It was a Saturday when I met Kostos the angel.

And as these things go, I have only a faint recollection of how I began talking to the ridiculous-looking, pot-bellied stranger; never mind telling him my deepest troubles.

I remember aimlessly walking in my depression around one of Tarpon Springs’ many lakes, unaware of the elements of fate gathering at that moment to provide me with lessons that would last a lifetime. I faintly remember a sudden swish by my ear, being lashed in the cheek by the half-brained backswing of a fisherman’s pole.

“Yo ho there, young man.” The gravel-voiced stranger turned to me in slow arthritic motion. “You gotta watch where you walking. You got my line all tangled up now!” I ran my fingers across my cheek, checking for blood. Cursing out the man never occurred to me; somehow the sting of his rod had felt good, a cosmic force of sorts that jolted me back to full consciousness in weeks.

I stood and gawked at the odd-looking stranger. The skin on his arms and face was dark and wrinkled, accustomed, it seemed, to harsher forces in his lifetime. If I couldn’t tell

the man was Greek by his accent, the Mediterranean face gave him away instantly. I must have just stood there. And it seemed the most natural thing in the world when after a while this complete stranger said: “Hey, you got some problem, young man. C’mon, you can tell it to Kostos.” —Beliefnet.com