My grandfathers were bowlers. This was back in bowling's heyday in the late 1950s and 1960s. They bowled like dads today mow the yard and watch ESPN, frequently and avidly. They both passed away before I had the chance to meet or really know them.
As a child, thunderstorms were scary for me. My mother told us, as she wrung her own hands in fear of storms, that the rolling claps of thunder were nothing more than our grandfathers bowling. How can you be afraid when conjuring images of angels bowling in heaven?
I hadn't thought of the bowling angels in many, many years. I have quite a different view of heaven now than I did when I was seven. But last night there was a major thunderstorm, a bowling tournament in heaven, and the bowling angels came to mind. We were perched atop our favorite ridge in East Tennessee, lying in bed, listening to celestial strike after celestial strike.
There was a new member joining the league last night. I never knew her to bowl but I guess in heaven you can pick up a new sport pretty easily. Unencumbered, anyone can bowl. Bowling angels is a silly metaphor but I do like to think of my mother-in-law being free and easy and as happy as a bowling angel.