Bill, so I was uncertain how he would react. His straggly, disheveled gray hair and irregular beard made him look like either a great poet or also homeless.

The woman’s drawn face telegraphed her distress. Her chin trembled as she mumbled, “I have nowhere to turn. I spent the last night under a railroad bridge nearby. Someone took my money and jewelry and raped me. I have nothing.”

Before I could begin a polite discussion of how to help her, Bill spoke up. “I’ll help you.”

He whipped into action like a U. S. Marine on speed. In a few minutes, he contacted a women’s shelter downtown, arranged for them to take the woman in, and was calling his wife. “I need you to go with me. We’re helping a woman.” He was not familiar with downtown but said he could find the shelter.

In a flash, Bill and Maggie (short for Magdalene) were out the door, and I stared with my mouth open. I had just been in the presence of an angel. Perhaps, two.