When Angels Learn to Fly

By Peter Stewart

Little Tucker fi nds himself in a strange world, a world with so many rules
and regulations, friends and not-so-friendlies. As Tucker searches for answers,
he learns not only about this mysterious farmhouse full of children, prayer, and
music, but about himself, how he got there, and what he is supposed to do now
that hes arrived.
And He said: Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little
children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Matthew 18:3
Brought to you by writer, performer and composer Peter Stewart, When Angels
Learn to Fly speaks to the lost child in all of us, and calls us to accept the search
as part of the journey, and believe that only by being lost and questioning can we
truly fi nd the ultimate purpose--to follow the path that God has laid out for us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493108541

Peter Stewart

Peter Stewart is a former History and English teacher who has spent his life researching and writing about the "colvasion" (colonisation / invasion) of Australia. His research and writing have focussed on the relationships and conflicts between the British colonisers and Australia's First Nations Peoples. His book Demons at Dusk; Massacre at Myall Creek was a thoroughly researched faction account of the infamous 1838 massacre. Peter has worked with the Friends of Myall Creek in the construction of the memorial on the site which opened in 2000. He played an integral part in the construction of the memorial and its surrounding facilities as well as the wording on the narrative signage on the site. He is widely regarded as one of Australia's leading experts on the massacre. He is a business owner who is married with three adult children and two grandchildren and lives in southern Sydney.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Peter Stewart SDG.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 10/14/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Endnotes

For Katie and Paul with love, Dad

Life is this simple: we are living in a world that is absolutely transparent and the divine is shining through it all the time. This is not just a nice story or a fable, it is true.

Thomas Merton

CHAPTER 1

T HE FARMHOUSE WAS larger than I expected.

A young girl with rosy cheeks opens the screen door.

Oh. It’s you, she says.

Friendly, I think to myself. Good morning, Miss.

We weren’t expecting you so soon.

And polite, too.

May I come in? I ask.

Wipe your feet.

I do.

She makes sure that I do an adequate job before she opens the screen door. Follow me, she says.

I follow her down the hall and into a large dining room.

Wait here, she says, as she disappears through a red velvet curtain.

My thoughts are these:

Where did she go?

What is behind that curtain?

Does it go to the kitchen?

What is her job here, The mean greeter?

What is her name?

I take inventory:

17 wooden chairs surround a large beat-up wooden table.

Even though this is a farm, the table has a fancy glass candelabra in the middle.

Old wax has built up on the glass candleholders and spilled onto the table, too.

It looks like they have burned hundreds of candles, not caring to ever clean it. Seems they add new candles on top of the old burned down candles, instead.

Somehow, it looks like a shrine.

She comes back with one (used to be white, but now pink) towel, one light olive green hand towel and one faded yellowish washcloth.

They smell old.

All are worn with torn fabric.

Here, she says as she hands them to me.

I take them.

I try to make a joke, Oh well, so much for the Ritz.

Excuse me?

Thank you.

Follow me to your room.

I do.

She stops at an open door about halfway down the hall to the right.

It looks like all the other doors to all the other rooms.

How will I know this is my room? There is no number.

You’ll manage, she says as she gestures for me to go inside.

I go inside my room, but she stays in the hallway and says, Don’t miss Compline.

Compline?

What’s Compline?

"Lights out at 8:30.

And 8:30 doesn’t mean 8:31."

She smiles. She seems pleased with her last authoritative comment.

I’m hungry.

I didn’t get any dinner.

Do you think I could get something to eat?

Ask her!

But instead, I nod.

Nod? That’s all you can do? Way to go, Tucker!

She quickly turns and leaves.

Wait, When will my parents come and pick me up?

Stop, I don’t even know your name!

My name is Tucker. But you can call me Tuck.

I lean my head out the door to holler out to her, but all I can eek out is, Your name?

I sound stupid yelling after her.

She is so far down the hallway she can’t hear me.

Or maybe she chooses not to respond.

Great.

An icicle for a greeter.

I turn and go inside my room.

I take inventory:

Two twin beds with daisy sheets folded over the light green coverlet with tiny green pompoms.

One sink and one light with a chain pull.

Wow, what luxury.

But wait . . . over to the right there is another bedroom. Like a private room. All to myself!

A place to hide, to read, to get away. I might be o.k.