In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Rescue the Perishing Agnes Scott Stevens E. C. Stringer's car-parts junkyard alongside U.S. 441 was not one of Georgia's more scenic attractions. Although it was partially hidden by a sixfoot wire fence that had been taken over by kudzu, one could still see piles of rust-red twisted metal and an assortment of wrecked cars, lying everywhere as if flung there by some cataclysmic act of nature. It was the last place you'd expect to see an angel. And yet, just about dusk on this balmy Sunday evening in late October, E. C. could see one coming toward him, moving through the dove-gray twilight along the narrow dirt road. The road ran from the highway;to the four-room unpainted frame building that served as both home and office for E. Cs enterprise. He was sitting on his front porch, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife, and he very nearly cut himself. I looked over Jordan and what did I see Comin' for to carry me home A band of angels comin' after me Comin' for to carry me home. Sweet Jesus! He wasn't ready. It was only when she was standing in front of him that he realized the reason for this illusion. She was dressed all in white, even to stockings and shoes. The dress, made of some gauzy material, hung loosely from a high-gathered neckline to mid-calf. The hair mantling her shoulders was of a golden shade that shimmered in an unnatural way in the pale evening light. She was studying the sign over his head, a faded black-and-white thing, the words painted years ago on a sheet of tin left over from the roof: stringer's used car PARTS. BOUGHT AND SOLD. "Mr. Stringer?" The voice was husky. He nodded, still stunned by her sudden appearance. The people who came to his door were mostly riffraff in search of something for nothing or pimply-faced teenagers trying to sell stolen hubcaps. He'd seen movies on TV where angels, disguised as humans, were sent back to save some sin-laden mortal just before his time. E. C. couldn't recall anything he'd done to merit such divine intervention , nor did he knowingly suffer from a fatal disease. Yet, somewhere within, a time bomb could be ticking away, an unknown destiny waiting to strike him down. "My van's down there." She inclined her head toward the highway. "Coughed a few times, then just up and died." Her hands rose in a gesture of feminine helplessness . "The thing is, I'm due at a meeting a few miles on, and if I don't make it—" E. C. sprang into action. "You just set yourself down, ma'am, while I have a quick look." And he went loping toward the road. 53 The van, a faded blue, freckled with rust spots and assorted dents and scratches, proclaimed itself—in bold black letters—to be the property of SISTER DOLLY MAE, EVANGELIST. Bumpers and back windows were covered with colorful stickers that asked such important questions as have you been saved? Or HOW WILL YOU STAND ON JUDGMENT day? E. C. read them with some amazement . He hadn't been far wrong—she was an emissary of God. Again, he felt an uneasy premonition. Judging from the old and neglected state of the engine, any number of things could be the problem, but a broken fan belt left no doubt about one of the causes of the car's collapse. It was obvious Miss Dolly Mae lacked the comforting presence of a man to handle such worldly needs. E. C. sped back to the house. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but this is going to take a little time. If you'd permit me, I'd be happy to drive you to your meeting, then come back to see what I can do." Her instant smile of relief exposed a row of small pearly teeth. "God will bless you, Mr. Stringer." Sister Mae's destination was a large blue tent, weather-faded and old. It had been set up in a cleared field just off the...

pdf