An Angel by the Campfire
Michael felt a mysterious urge to turn the car around and head home--but he couldn't explain why.
By Joan Wester Anderson
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/111/story_11168_1.html
Reprinted with permission of Joan Wester Anderson's website.
Michael Ansted and his wife had moved to a small country town by the sea in New Zealand, where they built a home for them and their six children (they have seven now). “We shared twenty-eight acres with another family so there was plenty of space,” he says. “One evening our children decided to camp out under some pines about two hundred yards from the house.” The adults went down and after clearing the ground, they lit a small fire to bake potatoes. “We ate, and sang a few songs,” Michael recalls. “Then we doused the fire, and made sure it was out.”
Michael was glad that the children enjoyed some innocent fun that evening, because the next morning they had to make a somber journey. “A friend’s six-year-old daughter had died in a tent fire a few days before, and we were all going to the funeral,” he explains. The following morning they set out on the twenty-mile trip, bouncing over rutted country roads. By the time they had gone three miles, however, Michael was beginning to feel…odd. “I felt prodded to turn around, and go home,” he says. “I paid no attention to it—-we had to be at the funeral!---but the urge became stronger, and eventually I just couldn’t ignore it anymore.” He told his wife what he was feeling.
“I think you should turn back,” she told him.
“But it’s bizarre—there’s no reason…” he argued.
“Maybe not,” she pointed out, “but perhaps it’s better to be safe.” She and he had both learned over the years that God works in mysterious ways.
Safe! They were safe NOW, Michael told himself. But he turned the car around and started home. The children were perplexed and getting restless, and the extra five miles backtracking would probably make them late for the funeral. Yet his heart was pounding with the effort to control the unreasonable urge. Get home, get home... Finally, they pulled into the driveway. Michael hugged them all, turned the car keys over to his wife, and watched as they drove out again. Then he carefully checked the house and the yard. Everything normal. Everything fine. The strange urge was gone now, and he felt ridiculous. Perhaps he should take a nap.
Sometime later Michael awoke with a start. He could hear the sound of crackling, as if twigs were burning just outside his bedroom wall. It circled him, and for a disoriented moment, he thought he was at the scene of the fire that had killed his friend’s little girl. But no. He was here, lying on his bed. As his mind cleared, the sound drifted away, and he realized that there was no fire anywhere, inside or out. At least as far as he could see. He must have been dreaming, thinking about the funeral.
But the crackle had been so real! “I decided to go out and check the property again,” he said. Nothing. Then as he was about to return to the house, he remembered the previous night’s campsite. “Making my way along the ridge, I saw a wisp of smoke,” he says. “I ran back and filled a bucket and returned to find a steady plume of smoke issuing from the ground where our fire had been. We had not realized that we had lit the fire on a mixture of earth and pine needles. The fire had penetrated these and and was burning underground!”
But this was a quiet fire, hidden, with no crackling wood and smoke to attract attention. Shocked, Michael realized that--with the family gone for the day--everything would have gone unnoticed, until the heat generated had set a large area ablaze. An area dry and eager to burn, given a chance. With limited fire resources, he realized, some thousand acres could have gone up in flames, including his new home. And if the fire was very slow, his whole family might have been lost.
Michael ran back and forth, filling numerous buckets, until the area was finally secure. Then he sat down to rest, and to think. He had set out on a journey, but had been told to go back. He had heard the noise of fire, where there was no burning. Had it been his guardian angel who’d alerted him? Or the spirit of the little girl, already sending gifts from heaven? Michael would never know, but he gave thanks to the loving God Who had arranged it all.
Angels
The Miracle of the Deer
Shy woodland animals are drawn to the purest, most loving heart.
It was one of the hottest days of the dry season. We had not seen rain in almost a month. The crops were dying. Cows had stopped giving milk. The creeks and streams were long gone back into the earth. It was a dry season that would bankrupt several farmers before it was through.
Every day, my husband and his brothers would go about the arduous process of trying to get water to the fields. Lately this process had involved taking a truck to the local water rendering plant and filling it up with water. But severe rationing had cut everyone off. If we didn't see some rain soon...we would lose everything.
It was on this day that I learned the true lesson of sharing and witnessed the only miracle I have seen with my own eyes. I was in the kitchen making lunch for my husband and his brothers when I saw my six-year-old son, Billy, walking toward the woods. He wasn't walking with the usual carefree abandon of a youth but with a serious purpose. I could only see his back. He was obviously walking with a great effort...trying to be as still as possible.
Minutes after he disappeared into the woods, he came running out again, toward the house. I went back to making sandwiches; thinking that whatever task he had been doing was completed.
Moments later, however, he was once again walking in that slow purposeful stride toward the woods. This activity went on for an hour: walk carefully to the woods, run back to the house. Finally I couldn't take it any longer and I crept out of the house and followed him on his journey (being very careful not to be seen...as he was obviously doing important work and didn't need his Mommy checking up on him).
He was cupping both hands in front of him as he walked, being very careful not to spill the water he held in them...maybe two or three tablespoons were held in his tiny hands. I sneaked close as he went into the woods. Branches and thorns slapped his little face, but he did not try to avoid them. He had a much higher purpose.
As I leaned in to spy on him, I saw the most amazing site. Several large deer loomed in front of him. Billy walked right up to them. I almost screamed for him to get away. A huge buck with elaborate antlers was dangerously close. But the buck did not threaten him...he didn't even move as Billy knelt down. And I saw a tiny fawn laying on the ground, obviously suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion, lift its head with great effort to lap up the water cupped in my beautiful boy's hand.
When the water was gone, Billy jumped up to run back to the house and I hid behind a tree. I followed him back to the house to a spigot to which we had shut off the water. Billy opened it all the way up and a small trickle began to creep out. He knelt there, letting the drip, drip slowly fill up his makeshift "cup," as the sun beat down on his little back. And it came clear to me: The trouble he had gotten into for playing with the hose the week before. The lecture he had received about the importance of not wasting water. The reason he didn't ask me to help him.
It took almost twenty minutes for the drops to fill his hands. When he stood up and began the trek back, I was there in front of him. His little eyes just filled with tears. "I'm not wasting," was all he said.
As he began his walk, I joined him...with a small pot of water from the kitchen. I let him tend to the fawn. I stayed away. It was his job. I stood on the edge of the woods watching the most beautiful heart I have ever known working so hard to save another life. As the tears that rolled down my face began to hit the ground, they were suddenly joined by other drops...and more drops...and more. I looked up at the sky. It was as if God, himself, was weeping with pride.
Some will probably say that this was all just a huge coincidence. That miracles don't really exist. That it was bound to rain sometime. And I can't argue with that...I'm not going to try. All I can say is that the rain that came that day saved our farm...just like the actions of one little boy saved another. I don't know if anyone will read this...but I had to send it out. To honor the memory of my beautiful Billy, who was taken from me much too soon... But not before showing me the true face of God, in a little, sunburned boy's body.
Shy woodland animals are drawn to the purest, most loving heart.
It was one of the hottest days of the dry season. We had not seen rain in almost a month. The crops were dying. Cows had stopped giving milk. The creeks and streams were long gone back into the earth. It was a dry season that would bankrupt several farmers before it was through.
Every day, my husband and his brothers would go about the arduous process of trying to get water to the fields. Lately this process had involved taking a truck to the local water rendering plant and filling it up with water. But severe rationing had cut everyone off. If we didn't see some rain soon...we would lose everything.
It was on this day that I learned the true lesson of sharing and witnessed the only miracle I have seen with my own eyes. I was in the kitchen making lunch for my husband and his brothers when I saw my six-year-old son, Billy, walking toward the woods. He wasn't walking with the usual carefree abandon of a youth but with a serious purpose. I could only see his back. He was obviously walking with a great effort...trying to be as still as possible.
Minutes after he disappeared into the woods, he came running out again, toward the house. I went back to making sandwiches; thinking that whatever task he had been doing was completed.
Moments later, however, he was once again walking in that slow purposeful stride toward the woods. This activity went on for an hour: walk carefully to the woods, run back to the house. Finally I couldn't take it any longer and I crept out of the house and followed him on his journey (being very careful not to be seen...as he was obviously doing important work and didn't need his Mommy checking up on him).
He was cupping both hands in front of him as he walked, being very careful not to spill the water he held in them...maybe two or three tablespoons were held in his tiny hands. I sneaked close as he went into the woods. Branches and thorns slapped his little face, but he did not try to avoid them. He had a much higher purpose.
As I leaned in to spy on him, I saw the most amazing site. Several large deer loomed in front of him. Billy walked right up to them. I almost screamed for him to get away. A huge buck with elaborate antlers was dangerously close. But the buck did not threaten him...he didn't even move as Billy knelt down. And I saw a tiny fawn laying on the ground, obviously suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion, lift its head with great effort to lap up the water cupped in my beautiful boy's hand.
When the water was gone, Billy jumped up to run back to the house and I hid behind a tree. I followed him back to the house to a spigot to which we had shut off the water. Billy opened it all the way up and a small trickle began to creep out. He knelt there, letting the drip, drip slowly fill up his makeshift "cup," as the sun beat down on his little back. And it came clear to me: The trouble he had gotten into for playing with the hose the week before. The lecture he had received about the importance of not wasting water. The reason he didn't ask me to help him.
It took almost twenty minutes for the drops to fill his hands. When he stood up and began the trek back, I was there in front of him. His little eyes just filled with tears. "I'm not wasting," was all he said.
As he began his walk, I joined him...with a small pot of water from the kitchen. I let him tend to the fawn. I stayed away. It was his job. I stood on the edge of the woods watching the most beautiful heart I have ever known working so hard to save another life. As the tears that rolled down my face began to hit the ground, they were suddenly joined by other drops...and more drops...and more. I looked up at the sky. It was as if God, himself, was weeping with pride.
Some will probably say that this was all just a huge coincidence. That miracles don't really exist. That it was bound to rain sometime. And I can't argue with that...I'm not going to try. All I can say is that the rain that came that day saved our farm...just like the actions of one little boy saved another. I don't know if anyone will read this...but I had to send it out. To honor the memory of my beautiful Billy, who was taken from me much too soon... But not before showing me the true face of God, in a little, sunburned boy's body.
William Blake: A Life Among the Angels
Visions of angels helped the famous poet revolutionize the art of engraving.
By Johanna Skilling
http://www.beliefnet.com/nllp/Inspirati ... 07-26-2006
Almost 200 years after William Blake died and was buried in a pauper’s grave in London, thousands of people flocked to exhibits of his work in major museums on both sides of the Atlantic. Although his talent was largely unrecognized in his own lifetime, Blake eventually achieved fame as a poet, a painter and a pioneer engraver, exerting a lasting influence in both literature and graphic arts.
Blake believed much of his inspiration came from his lifetime encounters with angels. Born in London in November 1757, young William was only 10 years old when he saw a vision of angels clustered in the branches of a tree near his home. From then on, wherever he went, Blake saw visions from the other world, from angels in a hayfield, to apparitions of monks in Westminster Abbey. He talked with the angel Gabriel and the Virgin Mary as well as other historical figures.
Far from scoffing, William’s parents believed in his visions. Even though they were not well off, they offered to help him become a painter so that he could portray his otherworldly companions. But William decided instead to train as an engraver, a profession that was not only less expensive to learn, but more likely to give him an income faster.
Although William’s experience as an engraving student was not particularly happy, in his adult years he went on to revolutionize the art. When William was 30, his brother Robert died; William believed he saw his brother’s spirit rise from his lifeless body. Later, Robert appeared to William in a vision, describing an invention that would forever change the art of engraving. By the time a year had passed, William had invented the new technique he had seen in this vision, called “illuminated printing."
This new method of engraving allowed Blake to etch both drawings and handwritten poems on a single metal plate, reducing the cost of printing while heightening the effect of the illustrated work. For the first time since the hand-illuminated manuscripts created by monks in the Middle Ages, words and images became inseparable on the page. Blake hand-colored the illustrations, and bound the resulting pages between paper covers.
Blake was also a poet; his first poems were collected in a hand-printed edition by friends when he was only 12 years old. Blake went on to write some of the most memorable lines in the English language in his two books, Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. Blake’s engraving method allowed him to illustrate his own poems as well as the classics, bringing to vibrant life works including the Book of Job and Dante's Divine Comedy.
As a young man, Blake had married Catherine Boucher, who became his partner and lifetime love. Illiterate when they met, Catherine learned from Blake to read and write; eventually they worked side by side, she printing and coloring the engravings he produced. Together, they created the extraordinary work that resulted from Blake’s visions and spiritual experiences.
Blake was a poor man when he died in August 1827. Catherine was forced to borrow the money for his small funeral, and buried him in a common grave in Bunhill Cemetery. London.
In his poem “The Angel That Presided," Blake wrote what might be his own epitaph:
The Angel that presided o'er my birth
Said, "Little creature, formed of joy and mirth,
Go love without the help of any thing on earth.”
Apart from his wife and family, Blake might not have had help--or recognition--from many people on earth. But his legacy in art and poetry had the help of angels.
Visions of angels helped the famous poet revolutionize the art of engraving.
By Johanna Skilling
http://www.beliefnet.com/nllp/Inspirati ... 07-26-2006
Almost 200 years after William Blake died and was buried in a pauper’s grave in London, thousands of people flocked to exhibits of his work in major museums on both sides of the Atlantic. Although his talent was largely unrecognized in his own lifetime, Blake eventually achieved fame as a poet, a painter and a pioneer engraver, exerting a lasting influence in both literature and graphic arts.
Blake believed much of his inspiration came from his lifetime encounters with angels. Born in London in November 1757, young William was only 10 years old when he saw a vision of angels clustered in the branches of a tree near his home. From then on, wherever he went, Blake saw visions from the other world, from angels in a hayfield, to apparitions of monks in Westminster Abbey. He talked with the angel Gabriel and the Virgin Mary as well as other historical figures.
Far from scoffing, William’s parents believed in his visions. Even though they were not well off, they offered to help him become a painter so that he could portray his otherworldly companions. But William decided instead to train as an engraver, a profession that was not only less expensive to learn, but more likely to give him an income faster.
Although William’s experience as an engraving student was not particularly happy, in his adult years he went on to revolutionize the art. When William was 30, his brother Robert died; William believed he saw his brother’s spirit rise from his lifeless body. Later, Robert appeared to William in a vision, describing an invention that would forever change the art of engraving. By the time a year had passed, William had invented the new technique he had seen in this vision, called “illuminated printing."
This new method of engraving allowed Blake to etch both drawings and handwritten poems on a single metal plate, reducing the cost of printing while heightening the effect of the illustrated work. For the first time since the hand-illuminated manuscripts created by monks in the Middle Ages, words and images became inseparable on the page. Blake hand-colored the illustrations, and bound the resulting pages between paper covers.
Blake was also a poet; his first poems were collected in a hand-printed edition by friends when he was only 12 years old. Blake went on to write some of the most memorable lines in the English language in his two books, Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. Blake’s engraving method allowed him to illustrate his own poems as well as the classics, bringing to vibrant life works including the Book of Job and Dante's Divine Comedy.
As a young man, Blake had married Catherine Boucher, who became his partner and lifetime love. Illiterate when they met, Catherine learned from Blake to read and write; eventually they worked side by side, she printing and coloring the engravings he produced. Together, they created the extraordinary work that resulted from Blake’s visions and spiritual experiences.
Blake was a poor man when he died in August 1827. Catherine was forced to borrow the money for his small funeral, and buried him in a common grave in Bunhill Cemetery. London.
In his poem “The Angel That Presided," Blake wrote what might be his own epitaph:
The Angel that presided o'er my birth
Said, "Little creature, formed of joy and mirth,
Go love without the help of any thing on earth.”
Apart from his wife and family, Blake might not have had help--or recognition--from many people on earth. But his legacy in art and poetry had the help of angels.
Marmie, the Truly Great Dane
A dog from heaven.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/49/story_4965_1.html
Reprinted with permission from Angels on Earth, a Guideposts publication.
From the day she was born, our Great Dane, Marmalade, seemed to know she'd been put on this earth to do more than eat dog food and sleep in the shade all day. For instance, one of our neighbors was a retired man who'd recently had open-heart surgery. Daily exercise was part of his recuperation program, so every morning he went for a walk, and every morning Marmie took off to accompany him. In the afternoon, Marmie sat and waited for our son, Ryan, and some of the other kids to get off the school bus. Then she’d walk them home. It was as though she understood that people need protection, or sometimes just plain old companionship, and her heart was full of love for them.
Marmie definitely had personality: It wasn't long before she started carrying around one of Ryan's old teddy bears. Soon people all over town knew her. How could they not notice Marmie? After all, she strolled around with the dignity of an aristocrat and the grace of a deer; the markings on her face made it look like she was wearing a mask; and she always had that teddy bear in her mouth.
One morning Marmie returned from her neighborhood patrol with a doll in her mouth instead. "Where'd you get that?" I asked. "And what happened to your teddy?" Ryan piped in.
Later that day a neighbor called. "Marmie's bear turned up in my yard," she said, "and one of my daughter's dolls is missing."
"So that's where it came from. I'm so sorry," I said. "I'll bring the doll right back."
Marmie traded her bear for things so often that people got used to her barter system. In fact, sometimes we'd pull into the driveway and see the flag up on the mailbox. Inside the box would be the stuffed bear, and standing halfway down the drive with her tail wagging would be Marmie, showing off the new prize she’d tucked in her mouth.
Eventually my husband and I started calling Marmie's daily finds her "gifts from heaven." From the proud look on her face, it seemed she thought that whatever it was she brought home--a bone, a ball, a shoe--had come from some source higher than people.
In 1987, our family moved to Virginia to 25 open acres lined by a vast pine forest. It must have been a day in mid-July when we first noticed Marmie standing at the edge of the woods, barking questioningly. After dinner that night she left her bear in Ryan's safekeeping and headed into the trees with some scraps of meat left over from her dinner. "I wonder what that's all about?" I asked Bob.
Then, in August, Marmie went into the woods with her teddy and came trotting back without him. That time, she had no "gift from heaven" in her mouth. That's not like her, I thought. Over the course of the month, Marmie would disappear into the woods and start howling. Finally one day, Bob and I heard Marmie howl, and then a weak bark in response. "Must be a stray Marmie's found," Bob guessed.
"There she is!" I said, pointing to the spot where Marmie always entered and exited the forest. Our Great Dane stopped and turned, as if to introduce her newest "gift from heaven." A small beagle staggered out from behind her and collapsed to the ground.
"What did you bring home now, Marmie?" Bob said.
He walked cautiously toward the beagle, with me close behind. The dog couldn't have been more than a year old. Her ears were shredded from briers, she was covered with ticks and her body was wasted away from practically nothing. A black leather collar hung loose around her neck. "She must have been lost a very long time," I said.
"Is this where your food's been going, Marmie?" Bob asked, reaching down to stroke our Great Dane's snout. "Okay. If you've given your all for this pup, then so will we."
We tended to the dog's wounds and cleaned her up, got a thick blanket for bedding, then took her to the vet. Ryan held the beagle while the vet examined her. "I don't think she'll last that long," the vet said. Despite his prognosis, during the next few weeks the dog got better. Ryan set out extra food for her every night, and Marmie would curl her massive forelegs around the pup, as if to keep her safe and warm while she slept. Soon the puppy had gained enough strength to join Marmie on her daily patrols.
Meanwhile, I tried to find the beagle's owner. I called the SPCA, and I asked around town. No results. Finally I placed an ad in the lost-and-found section of the paper. Two days after the ad ran, our phone rang. "I'm calling about the beagle with the black collar," said a young boy. He started to cry. "I l-l-lost my puppy after Mom was in the hospital." He sobbed so hard I could barely make out his final words: "I'll have Grandpa call you." Then the line went dead.
Not five minutes later the phone rang again. "Ya found a dog?" asked an old man. "My grandson lost his dog. I gave him the pup when his mom was sick. The dog was just five months old when she disappeared from the backyard, the same night my grandson's mom died. I told him God took the pup to keep his mom company. But still he calls every ad that says 'young beagle.'"
When did the dog disappear?" I asked.
"December," he said gruffly. "No way a young dog could’ve survived with all the snow we had last winter." He asked where we lived, then said, "Besides, we're in King George, a whole county away. Don't see how the pup could've gotten that far. Though I did make the dog a collar like the one you described in the ad."
"What was the dog's name?" I asked.
"Jeanette. My grandson named her after his mom."
I went to the door and called, "Jeanette! Jeanette!" Though I couldn't be sure, it did seem the puppy stopped playing with Marmie and looked at me. When I told the man on the phone, he made arrangements to come out and see the dog.
The next morning, a pickup truck rattled down our driveway. Bob and I stepped outside as an old man in overalls climbed out of the truck. Marmie and the puppy were playing with Ryan. "Jeanette!" called the man. "Jeanette! If it's you, girl, come!"
The beagle turned her head, raced down the driveway and leaped right into the old man’s arms. "Well, young 'un," he said to the puppy, "I thought you were dead after all this time." He climbed into the truck and gently placed the beagle on the seat next to him. Then he turned to us, tears in his eyes. "Got to get her home to the boy. He's been waiting a long time. He never gave up. Guess I shouldn't have either. Thank you." He put the truck in gear and backed out of the driveway.
Our Great Dane stood at attention as the truck turned onto the road. Ryan patted her head. "You did good, Marmie," I said. "You must be a guardian angel for your own kind." She wagged her tail and held her head high, then turned and headed toward the woods. "We know," I said as I watched her disappear into the pines. "You have important work to do."
AFTERGLOW
In just seven years, Marmalade played angel to 15 lost, injured and starved dogs from the woods. "Three weeks before she died," recalls Betsy MacDonald, "Marmie carried home a Benji look-alike that had been hit by a car. Our vet mended its fractured hip and while the dog recovered, one of Ryan's friends figured out who it belonged to." Marmie's resting place is the spot by the woods where she'd appear with the dogs she rescued. Betsy says, "We believe Marmie's returned to where she came from: heaven."
A dog from heaven.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/49/story_4965_1.html
Reprinted with permission from Angels on Earth, a Guideposts publication.
From the day she was born, our Great Dane, Marmalade, seemed to know she'd been put on this earth to do more than eat dog food and sleep in the shade all day. For instance, one of our neighbors was a retired man who'd recently had open-heart surgery. Daily exercise was part of his recuperation program, so every morning he went for a walk, and every morning Marmie took off to accompany him. In the afternoon, Marmie sat and waited for our son, Ryan, and some of the other kids to get off the school bus. Then she’d walk them home. It was as though she understood that people need protection, or sometimes just plain old companionship, and her heart was full of love for them.
Marmie definitely had personality: It wasn't long before she started carrying around one of Ryan's old teddy bears. Soon people all over town knew her. How could they not notice Marmie? After all, she strolled around with the dignity of an aristocrat and the grace of a deer; the markings on her face made it look like she was wearing a mask; and she always had that teddy bear in her mouth.
One morning Marmie returned from her neighborhood patrol with a doll in her mouth instead. "Where'd you get that?" I asked. "And what happened to your teddy?" Ryan piped in.
Later that day a neighbor called. "Marmie's bear turned up in my yard," she said, "and one of my daughter's dolls is missing."
"So that's where it came from. I'm so sorry," I said. "I'll bring the doll right back."
Marmie traded her bear for things so often that people got used to her barter system. In fact, sometimes we'd pull into the driveway and see the flag up on the mailbox. Inside the box would be the stuffed bear, and standing halfway down the drive with her tail wagging would be Marmie, showing off the new prize she’d tucked in her mouth.
Eventually my husband and I started calling Marmie's daily finds her "gifts from heaven." From the proud look on her face, it seemed she thought that whatever it was she brought home--a bone, a ball, a shoe--had come from some source higher than people.
In 1987, our family moved to Virginia to 25 open acres lined by a vast pine forest. It must have been a day in mid-July when we first noticed Marmie standing at the edge of the woods, barking questioningly. After dinner that night she left her bear in Ryan's safekeeping and headed into the trees with some scraps of meat left over from her dinner. "I wonder what that's all about?" I asked Bob.
Then, in August, Marmie went into the woods with her teddy and came trotting back without him. That time, she had no "gift from heaven" in her mouth. That's not like her, I thought. Over the course of the month, Marmie would disappear into the woods and start howling. Finally one day, Bob and I heard Marmie howl, and then a weak bark in response. "Must be a stray Marmie's found," Bob guessed.
"There she is!" I said, pointing to the spot where Marmie always entered and exited the forest. Our Great Dane stopped and turned, as if to introduce her newest "gift from heaven." A small beagle staggered out from behind her and collapsed to the ground.
"What did you bring home now, Marmie?" Bob said.
He walked cautiously toward the beagle, with me close behind. The dog couldn't have been more than a year old. Her ears were shredded from briers, she was covered with ticks and her body was wasted away from practically nothing. A black leather collar hung loose around her neck. "She must have been lost a very long time," I said.
"Is this where your food's been going, Marmie?" Bob asked, reaching down to stroke our Great Dane's snout. "Okay. If you've given your all for this pup, then so will we."
We tended to the dog's wounds and cleaned her up, got a thick blanket for bedding, then took her to the vet. Ryan held the beagle while the vet examined her. "I don't think she'll last that long," the vet said. Despite his prognosis, during the next few weeks the dog got better. Ryan set out extra food for her every night, and Marmie would curl her massive forelegs around the pup, as if to keep her safe and warm while she slept. Soon the puppy had gained enough strength to join Marmie on her daily patrols.
Meanwhile, I tried to find the beagle's owner. I called the SPCA, and I asked around town. No results. Finally I placed an ad in the lost-and-found section of the paper. Two days after the ad ran, our phone rang. "I'm calling about the beagle with the black collar," said a young boy. He started to cry. "I l-l-lost my puppy after Mom was in the hospital." He sobbed so hard I could barely make out his final words: "I'll have Grandpa call you." Then the line went dead.
Not five minutes later the phone rang again. "Ya found a dog?" asked an old man. "My grandson lost his dog. I gave him the pup when his mom was sick. The dog was just five months old when she disappeared from the backyard, the same night my grandson's mom died. I told him God took the pup to keep his mom company. But still he calls every ad that says 'young beagle.'"
When did the dog disappear?" I asked.
"December," he said gruffly. "No way a young dog could’ve survived with all the snow we had last winter." He asked where we lived, then said, "Besides, we're in King George, a whole county away. Don't see how the pup could've gotten that far. Though I did make the dog a collar like the one you described in the ad."
"What was the dog's name?" I asked.
"Jeanette. My grandson named her after his mom."
I went to the door and called, "Jeanette! Jeanette!" Though I couldn't be sure, it did seem the puppy stopped playing with Marmie and looked at me. When I told the man on the phone, he made arrangements to come out and see the dog.
The next morning, a pickup truck rattled down our driveway. Bob and I stepped outside as an old man in overalls climbed out of the truck. Marmie and the puppy were playing with Ryan. "Jeanette!" called the man. "Jeanette! If it's you, girl, come!"
The beagle turned her head, raced down the driveway and leaped right into the old man’s arms. "Well, young 'un," he said to the puppy, "I thought you were dead after all this time." He climbed into the truck and gently placed the beagle on the seat next to him. Then he turned to us, tears in his eyes. "Got to get her home to the boy. He's been waiting a long time. He never gave up. Guess I shouldn't have either. Thank you." He put the truck in gear and backed out of the driveway.
Our Great Dane stood at attention as the truck turned onto the road. Ryan patted her head. "You did good, Marmie," I said. "You must be a guardian angel for your own kind." She wagged her tail and held her head high, then turned and headed toward the woods. "We know," I said as I watched her disappear into the pines. "You have important work to do."
AFTERGLOW
In just seven years, Marmalade played angel to 15 lost, injured and starved dogs from the woods. "Three weeks before she died," recalls Betsy MacDonald, "Marmie carried home a Benji look-alike that had been hit by a car. Our vet mended its fractured hip and while the dog recovered, one of Ryan's friends figured out who it belonged to." Marmie's resting place is the spot by the woods where she'd appear with the dogs she rescued. Betsy says, "We believe Marmie's returned to where she came from: heaven."
Andy's Seven Angels
One man's journey from drugs to art, angels, and miracles.
Keith Richardson
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/29/story_2924_1.html
Excerpted from "Andy Lakey's Psychomanteum" by Keith Richardson, published by Ventura Press 1998.
Andy Lakey was not trained to be an artist, nor did he want to be one. He sold cars and used his money to buy drugs. He prided himself on the quality of his cocaine. He didn't care about anyone or anything.
On December 31, 1986, Lakey went to a New Year's Eve party. There he 'free-based' cocaine. As the evening went on, he began to feel worse and worse. He felt as if his head was going to explode and his whole body was shutting down.
He didn't tell his friends how bad he felt. He thought he was too 'cool' to overdose. Quietly leaving the party, he headed for his apartment downstairs. By the time he got there, he was crawling on his hands and knees. He crawled into the shower, turned the cold water on himself, and prayed for the first time since he was eight years old.
"God if you spare my life," he said, "I'll never take drugs again and I'll do something to help humankind."
Feeling something swirling around his feet like a tornado, he looked down, and to his amazement saw seven glowing beings of light circling his body. The beings shone like the sun and looked like they were made of crystal. They came up to his chest and put their arms around him. Suddenly, Lakey felt at peace. He knew he had been saved by angels.
In this near-death experience, Lakey was surrounded by seven angels, saw the light of God, and glimpsed the 'other side.' After he recovered, he stopped taking drugs cold turkey, began helping other people, and became obsessed with drawing what he had seen that night in his shower.
Lakey quit his job, moved out of his apartment, and left all his friends. He found a new job and a new place to live. Instead of taking drugs each night when he came home, he drew pictures of his near-death experience. This continued for three years, by which time Lakey had boxes full of sketches.
In October 1989, Lakey, obsessed by a feeling that he wasn't doing what he was supposed to do, quit his $85,000-a-year sales job, took all his savings out of the bank and bought $6,000 worth of art supplies. He felt compelled to paint the images he had seen in the shower.
He built an art studio, but when he sat down to paint he discovered something terribly wrong. He had no art training and didn't have the slightest idea how to make paint stick to the canvas.
Several discouraging months passed, and then one morning in early 1990, as he entered his studio, a beam of light shone through the wall and touched him on the forehead. He felt a tingling sensation run through his entire body. Lakey felt transported to another dimension--a dimension where time stood still.
Three angels appeared and said, "The reason you were spared is that you have a mission to fulfill."
He asked them what his mission was and they responded, "Your mission is to paint 2,000 individual angel paintings by the year 2000. These paintings will represent each year that has passed since the birth of Christ."
"But I can't do that," Lakey interrupted. "You know I can't paint."
"Don't worry about a thing," they reassured him. "Put it in our hands and we'll take care of everything for you."
Within 24 hours, Lakey experienced a series of coincidences that would forever change his life. First, he accidentally spilled two acrylic paints that, when mixed, dried to a hard puffed surface. This novel mix of materials led Lakey to an art style known as 'sensualism.' As the paintings he created had a textured surface, even blind people could "see" them with their fingers.
In just a few months, Lakey had a full gallery opening. Six hundred people attended and his exhibit sold out. One buyer was a vacationing Italian monsignor. Upon his return home, he spread the word about Lakey's angel paintings and within weeks Lakey got a call from the Vatican. Pope John Paul II wanted a painting. Lakey sent the Pope painting number one in his 2000 series.
Today, Andy Lakey's works hang in museums and art galleries around the world. Noted collectors include Princess Margaret of Great Britain, Prince Albert of Monaco, Presidents Ford and Carter, Stevie Wonder, Shari Belafonte, James Redfield, Kelsey Grammar, Naomi Judd, Arnold Palmer, and Dudley Moore.
Despite his fame, Lakey has remained true to his mission. He donates at least 30% of the money from everything he paints to help others. He supports The Blind Children's Center in Los Angeles and other children's charities throughout the world. Lakey is also a supporter of charities for abused women, AIDS research, and animal welfare.
Andy Lakey's art has touched millions of lives. It continues to help people find faith, hope and spirituality, and to face life's tragedies.
One man's journey from drugs to art, angels, and miracles.
Keith Richardson
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/29/story_2924_1.html
Excerpted from "Andy Lakey's Psychomanteum" by Keith Richardson, published by Ventura Press 1998.
Andy Lakey was not trained to be an artist, nor did he want to be one. He sold cars and used his money to buy drugs. He prided himself on the quality of his cocaine. He didn't care about anyone or anything.
On December 31, 1986, Lakey went to a New Year's Eve party. There he 'free-based' cocaine. As the evening went on, he began to feel worse and worse. He felt as if his head was going to explode and his whole body was shutting down.
He didn't tell his friends how bad he felt. He thought he was too 'cool' to overdose. Quietly leaving the party, he headed for his apartment downstairs. By the time he got there, he was crawling on his hands and knees. He crawled into the shower, turned the cold water on himself, and prayed for the first time since he was eight years old.
"God if you spare my life," he said, "I'll never take drugs again and I'll do something to help humankind."
Feeling something swirling around his feet like a tornado, he looked down, and to his amazement saw seven glowing beings of light circling his body. The beings shone like the sun and looked like they were made of crystal. They came up to his chest and put their arms around him. Suddenly, Lakey felt at peace. He knew he had been saved by angels.
In this near-death experience, Lakey was surrounded by seven angels, saw the light of God, and glimpsed the 'other side.' After he recovered, he stopped taking drugs cold turkey, began helping other people, and became obsessed with drawing what he had seen that night in his shower.
Lakey quit his job, moved out of his apartment, and left all his friends. He found a new job and a new place to live. Instead of taking drugs each night when he came home, he drew pictures of his near-death experience. This continued for three years, by which time Lakey had boxes full of sketches.
In October 1989, Lakey, obsessed by a feeling that he wasn't doing what he was supposed to do, quit his $85,000-a-year sales job, took all his savings out of the bank and bought $6,000 worth of art supplies. He felt compelled to paint the images he had seen in the shower.
He built an art studio, but when he sat down to paint he discovered something terribly wrong. He had no art training and didn't have the slightest idea how to make paint stick to the canvas.
Several discouraging months passed, and then one morning in early 1990, as he entered his studio, a beam of light shone through the wall and touched him on the forehead. He felt a tingling sensation run through his entire body. Lakey felt transported to another dimension--a dimension where time stood still.
Three angels appeared and said, "The reason you were spared is that you have a mission to fulfill."
He asked them what his mission was and they responded, "Your mission is to paint 2,000 individual angel paintings by the year 2000. These paintings will represent each year that has passed since the birth of Christ."
"But I can't do that," Lakey interrupted. "You know I can't paint."
"Don't worry about a thing," they reassured him. "Put it in our hands and we'll take care of everything for you."
Within 24 hours, Lakey experienced a series of coincidences that would forever change his life. First, he accidentally spilled two acrylic paints that, when mixed, dried to a hard puffed surface. This novel mix of materials led Lakey to an art style known as 'sensualism.' As the paintings he created had a textured surface, even blind people could "see" them with their fingers.
In just a few months, Lakey had a full gallery opening. Six hundred people attended and his exhibit sold out. One buyer was a vacationing Italian monsignor. Upon his return home, he spread the word about Lakey's angel paintings and within weeks Lakey got a call from the Vatican. Pope John Paul II wanted a painting. Lakey sent the Pope painting number one in his 2000 series.
Today, Andy Lakey's works hang in museums and art galleries around the world. Noted collectors include Princess Margaret of Great Britain, Prince Albert of Monaco, Presidents Ford and Carter, Stevie Wonder, Shari Belafonte, James Redfield, Kelsey Grammar, Naomi Judd, Arnold Palmer, and Dudley Moore.
Despite his fame, Lakey has remained true to his mission. He donates at least 30% of the money from everything he paints to help others. He supports The Blind Children's Center in Los Angeles and other children's charities throughout the world. Lakey is also a supporter of charities for abused women, AIDS research, and animal welfare.
Andy Lakey's art has touched millions of lives. It continues to help people find faith, hope and spirituality, and to face life's tragedies.
The mystical vision of Louis Massignon: Islam inspired scholar's gratitude, life work and Christian faith
Jerry Ryan
Better known in his native France than in this country, Louis Massignon was one of the most important scholars of Islam who ever lived. His influence on the study of Islam in the West was far-reaching, but Massignon was far more than an influential academic. His engagement with Islam was deeply personal and marked his life in profound and dramatic ways.
In a preface to a 1999 biography, Boutros Boutros-Ghali, the former secretary-general of the United Nations, paid tribute to Massignon's passionate engagement with the Other: "Louis Massignon invites us to enter into... the rediscovery of the original dialogue between cultures and religious. ... At a time when our world is prey to new waves of intolerance and new fundamentalisms ... we need to revive, in the hearts of men, this existential spirituality of Louis Massignon: dialogue, openness and tolerance."
A turning point in Massignon's life and the onset of his personal relationship with Islam began at the approach of dawn on May 3, 1908. While being held prisoner aboard a steamship on the Tigris River, accused of being a spy, Louis Massignon received a visit from a "Stranger without a Face" who took away everything he was and gave him everything he would become. Many years later, when he tried to describe this experience, Massignon stammered and resorted to metaphors. Massignon wrote that he saw himself as God, his judge, saw him at that moment--depraved and pretentious, worse than useless, undeserving of love or mercy or even of existence. He had abandoned the faith of his childhood; he was an active homosexual, a slave to his passions.
Massignon reported the execution of this judgment was suspended due to the prayers of five intercessors: Massignon's mother, the writer Juris Huysman who had prayed for Massignon on his deathbed, the Saharan hermit Charles de Foucauld, the tenth-century Sufi mystic al-Hallaj, and the Alousi family, pious Muslims who had given Massignon hospitality in Baghdad. It was thanks to these intercessors, both Christian and Muslim, that he was able to receive pardon. Massignon would later marvel that the prayer that spontaneously came to his lips after the mysterious visitation was in Arabic: "O God, O God, have mercy on me in my weakness!"
Louis Massignon was born on July 25, 1883, at Nogent-sur-Marne. His father was a sculptor who was well known in the French artistic community. Massignon was fascinated by Africa and the desert from his youth. His first trip to Algeria in 1901 confirmed his passion for this totally different world. By the age of 20 he had ceased to practice his Catholic faith and declared himself an agnostic. In 1904 he traveled to Morocco and began to seriously study both classical and dialectic Arab. In 1906 he was in Cairo. There he learned of the legends of al-Hallaj and met Luis de Cuadra, a Spanish nobleman, a convert to Islam, who became his lover and companion in "debauchery." The following year Massignon was sent by the French ministry of education to Baghdad for an archeological expedition into the Mesopotamian desert. It was during this mission that he was detained and accused of espionage and experienced his visitation from God.
While in Baghdad, Massignon had presented himself to the Alousi family of whom he had heard good reports. They didn't know him and had every reason to be suspicious of him. Yet they gave him hospitality, made him part of the family, shared everything with him and protected him as one of their own. After his capture, at great risk to themselves, the Alousi family rescued Massignon when the steamship he was on arrived in Baghdad. They made sure he received the medical attention he needed and helped him escape from Iraq.
When the "Stranger without a Face" presented himself to Massignon, it was like a reversal of his own role with the Alousis. The fact that he had been received as a faceless stranger enabled him to receive the divine visitation. Massignon never forgot that he owed his physical and moral salvation to the hospitality of this Muslim family. Through them and his other intercessors, Massignon encountered the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
Hospitality, one of the sacred duties of Islam, became a leitmotif for him, a lens through which he saw the entirety of God's relationship with us and our relationship to one another. To receive the other such as he is, in his strangeness and mystery, to accept him and share with him and, at the same time, be received--in this consists the Law and the Prophets and the Fiat, the gracious acceptance of the Incarnate Word by the Virgin Mary.
Massignon's other Muslim intercessor was al-Hallaj. One of the reasons Massignon traveled to Baghdad was his decision to write his doctoral dissertation on this 10th-century mystic who suffered greatly from the divisions in Islam and dreamed of a unified Muslim community. Although his God was the transcendent God of Islam, al-Hallaj claimed an intimate, loving relationship with him. Because of this, Al-Hallaj was condemned as a heretic and crucified; his body was cremated and his ashes thrown into the Tigris River in the area in which Massignon received his visitation.
The rest of Massignon's life was an unfolding of his experience with the Stranger and was dedicated to repaying his debt to his Muslim intercessors. For the next 50 years he studied and made known the life and sayings of al-Hallaj. The quality of his relationship with the mystic/martyr is strikingly summarized in a text written in 1932: "It is not that the study of his [al-Hallaj's] life, full and strong, righteous and undivided, ascending and dedicated, has revealed to me the secret of his heart. It is rather al-Hallaj who has penetrated my heart and penetrates it still."
Massignon thought about the priesthood and about joining missionary priest Charles de Foucauld in the Sahara but finally opted for marriage. Mobilized as an officer in the First World War, he was first stationed in Macedonia, then sent to Syria and Palestine as an aide to the French high commissioner. When Jerusalem was liberated from the Ottoman Turks, Massignon entered the Holy City alongside Lawrence of Arabia. He suffered bitterly when the Allies later broke their promises to the Arab insurgents. After the war he was named professor at the College de France where he taught until 1954. He went to Egypt regularly to give classes, in Arabic, at the University of Cairo. In 1929 he founded the Institute for Islamic Studies in Paris and that same year began giving French lessons in the evenings to illiterate North African immigrants--a work he carried on for several decades.
In 1941 he founded the Institute Dar-es-Salaam in Cairo to promote Arab-Christian studies. At one time president of the Friends of Gandhi, during the struggle for Algerian independence Massignon regularly visited North Africans detained in French prisons. He was arrested several times for participating in nonviolent demonstrations against French brutality toward Arabs both in France and Algeria, and he was physically assaulted by right-wing students for being an "Arab-lover." In 1950, Massignon was ordained a priest in the Greek Melkite rite, which allows for married clergy. He died of a heart attack Oct. 31, 1962.
Louis Massignon was a complex and conflictive personality. His erudition was legendary and often overwhelming. He was a tireless talker, literally bursting with ideas and intuitions, constantly jumping from one theme to another with a logic known only to himself. Yet he possessed a basic simplicity. He based his life on a sacred promise he had made to pray for his Muslim brethren and offer his life for them as they had prayed and risked their lives for him. Everything, from his vast intellectual-powers to the most humble gestures of solidarity and friendship, was at their service. There was an absolute, uncompromising, almost frightening fidelity and commitment. This loyalty extended to all his friendships. He would solemnly offer himself as a victim for the salvation of Luis de Cuadra, his former partner.
Not only did Massignon immerse himself in Arab literature, philosophy and mysticism; he learned to think as a Semite, reason as a Semite and express himself as a Semite. To read Massignon is to enter into another world where all is symbolic, where words point beyond themselves to mysteries that cannot be possessed. He approached Islam from the point of view of Islam itself and saw its values as they are interiorized by the community, as a pious and sincere Muslim would wish to live them. He sees the other as the other wants to see himself. This is the dialogue of hospitality, the reception of the other not on one's own terms but on his.
Massignon was not naive. He was well aware of the pettiness of the Muslim legalists, the intolerance of the fanatics, the avarice and ambition of the unscrupulous, yet he loved what was pure and noble in Islam. And it was this image of what was best in their faith that he presented both to the Arabs and to the Western world. (Would Christians not wish that our church be judged on what it aspires to be rather than on the tarnished witness we give?) Massignon's approach to Islam is not apologetic in any sense of the word nor is there any hint of proselytism. He desired, of course, that his friends arrive at the plentitude of truth but was convinced that what was positive and pure in Islam was a vehicle of grace that did, in fact, lead to the fullness of truth, even if it was not articulated.
Massignon, however, did not seem tempted by Islam as were many of his contemporaries who contrasted the sense of the sacred and the all-penetrating religious reference of the Muslim community with the secular indifference and spiritual apathy of Western culture. The God of Islam is unique and transcendent and the human race was created to witness to this inaccessible oneness. The God Massignon experienced and for whom he lived was the lover of man, the guest of the Virgin, who entered our lives that we might enter his. Massignon never pretended to be a theologian; his piety was very simple, almost childlike. In his life-long dialogue with Islam, he was very clear about where he stood; there was gratitude, respect and genuine love, but there was no accommodating the truth or glossing over irreducible differences on a confessional level. The ultimate and essential dialogue, however, was in the silent purity of the mystical experience, in the communion of the saints where the merciful are shown mercy beyond time and space.
Louis Massignon opened a whole new dimension to Christian-Muslim relations. Cardinal Giovanni Battista Montini, the future Pope Paul VI, was an enthusiastic admirer of his work as were Jacques and Raissa Maritain. The very positive assessment of Islam in the decree on ecumenism of Vatican II was due in great part to the influence of Massignon. For Islamic scholar John Voll of Georgetown University, the enduring legacy of Massignon was to reveal, both to the Western world and the Muslim world, the mystical dimensions latent in Islam.
But Massignon was not always understood by his contemporaries. His patriotism was seriously questioned during the Algerian revolution. His attitude towards the state of Israel alienated many of his closest friends. He did not deny the right of the Jewish people to a homeland but opposed the violence with which they expelled and humiliated the Arab populations to erect what he saw as a secular and materialistic state.
Reactions to Massignon in the Islamic communities were varied. He had many authentic and long-lasting friendships with numerous Muslim scholars. Those most receptive to him were the social radicals who wanted to modernize Islam and who were led by Massignon to rediscover the essential religious and mystical elements of their faith. One wonders what the Middle East would be today had Massignon's disciple, Ali Shari, prevailed in Iran rather than the Ayatollah Khomeini (Shari was assassinated in Paris prior to the overthrow of the shah). Just as numerous, however, were those who felt uncomfortable about a Christian expounding on their religion. Moreover, it was practically unimaginable in certain more traditional circles that a Christian who knew Islam as profoundly as did Massignon would not convert to Islam if he were in good faith. He was thus suspected of ulterior motives. After centuries of polemic and warfare between Christianity and Islam, it was difficult to believe in the absolute gratuity of Massignon's interest and sympathy.
There are many truths lived and preached by Massignon that are relevant to the "clash of civilizations" we are witnessing today. There can be no peace and confraternity without dialogue, and there can be no dialogue without respect for the other such as he is. This implies a basic humility, a capacity for hospitality where one is emptied and enriched. This is the opposite of what is happening around us. But prophets are sent in times of crisis, and Massignon's dedication to empathetic understanding of the other sets a standard for us to follow today.
[Jerry Ryan is a freelance writer and a longtime worker at the New England Aquarium.]
COPYRIGHT 2004 National Catholic Reporter
COPYRIGHT 2005 Gale Group
Jerry Ryan
Better known in his native France than in this country, Louis Massignon was one of the most important scholars of Islam who ever lived. His influence on the study of Islam in the West was far-reaching, but Massignon was far more than an influential academic. His engagement with Islam was deeply personal and marked his life in profound and dramatic ways.
In a preface to a 1999 biography, Boutros Boutros-Ghali, the former secretary-general of the United Nations, paid tribute to Massignon's passionate engagement with the Other: "Louis Massignon invites us to enter into... the rediscovery of the original dialogue between cultures and religious. ... At a time when our world is prey to new waves of intolerance and new fundamentalisms ... we need to revive, in the hearts of men, this existential spirituality of Louis Massignon: dialogue, openness and tolerance."
A turning point in Massignon's life and the onset of his personal relationship with Islam began at the approach of dawn on May 3, 1908. While being held prisoner aboard a steamship on the Tigris River, accused of being a spy, Louis Massignon received a visit from a "Stranger without a Face" who took away everything he was and gave him everything he would become. Many years later, when he tried to describe this experience, Massignon stammered and resorted to metaphors. Massignon wrote that he saw himself as God, his judge, saw him at that moment--depraved and pretentious, worse than useless, undeserving of love or mercy or even of existence. He had abandoned the faith of his childhood; he was an active homosexual, a slave to his passions.
Massignon reported the execution of this judgment was suspended due to the prayers of five intercessors: Massignon's mother, the writer Juris Huysman who had prayed for Massignon on his deathbed, the Saharan hermit Charles de Foucauld, the tenth-century Sufi mystic al-Hallaj, and the Alousi family, pious Muslims who had given Massignon hospitality in Baghdad. It was thanks to these intercessors, both Christian and Muslim, that he was able to receive pardon. Massignon would later marvel that the prayer that spontaneously came to his lips after the mysterious visitation was in Arabic: "O God, O God, have mercy on me in my weakness!"
Louis Massignon was born on July 25, 1883, at Nogent-sur-Marne. His father was a sculptor who was well known in the French artistic community. Massignon was fascinated by Africa and the desert from his youth. His first trip to Algeria in 1901 confirmed his passion for this totally different world. By the age of 20 he had ceased to practice his Catholic faith and declared himself an agnostic. In 1904 he traveled to Morocco and began to seriously study both classical and dialectic Arab. In 1906 he was in Cairo. There he learned of the legends of al-Hallaj and met Luis de Cuadra, a Spanish nobleman, a convert to Islam, who became his lover and companion in "debauchery." The following year Massignon was sent by the French ministry of education to Baghdad for an archeological expedition into the Mesopotamian desert. It was during this mission that he was detained and accused of espionage and experienced his visitation from God.
While in Baghdad, Massignon had presented himself to the Alousi family of whom he had heard good reports. They didn't know him and had every reason to be suspicious of him. Yet they gave him hospitality, made him part of the family, shared everything with him and protected him as one of their own. After his capture, at great risk to themselves, the Alousi family rescued Massignon when the steamship he was on arrived in Baghdad. They made sure he received the medical attention he needed and helped him escape from Iraq.
When the "Stranger without a Face" presented himself to Massignon, it was like a reversal of his own role with the Alousis. The fact that he had been received as a faceless stranger enabled him to receive the divine visitation. Massignon never forgot that he owed his physical and moral salvation to the hospitality of this Muslim family. Through them and his other intercessors, Massignon encountered the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
Hospitality, one of the sacred duties of Islam, became a leitmotif for him, a lens through which he saw the entirety of God's relationship with us and our relationship to one another. To receive the other such as he is, in his strangeness and mystery, to accept him and share with him and, at the same time, be received--in this consists the Law and the Prophets and the Fiat, the gracious acceptance of the Incarnate Word by the Virgin Mary.
Massignon's other Muslim intercessor was al-Hallaj. One of the reasons Massignon traveled to Baghdad was his decision to write his doctoral dissertation on this 10th-century mystic who suffered greatly from the divisions in Islam and dreamed of a unified Muslim community. Although his God was the transcendent God of Islam, al-Hallaj claimed an intimate, loving relationship with him. Because of this, Al-Hallaj was condemned as a heretic and crucified; his body was cremated and his ashes thrown into the Tigris River in the area in which Massignon received his visitation.
The rest of Massignon's life was an unfolding of his experience with the Stranger and was dedicated to repaying his debt to his Muslim intercessors. For the next 50 years he studied and made known the life and sayings of al-Hallaj. The quality of his relationship with the mystic/martyr is strikingly summarized in a text written in 1932: "It is not that the study of his [al-Hallaj's] life, full and strong, righteous and undivided, ascending and dedicated, has revealed to me the secret of his heart. It is rather al-Hallaj who has penetrated my heart and penetrates it still."
Massignon thought about the priesthood and about joining missionary priest Charles de Foucauld in the Sahara but finally opted for marriage. Mobilized as an officer in the First World War, he was first stationed in Macedonia, then sent to Syria and Palestine as an aide to the French high commissioner. When Jerusalem was liberated from the Ottoman Turks, Massignon entered the Holy City alongside Lawrence of Arabia. He suffered bitterly when the Allies later broke their promises to the Arab insurgents. After the war he was named professor at the College de France where he taught until 1954. He went to Egypt regularly to give classes, in Arabic, at the University of Cairo. In 1929 he founded the Institute for Islamic Studies in Paris and that same year began giving French lessons in the evenings to illiterate North African immigrants--a work he carried on for several decades.
In 1941 he founded the Institute Dar-es-Salaam in Cairo to promote Arab-Christian studies. At one time president of the Friends of Gandhi, during the struggle for Algerian independence Massignon regularly visited North Africans detained in French prisons. He was arrested several times for participating in nonviolent demonstrations against French brutality toward Arabs both in France and Algeria, and he was physically assaulted by right-wing students for being an "Arab-lover." In 1950, Massignon was ordained a priest in the Greek Melkite rite, which allows for married clergy. He died of a heart attack Oct. 31, 1962.
Louis Massignon was a complex and conflictive personality. His erudition was legendary and often overwhelming. He was a tireless talker, literally bursting with ideas and intuitions, constantly jumping from one theme to another with a logic known only to himself. Yet he possessed a basic simplicity. He based his life on a sacred promise he had made to pray for his Muslim brethren and offer his life for them as they had prayed and risked their lives for him. Everything, from his vast intellectual-powers to the most humble gestures of solidarity and friendship, was at their service. There was an absolute, uncompromising, almost frightening fidelity and commitment. This loyalty extended to all his friendships. He would solemnly offer himself as a victim for the salvation of Luis de Cuadra, his former partner.
Not only did Massignon immerse himself in Arab literature, philosophy and mysticism; he learned to think as a Semite, reason as a Semite and express himself as a Semite. To read Massignon is to enter into another world where all is symbolic, where words point beyond themselves to mysteries that cannot be possessed. He approached Islam from the point of view of Islam itself and saw its values as they are interiorized by the community, as a pious and sincere Muslim would wish to live them. He sees the other as the other wants to see himself. This is the dialogue of hospitality, the reception of the other not on one's own terms but on his.
Massignon was not naive. He was well aware of the pettiness of the Muslim legalists, the intolerance of the fanatics, the avarice and ambition of the unscrupulous, yet he loved what was pure and noble in Islam. And it was this image of what was best in their faith that he presented both to the Arabs and to the Western world. (Would Christians not wish that our church be judged on what it aspires to be rather than on the tarnished witness we give?) Massignon's approach to Islam is not apologetic in any sense of the word nor is there any hint of proselytism. He desired, of course, that his friends arrive at the plentitude of truth but was convinced that what was positive and pure in Islam was a vehicle of grace that did, in fact, lead to the fullness of truth, even if it was not articulated.
Massignon, however, did not seem tempted by Islam as were many of his contemporaries who contrasted the sense of the sacred and the all-penetrating religious reference of the Muslim community with the secular indifference and spiritual apathy of Western culture. The God of Islam is unique and transcendent and the human race was created to witness to this inaccessible oneness. The God Massignon experienced and for whom he lived was the lover of man, the guest of the Virgin, who entered our lives that we might enter his. Massignon never pretended to be a theologian; his piety was very simple, almost childlike. In his life-long dialogue with Islam, he was very clear about where he stood; there was gratitude, respect and genuine love, but there was no accommodating the truth or glossing over irreducible differences on a confessional level. The ultimate and essential dialogue, however, was in the silent purity of the mystical experience, in the communion of the saints where the merciful are shown mercy beyond time and space.
Louis Massignon opened a whole new dimension to Christian-Muslim relations. Cardinal Giovanni Battista Montini, the future Pope Paul VI, was an enthusiastic admirer of his work as were Jacques and Raissa Maritain. The very positive assessment of Islam in the decree on ecumenism of Vatican II was due in great part to the influence of Massignon. For Islamic scholar John Voll of Georgetown University, the enduring legacy of Massignon was to reveal, both to the Western world and the Muslim world, the mystical dimensions latent in Islam.
But Massignon was not always understood by his contemporaries. His patriotism was seriously questioned during the Algerian revolution. His attitude towards the state of Israel alienated many of his closest friends. He did not deny the right of the Jewish people to a homeland but opposed the violence with which they expelled and humiliated the Arab populations to erect what he saw as a secular and materialistic state.
Reactions to Massignon in the Islamic communities were varied. He had many authentic and long-lasting friendships with numerous Muslim scholars. Those most receptive to him were the social radicals who wanted to modernize Islam and who were led by Massignon to rediscover the essential religious and mystical elements of their faith. One wonders what the Middle East would be today had Massignon's disciple, Ali Shari, prevailed in Iran rather than the Ayatollah Khomeini (Shari was assassinated in Paris prior to the overthrow of the shah). Just as numerous, however, were those who felt uncomfortable about a Christian expounding on their religion. Moreover, it was practically unimaginable in certain more traditional circles that a Christian who knew Islam as profoundly as did Massignon would not convert to Islam if he were in good faith. He was thus suspected of ulterior motives. After centuries of polemic and warfare between Christianity and Islam, it was difficult to believe in the absolute gratuity of Massignon's interest and sympathy.
There are many truths lived and preached by Massignon that are relevant to the "clash of civilizations" we are witnessing today. There can be no peace and confraternity without dialogue, and there can be no dialogue without respect for the other such as he is. This implies a basic humility, a capacity for hospitality where one is emptied and enriched. This is the opposite of what is happening around us. But prophets are sent in times of crisis, and Massignon's dedication to empathetic understanding of the other sets a standard for us to follow today.
[Jerry Ryan is a freelance writer and a longtime worker at the New England Aquarium.]
COPYRIGHT 2004 National Catholic Reporter
COPYRIGHT 2005 Gale Group
Georg Friederich Händel: Inspired by Heaven
How one of the most beloved compositions was guided into creation by angels.
By Johanna Skilling
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/196/stor ... mc_id=NL24
Who has not thrilled to the strains of the classic example of holiday music, Händel’s Messiah? But how many know that Georg Friederich Händel, its composer, felt that he was divinely inspired to compose this masterpiece?
By the time he wrote Messiah, Händel was an accomplished composer, known throughout Europe, for his operas, oratorios and church music. He was barely 30 years old when he wrote the Water Music to serenade King George I at a party for the monarch on the Thames River in London. Yet despite his access to rulers and church leaders, Händel’s musical career was often artistically and financially uncertain. At the age of 52, Händel suffered a stroke, which paralyzed his right arm. Alone, debt-ridden, and crippled, he went to a convent in France to try to recover. It was there that one day Händel sat down at the harpsichord, wondering if he could still play. To his astonishment, and that of the nuns caring for him, the music that flowed from the instrument was perfect...almost as if angels were at the keys instead of the recovering patient.
Händel returned to London, only to produce two performances of oratorios that were spectacular failures. He was left with only one request for composing new music, from a charity in Dublin. The proceeds from the concert would be used to help those in debtors’ prison--a fate that Händel himself was very close to experiencing.
Händel had more than 35 years of composing experience behind him when he sat down to write Messiah. But this work was to affect him like no other. For three weeks, Händel worked tirelessly, inspired by the angels whose voices he was attempting to capture in his music. On finishing the Hallelujah Chorus, Händel is said to have exclaimed, "I did think I did see all Heaven open before me and the great God Himself." Later, he would compare his experience to that of St. Paul, saying that “Whether I was in my body or out of my body when I wrote it I know not. God knows.”
Messiah was first performed in Dublin, Ireland, in April of 1742. Although Händel himself earned very little from this first performance, the concert raised enough money to free 142 men from debtor’s prison. During Händel’s lifetime, many more performances of Messiah were devoted to raising funds for charity. When he died, at the age of 74, he left Messiah to the Foundling Hospital of London. Despite his German birth, Händel was buried in Westminster Abbey, the resting place of many of Britain’s greatest artists and statesmen, recognizing his tremendous contribution to Western music.
How one of the most beloved compositions was guided into creation by angels.
By Johanna Skilling
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/196/stor ... mc_id=NL24
Who has not thrilled to the strains of the classic example of holiday music, Händel’s Messiah? But how many know that Georg Friederich Händel, its composer, felt that he was divinely inspired to compose this masterpiece?
By the time he wrote Messiah, Händel was an accomplished composer, known throughout Europe, for his operas, oratorios and church music. He was barely 30 years old when he wrote the Water Music to serenade King George I at a party for the monarch on the Thames River in London. Yet despite his access to rulers and church leaders, Händel’s musical career was often artistically and financially uncertain. At the age of 52, Händel suffered a stroke, which paralyzed his right arm. Alone, debt-ridden, and crippled, he went to a convent in France to try to recover. It was there that one day Händel sat down at the harpsichord, wondering if he could still play. To his astonishment, and that of the nuns caring for him, the music that flowed from the instrument was perfect...almost as if angels were at the keys instead of the recovering patient.
Händel returned to London, only to produce two performances of oratorios that were spectacular failures. He was left with only one request for composing new music, from a charity in Dublin. The proceeds from the concert would be used to help those in debtors’ prison--a fate that Händel himself was very close to experiencing.
Händel had more than 35 years of composing experience behind him when he sat down to write Messiah. But this work was to affect him like no other. For three weeks, Händel worked tirelessly, inspired by the angels whose voices he was attempting to capture in his music. On finishing the Hallelujah Chorus, Händel is said to have exclaimed, "I did think I did see all Heaven open before me and the great God Himself." Later, he would compare his experience to that of St. Paul, saying that “Whether I was in my body or out of my body when I wrote it I know not. God knows.”
Messiah was first performed in Dublin, Ireland, in April of 1742. Although Händel himself earned very little from this first performance, the concert raised enough money to free 142 men from debtor’s prison. During Händel’s lifetime, many more performances of Messiah were devoted to raising funds for charity. When he died, at the age of 74, he left Messiah to the Foundling Hospital of London. Despite his German birth, Händel was buried in Westminster Abbey, the resting place of many of Britain’s greatest artists and statesmen, recognizing his tremendous contribution to Western music.
Always Willing to Ask
Was it an angel who put Michael right in the path of Stephanie's car?
By Joan Wester Anderson
Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website.
Stephanie Slater was in graduate school when her mother passed away. "Mom had always pushed her children toward higher education," Stephanie says. "Among the seven of us, there are five bachelor's degrees and five masters'--one of my sisters has two masters." Stephanie's mom was a brisk, assertive person too, who hated to stand by and do nothing, when a response was indicated. At least people could try, she felt. "Would it kill you to ASK?" she had told Stephanie more than once—most recently when Stephanie hesitated to apply for college financial aid in the belief that she would be turned down. She had taken her mother’s advice--and received a student loan. Now, despite being devastated over the loss, Stephanie decided to continue her courses. It was what her mom would have wanted her to do.
One evening a few weeks after the funeral, Stephanie was driving home from a study group meeting in Tampa. It hadn’t gone well. An important participant hadn't attended, and Stephanie was upset about it. In fact, she was uncharacteristically irritated over a lot of things lately. Her father had just had a stroke, she was carrying a heavy load of work and school, "even the fact that it was late and dark bothered me," she says. "I continued to stew as I sat at a red light at a busy intersection."
Then—suddenly--a little boy walked in front of her headlights.
Stephanie was startled. "He was so out of place, and too young to be alone—probably only seven or eight years old," she says. "It was dark, and there were no sidewalks on the side of this road." The child looked dirty and bedraggled too, as he continued past her. What was he doing here? She should get involved, but...what if her intention was misjudged? Or what if she called to him, and he responded rudely? After the day's hassle, she was just not in the mood, and the light was about to change.
Then Stephanie heard a strong inner voice: "Well, would it KILL you to ASK?" It was her mother! Stephanie recognized not only the phrase but the attitude—-why stand by if something could be done? Immediately, Stephanie rolled down her window and called to the child. "Honey, are you lost?"
Another few feet and he would have been gone. But now he stopped, and looked towards her car. "Yes," he said, his lower lip trembling.
The light changed. "Stay where you are!" Stephanie pulled around the corner up to the boy, reached out of the window and handed him her cell phone. He was obviously scared, but he punched in some numbers. As Stephanie watched him, she had a sense of unexpected peace and power. This was how the situation was supposed to work out, wasn't it? Her daily cares somehow floated away… Now Stephanie heard the joyful shriek of a woman on the other end of the phone. The boy handed it to her. "I’m so glad you found Michael!" the woman was crying and laughing at the same time. "The police have been looking for him for four hours!"
Stephanie and the mom agreed to meet at a nearby video store, and Michael took the phone again to receive permission to get in the car. He had wandered five miles from home, Stephanie discovered as they drove and talked. And he was twelve, far older than she had thought. “What happened?” she asked. “Did you just walk too far?”
Michael paused. “I have Tourette’s Syndrome,” he told her. “Sometimes I stutter. My friends were playing and they started making fun of me, so I got mad, and started walking. All of a sudden, I didn’t know where I was.” Stephanie thought her heart would break. Who would make fun of such a precious little boy?
Just a few moments after they reached the store, Michael’s mother arrived. She wept and hugged him, and hugged Stephanie too. How terrified she must have been, Stephanie thought, as she tried to put herself in the woman’s place. And now, how joyous! Maybe God feels that way about us too, loving us just the way we are, rejoicing when we return to Him… She hadn’t ever thought of that. It added to the inexplicable serenity she had been experiencing ever since she met Michael.
Then he turned to her. “Are you an angel?” he asked.
“No, Michael,” Stephanie answered, her own eyes filling with tears. “But I think an angel put you in my path tonight."
Stephanie is more open to situations now. She often finds herself asking, “Was I put here to help in some way?” She has also learned that in the midst of grief, there can be joy. “I think this event was my mother’s way of relieving my stress, and letting me know that she’s still watching over me,” says Stephanie. “That’s my message to others who have lost a loved one: the truth is, they never really leave you.” And the work in God’s earthly kingdom continues, aided most by those who are willing to ask!
Was it an angel who put Michael right in the path of Stephanie's car?
By Joan Wester Anderson
Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website.
Stephanie Slater was in graduate school when her mother passed away. "Mom had always pushed her children toward higher education," Stephanie says. "Among the seven of us, there are five bachelor's degrees and five masters'--one of my sisters has two masters." Stephanie's mom was a brisk, assertive person too, who hated to stand by and do nothing, when a response was indicated. At least people could try, she felt. "Would it kill you to ASK?" she had told Stephanie more than once—most recently when Stephanie hesitated to apply for college financial aid in the belief that she would be turned down. She had taken her mother’s advice--and received a student loan. Now, despite being devastated over the loss, Stephanie decided to continue her courses. It was what her mom would have wanted her to do.
One evening a few weeks after the funeral, Stephanie was driving home from a study group meeting in Tampa. It hadn’t gone well. An important participant hadn't attended, and Stephanie was upset about it. In fact, she was uncharacteristically irritated over a lot of things lately. Her father had just had a stroke, she was carrying a heavy load of work and school, "even the fact that it was late and dark bothered me," she says. "I continued to stew as I sat at a red light at a busy intersection."
Then—suddenly--a little boy walked in front of her headlights.
Stephanie was startled. "He was so out of place, and too young to be alone—probably only seven or eight years old," she says. "It was dark, and there were no sidewalks on the side of this road." The child looked dirty and bedraggled too, as he continued past her. What was he doing here? She should get involved, but...what if her intention was misjudged? Or what if she called to him, and he responded rudely? After the day's hassle, she was just not in the mood, and the light was about to change.
Then Stephanie heard a strong inner voice: "Well, would it KILL you to ASK?" It was her mother! Stephanie recognized not only the phrase but the attitude—-why stand by if something could be done? Immediately, Stephanie rolled down her window and called to the child. "Honey, are you lost?"
Another few feet and he would have been gone. But now he stopped, and looked towards her car. "Yes," he said, his lower lip trembling.
The light changed. "Stay where you are!" Stephanie pulled around the corner up to the boy, reached out of the window and handed him her cell phone. He was obviously scared, but he punched in some numbers. As Stephanie watched him, she had a sense of unexpected peace and power. This was how the situation was supposed to work out, wasn't it? Her daily cares somehow floated away… Now Stephanie heard the joyful shriek of a woman on the other end of the phone. The boy handed it to her. "I’m so glad you found Michael!" the woman was crying and laughing at the same time. "The police have been looking for him for four hours!"
Stephanie and the mom agreed to meet at a nearby video store, and Michael took the phone again to receive permission to get in the car. He had wandered five miles from home, Stephanie discovered as they drove and talked. And he was twelve, far older than she had thought. “What happened?” she asked. “Did you just walk too far?”
Michael paused. “I have Tourette’s Syndrome,” he told her. “Sometimes I stutter. My friends were playing and they started making fun of me, so I got mad, and started walking. All of a sudden, I didn’t know where I was.” Stephanie thought her heart would break. Who would make fun of such a precious little boy?
Just a few moments after they reached the store, Michael’s mother arrived. She wept and hugged him, and hugged Stephanie too. How terrified she must have been, Stephanie thought, as she tried to put herself in the woman’s place. And now, how joyous! Maybe God feels that way about us too, loving us just the way we are, rejoicing when we return to Him… She hadn’t ever thought of that. It added to the inexplicable serenity she had been experiencing ever since she met Michael.
Then he turned to her. “Are you an angel?” he asked.
“No, Michael,” Stephanie answered, her own eyes filling with tears. “But I think an angel put you in my path tonight."
Stephanie is more open to situations now. She often finds herself asking, “Was I put here to help in some way?” She has also learned that in the midst of grief, there can be joy. “I think this event was my mother’s way of relieving my stress, and letting me know that she’s still watching over me,” says Stephanie. “That’s my message to others who have lost a loved one: the truth is, they never really leave you.” And the work in God’s earthly kingdom continues, aided most by those who are willing to ask!
Thinking of angels can ease our sorrows, strengthen our faith, and lighten our hearts.
-Ann Spangler,
"An Angel a Day"
Casting My Lot
In a dangerous, chaotic world, maybe it’s the random acts of kindness and small moments of connection that keep us grounded.
By Alice Chasan
Call me a rationalist. I won’t mind. I make my living as a journalist, spending my days dissecting the barrage of news, trying to make sense out of often-bafflingly complex, cruel, or absurd events and explain them to others.
But I also know when I’ve had an extraordinary experience that defies rational, causal explanations.
Last Sunday evening, I’d just finished shopping at my favorite local market, unloaded my groceries into my car trunk, and reversed course to return the cart to the corral in front of the store. As I pivoted and began to wheel the wagon back, I saw that the woman parked next to me was doing precisely the same thing. Through a sea of scattered carts, strewn around the parking lot by careless, harried shoppers who can’t be bothered to make the return trip, she and I moved in perfect tandem.
It wasn’t the first time I’d noticed her; she’d caught my eye as I approached my car with my packages: a beautiful African-American woman with wonderfully braided hair. There was something about her, I’d thought; it wasn’t just that she looked beautiful—she radiated beauty.
Walking alongside one another with our carts, we simultaneously turned face-to-face and she said, “I’ve found another person who’s doing the right thing.”
I smiled, and we began to talk about what compelled us to set things in order, at least to the degree that anyone can in the chaotic world we inhabit. We were laughing by then, yet clearly connected on so many levels that it nearly bowled me over.
How could it be that a chance encounter at Whole Foods could generate such strong, positive energy that I felt instantly enlivened and energized? With this woman by my side, I suddenly thought, I could face anything. It was a profound thought: profoundly irrational, but profoundly real.
I told her that I felt so off kilter. Ruefully, I confessed that I felt that the world, so dangerous already, had taken a sharp turn for the worse in the past month with the war in the Middle East. So much death and destruction. So much fresh fear engendered by the hatred that seemed to be radiating through the atmosphere like the waves of intense heat we’d suffered in recent days. World war. Terrorism. Global warming.
In the face of all the negativity, we are so helpless, I said. And laughingly, I concluded, “So that’s why I have to do my part with the cart.”
By then, we were back by our cars, looking at one another like old friends who shared a deep bond. “It does make a difference,” she responded. “We can make a difference.”
I couldn’t turn away from this woman, who by then seemed to be a messenger I’d been waiting for. “I wish I could believe that,” I replied. “Look at the mess we’re handing our children.”
“Don’t let all that get in the way of the larger vision--what we can do to change the world,” she counseled. “Believing is seeing,” she said, now standing next to me. “Believing is seeing.” She touched my arm. Standing on the hot asphalt of the suburban parking lot, I felt a sense of calm and purpose no amount of therapy, prayer, or study had ever given me. We exchanged names, and the hope that we’d see each other again.
Did I arise the next morning to a world at peace? Hardly. And today, I woke up to the news that the British government had “disrupted” a sophisticated and well-advanced terrorist plot to blow up airliners in midair.
I’m still a rationalist, and I’m still terrified by the negative forces that hold sway throughout much of the planet. But I did learn one thing about positive energy: it’s a powerful force that can transform us, connect us to one another, and maybe, just maybe, change the world.
Alice Chasan is senior editor at Beliefnet.
-Ann Spangler,
"An Angel a Day"
Casting My Lot
In a dangerous, chaotic world, maybe it’s the random acts of kindness and small moments of connection that keep us grounded.
By Alice Chasan
Call me a rationalist. I won’t mind. I make my living as a journalist, spending my days dissecting the barrage of news, trying to make sense out of often-bafflingly complex, cruel, or absurd events and explain them to others.
But I also know when I’ve had an extraordinary experience that defies rational, causal explanations.
Last Sunday evening, I’d just finished shopping at my favorite local market, unloaded my groceries into my car trunk, and reversed course to return the cart to the corral in front of the store. As I pivoted and began to wheel the wagon back, I saw that the woman parked next to me was doing precisely the same thing. Through a sea of scattered carts, strewn around the parking lot by careless, harried shoppers who can’t be bothered to make the return trip, she and I moved in perfect tandem.
It wasn’t the first time I’d noticed her; she’d caught my eye as I approached my car with my packages: a beautiful African-American woman with wonderfully braided hair. There was something about her, I’d thought; it wasn’t just that she looked beautiful—she radiated beauty.
Walking alongside one another with our carts, we simultaneously turned face-to-face and she said, “I’ve found another person who’s doing the right thing.”
I smiled, and we began to talk about what compelled us to set things in order, at least to the degree that anyone can in the chaotic world we inhabit. We were laughing by then, yet clearly connected on so many levels that it nearly bowled me over.
How could it be that a chance encounter at Whole Foods could generate such strong, positive energy that I felt instantly enlivened and energized? With this woman by my side, I suddenly thought, I could face anything. It was a profound thought: profoundly irrational, but profoundly real.
I told her that I felt so off kilter. Ruefully, I confessed that I felt that the world, so dangerous already, had taken a sharp turn for the worse in the past month with the war in the Middle East. So much death and destruction. So much fresh fear engendered by the hatred that seemed to be radiating through the atmosphere like the waves of intense heat we’d suffered in recent days. World war. Terrorism. Global warming.
In the face of all the negativity, we are so helpless, I said. And laughingly, I concluded, “So that’s why I have to do my part with the cart.”
By then, we were back by our cars, looking at one another like old friends who shared a deep bond. “It does make a difference,” she responded. “We can make a difference.”
I couldn’t turn away from this woman, who by then seemed to be a messenger I’d been waiting for. “I wish I could believe that,” I replied. “Look at the mess we’re handing our children.”
“Don’t let all that get in the way of the larger vision--what we can do to change the world,” she counseled. “Believing is seeing,” she said, now standing next to me. “Believing is seeing.” She touched my arm. Standing on the hot asphalt of the suburban parking lot, I felt a sense of calm and purpose no amount of therapy, prayer, or study had ever given me. We exchanged names, and the hope that we’d see each other again.
Did I arise the next morning to a world at peace? Hardly. And today, I woke up to the news that the British government had “disrupted” a sophisticated and well-advanced terrorist plot to blow up airliners in midair.
I’m still a rationalist, and I’m still terrified by the negative forces that hold sway throughout much of the planet. But I did learn one thing about positive energy: it’s a powerful force that can transform us, connect us to one another, and maybe, just maybe, change the world.
Alice Chasan is senior editor at Beliefnet.
Tsunami Angels
Leaning on the divine during a disaster.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/160/story_16060.html
By Joan Wester Anderson
Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website. This article originally appeared in February 2005.
In times of great stress, we need to hear about miracles. I can find no better encouragement than reports of good news during the tsunami. Here are just a few where angels and saints might have been involved:
The Santhome Cathedral Basilica in Chennai, India, was right in the path of the storm. But even though waves devastated the coast, Father Lawrence Raj says the sea did not touch the Basilica. This building sits at the site where Saint Thomas, one of Christ’s apostles, was buried in 72 A.D. Although all the buildings on either side and in front of it were damaged or washed away, no water touched the recently-renovated Basilica.
According to legend, St. Thomas planted a post at the top of the steps leading to the Cathedral, and vowed that the sea water would never touch the post. Hundreds of homeless survivors who have been staying in the church ever since the tsunami credit St. Thomas for their survival. “It is Saint Thomas who has saved me. This church was untouched by the waters because of the miraculous power of the St Thomas post," said K Sebastiraj, one of many fisherman who sought shelter in the Santhome Cathedral.
Floridian Mike Pena was relaxing with his wife and son on the Patong Beach in Thailand when he saw the ocean retreat at least a half-mile away from shore. As fish flopped in the sand, Mike and other puzzled tourists looked out to sea and saw, with horror, the huge waves rolling in.
As a field construction engineer, Mike had just returned from working in Iraq, and his son had returned from a tour of duty there. Mike’s wife Al had promised that if her husband and son came home safely, she would return to Thailand, her birthplace, and make a pilgrimage to a temple in Phuket to pray and light candles, not an easy journey due to her advanced arthritis. Now, as Mike saw the scene, he realized he was seeing a tsunami. He grabbed Al, yelled to his son and the three ran for their lives.
But a huge wave bore down on them. Al fell, and Mike lost his grip on her. The water crashed over them. Mike was hit in the back with a beach chair and tossed about. He cried out to God. How would Al survive if he died? Suddenly, he says, he felt a strong hand, pulling him up. Gasping for air, he looked around. But there was no one there. “You hear people talk about things like this,” Mike says,“but I swear it happened. Something was there, pulling me up.”
Soon he spotted a pickup truck, with Al and his son clinging to the back of it. “I was never so happy to have them both okay,” he said later, speaking from his hospital bed. Even an old family photo, which he always carried, survived the storm. It is a mystery the family will never understand, Mike says, but they give thanks every day.
In the small town of Vailankanni, India, another ray of hope penetrated the darkness, as a shrine mysteriously became a refuge for over 2000 people. This shrine dates back to 1560, when a young shepherd boy was asked to fetch some milk for his master. On the return trip, he stopped to rest, and was awakened by a vision of Mary with the infant Jesus in her arms. She smiled at the boy, asked him for some milk for the Child. After the Child drank, the vision disappeared. The boy’s master did not believe the story until the lid was taken off the milk jug, and it began to run over with milk. Several similar stories happened in later centuries, some involving healings, and eventually a chapel was built on the spot where this Basilica stands today, named Our Lady of Good Health.
This past December 26th, as waves engulfed the town of Vailankanni, a Mass was taking place in the shrine, with 2000 pilgrims in attendence. Although it left the entire town in shambles, the deadly water did not enter the Basilica, and everyone present was spared. According to the BBC, the shrine was the only building to escape the devastation, even though buildings farther inland were destroyed. What do these miracles mean? Why did God take some of His children and spare others?
Perhaps it shows that a) God is in control. And b) There is a divine plan for each of us, and those taken play just as important a role in that plan as those who are spared. This life is simply a gateway to the eternity we all hope to share, with God and with His angels.
Leaning on the divine during a disaster.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/160/story_16060.html
By Joan Wester Anderson
Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website. This article originally appeared in February 2005.
In times of great stress, we need to hear about miracles. I can find no better encouragement than reports of good news during the tsunami. Here are just a few where angels and saints might have been involved:
The Santhome Cathedral Basilica in Chennai, India, was right in the path of the storm. But even though waves devastated the coast, Father Lawrence Raj says the sea did not touch the Basilica. This building sits at the site where Saint Thomas, one of Christ’s apostles, was buried in 72 A.D. Although all the buildings on either side and in front of it were damaged or washed away, no water touched the recently-renovated Basilica.
According to legend, St. Thomas planted a post at the top of the steps leading to the Cathedral, and vowed that the sea water would never touch the post. Hundreds of homeless survivors who have been staying in the church ever since the tsunami credit St. Thomas for their survival. “It is Saint Thomas who has saved me. This church was untouched by the waters because of the miraculous power of the St Thomas post," said K Sebastiraj, one of many fisherman who sought shelter in the Santhome Cathedral.
Floridian Mike Pena was relaxing with his wife and son on the Patong Beach in Thailand when he saw the ocean retreat at least a half-mile away from shore. As fish flopped in the sand, Mike and other puzzled tourists looked out to sea and saw, with horror, the huge waves rolling in.
As a field construction engineer, Mike had just returned from working in Iraq, and his son had returned from a tour of duty there. Mike’s wife Al had promised that if her husband and son came home safely, she would return to Thailand, her birthplace, and make a pilgrimage to a temple in Phuket to pray and light candles, not an easy journey due to her advanced arthritis. Now, as Mike saw the scene, he realized he was seeing a tsunami. He grabbed Al, yelled to his son and the three ran for their lives.
But a huge wave bore down on them. Al fell, and Mike lost his grip on her. The water crashed over them. Mike was hit in the back with a beach chair and tossed about. He cried out to God. How would Al survive if he died? Suddenly, he says, he felt a strong hand, pulling him up. Gasping for air, he looked around. But there was no one there. “You hear people talk about things like this,” Mike says,“but I swear it happened. Something was there, pulling me up.”
Soon he spotted a pickup truck, with Al and his son clinging to the back of it. “I was never so happy to have them both okay,” he said later, speaking from his hospital bed. Even an old family photo, which he always carried, survived the storm. It is a mystery the family will never understand, Mike says, but they give thanks every day.
In the small town of Vailankanni, India, another ray of hope penetrated the darkness, as a shrine mysteriously became a refuge for over 2000 people. This shrine dates back to 1560, when a young shepherd boy was asked to fetch some milk for his master. On the return trip, he stopped to rest, and was awakened by a vision of Mary with the infant Jesus in her arms. She smiled at the boy, asked him for some milk for the Child. After the Child drank, the vision disappeared. The boy’s master did not believe the story until the lid was taken off the milk jug, and it began to run over with milk. Several similar stories happened in later centuries, some involving healings, and eventually a chapel was built on the spot where this Basilica stands today, named Our Lady of Good Health.
This past December 26th, as waves engulfed the town of Vailankanni, a Mass was taking place in the shrine, with 2000 pilgrims in attendence. Although it left the entire town in shambles, the deadly water did not enter the Basilica, and everyone present was spared. According to the BBC, the shrine was the only building to escape the devastation, even though buildings farther inland were destroyed. What do these miracles mean? Why did God take some of His children and spare others?
Perhaps it shows that a) God is in control. And b) There is a divine plan for each of us, and those taken play just as important a role in that plan as those who are spared. This life is simply a gateway to the eternity we all hope to share, with God and with His angels.
The Girl With the Apple
One of the world's most incredible--but true--love stories began in the worst place imaginable.
By Herman Rosenblat
Reprinted with permission from
August, 1942. Piotrkow, Poland. The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously. All the men, women, and children of Piotrkow’s Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square. Word had gotten around that we were being moved. My father had only recently died from typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded ghetto. My greatest fear was that our family would be separated. “Whatever you do,” Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me, “don’t tell them your age. Say you’re sixteen.” I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be deemed valuable as a worker. An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He looked me up and down, then asked my age.
“Sixteen,” I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers and other healthy young men already stood.
My mother was motioned to the right—with the other women, children, sick and elderly people. I whispered to Isidore, “Why?” He didn’t answer. I ran to Mama’s side and said I wanted to stay with her. “No,” she said sternly. “Get away. Don’t be a nuisance. Go with your brothers.” She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: She was protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once, she pretended not to. It was the last I ever saw of her.
My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany. We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night weeks later and were led into a crowded barracks. The next day, we were issued uniforms and identification numbers. “Don’t call me Herman anymore,” I said to my brothers. “Call me 94983.” I was put to work in the camp’s crematorium, loading the dead onto a hand-cranked elevator. I, too, felt dead. Hardened. I had become a number. Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald’s sub-camps near Berlin. One morning I thought I heard my mother’s voice. Son, she said softly but clearly, I am sending you an angel. Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream. But in this place there could be no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And fear.
A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, behind the barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not easily see. I was alone. On the other side of the fence, I spotted someone —a young girl with light, almost luminous curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree. I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly in German, “Do you have something to eat?” She didn’t understand. I inched closer to the fence and repeated the question in Polish. She stepped forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet, but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life. She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence. I grabbed the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say faintly, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I didn’t believe she would come back. It was much too dangerous. But I returned anyway, the same time the next day. And there she was. The same girl. She moved tentatively from behind the tree, and once again threw something over the fence. This time, a small hunk of bread wrapped around a stone. I ate the bread, gratefully and ravenously, wishing there had been enough to share with my brothers. When I looked up the girl was gone.
I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day. She was always there with something for me to eat—a hunk of bread or, better yet, an apple. We didn’t dare speak or linger. To be caught would mean death for us both. I didn’t know anything about her—just a kind farm girl—except that she understood Polish. What was her name? Why was she risking her life for me? Hope was in such short supply, and this girl on the other side of the fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.
Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal car and shipped to the Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia. “Don’t return,” I told the girl that day. “We’re leaving.” I turned toward the barracks and didn’t look back, didn’t even say good-bye to the girl whose name I’d never learned, the girl with the apples.
We were at Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed. On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 A.M. In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I’d survived. Now, it was over. I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited. At 8:00 A.M., there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people running every which way through camp. I caught up with my brothers. Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone was running, so I did too. Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived; I’m not sure how. But I knew that the girl with the apples had been the key to my survival. In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person’s goodness had saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none. My mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.
Eventually, I made my way to England, where I was sponsored by a Jewish charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the Holocaust and trained in electronics. Then I came to America, where my brother Sam had already moved. I served in the U.S. Army during the Korean War, and returned to New York City after two years. By August 1957 I’d opened my own electronics repair shop. I was starting to settle in.
One day, my friend Sid—whom I knew from England—called me. “I’ve got a date. She’s got a Polish friend. Let’s double date.”
A blind date? Nah, that wasn’t for me. But Sid kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up to the Bronx to pick up his date and her friend Roma. I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn’t so bad. Roma was a nurse at a Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with swirling brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with life.
The four of us drove out to Coney Island. Roma was easy to talk to, easy to be with. Turned out she was wary of blind dates too! We were both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by the shore. I couldn’t remember having a better time.
We piled back into Sid’s car, Roma and I sharing the backseat. As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had been left unsaid between us. She broached the subject. “Where were you,” she asked softly, “during the war?”
“The camps,” I said, the terrible memories still vivid, the irreparable loss. I had tried to forget. But you never forget.
She nodded. “My family was hiding on a farm in Germany, not far from Berlin,” she told me. “My father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan papers.” I imagined how she must have suffered too—fear, a constant companion. And yet here we were, both survivors, in a new world. “There was a camp next to the farm,” Roma continued. “I saw a boy there, and I would throw him apples every day.”
What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy. “What did he look like?” I asked.
“He was tall. Skinny. Hungry. I must have seen him every day for six months.”
My heart was racing. I couldn’t believe it…this couldn’t be.… “Did he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving Schlieben?”
Roma looked at me in amazement. “Yes.”
“That was me!” I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded with emotions. I couldn’t believe it. My angel. “I’m not letting you go,” I said to Roma. And in the back of the car on that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn’t want to wait.
“You’re crazy!” she said. But she invited me to meet her parents for Shabbat dinner the following week. There was so much I looked forward to learning about Roma, but the most important things I always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness. For many months, in the worst of circumstances, she had come to the fence and given me hope. Now that I’d found her again, I could never let her go. That day, she said yes. And I kept my word: After nearly 50 years of marriage, two children and three grandchildren, I have never let her go.
To find out more about Guideposts, America's favorite inspirational magazine, go to www.guidepostsmag.com, call (800) 431-2344 or write to Guideposts, 39 Seminary Hill Road, Carmel, NY 10512.
'The Girl with the Apple' by Herman Rosenblat is reprinted with permission from Guideposts magazine
One of the world's most incredible--but true--love stories began in the worst place imaginable.
By Herman Rosenblat
Reprinted with permission from
August, 1942. Piotrkow, Poland. The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously. All the men, women, and children of Piotrkow’s Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square. Word had gotten around that we were being moved. My father had only recently died from typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded ghetto. My greatest fear was that our family would be separated. “Whatever you do,” Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me, “don’t tell them your age. Say you’re sixteen.” I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be deemed valuable as a worker. An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He looked me up and down, then asked my age.
“Sixteen,” I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers and other healthy young men already stood.
My mother was motioned to the right—with the other women, children, sick and elderly people. I whispered to Isidore, “Why?” He didn’t answer. I ran to Mama’s side and said I wanted to stay with her. “No,” she said sternly. “Get away. Don’t be a nuisance. Go with your brothers.” She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: She was protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once, she pretended not to. It was the last I ever saw of her.
My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany. We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night weeks later and were led into a crowded barracks. The next day, we were issued uniforms and identification numbers. “Don’t call me Herman anymore,” I said to my brothers. “Call me 94983.” I was put to work in the camp’s crematorium, loading the dead onto a hand-cranked elevator. I, too, felt dead. Hardened. I had become a number. Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald’s sub-camps near Berlin. One morning I thought I heard my mother’s voice. Son, she said softly but clearly, I am sending you an angel. Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream. But in this place there could be no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And fear.
A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, behind the barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not easily see. I was alone. On the other side of the fence, I spotted someone —a young girl with light, almost luminous curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree. I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly in German, “Do you have something to eat?” She didn’t understand. I inched closer to the fence and repeated the question in Polish. She stepped forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet, but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life. She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence. I grabbed the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say faintly, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I didn’t believe she would come back. It was much too dangerous. But I returned anyway, the same time the next day. And there she was. The same girl. She moved tentatively from behind the tree, and once again threw something over the fence. This time, a small hunk of bread wrapped around a stone. I ate the bread, gratefully and ravenously, wishing there had been enough to share with my brothers. When I looked up the girl was gone.
I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day. She was always there with something for me to eat—a hunk of bread or, better yet, an apple. We didn’t dare speak or linger. To be caught would mean death for us both. I didn’t know anything about her—just a kind farm girl—except that she understood Polish. What was her name? Why was she risking her life for me? Hope was in such short supply, and this girl on the other side of the fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.
Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal car and shipped to the Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia. “Don’t return,” I told the girl that day. “We’re leaving.” I turned toward the barracks and didn’t look back, didn’t even say good-bye to the girl whose name I’d never learned, the girl with the apples.
We were at Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed. On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 A.M. In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I’d survived. Now, it was over. I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited. At 8:00 A.M., there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people running every which way through camp. I caught up with my brothers. Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone was running, so I did too. Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived; I’m not sure how. But I knew that the girl with the apples had been the key to my survival. In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person’s goodness had saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none. My mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.
Eventually, I made my way to England, where I was sponsored by a Jewish charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the Holocaust and trained in electronics. Then I came to America, where my brother Sam had already moved. I served in the U.S. Army during the Korean War, and returned to New York City after two years. By August 1957 I’d opened my own electronics repair shop. I was starting to settle in.
One day, my friend Sid—whom I knew from England—called me. “I’ve got a date. She’s got a Polish friend. Let’s double date.”
A blind date? Nah, that wasn’t for me. But Sid kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up to the Bronx to pick up his date and her friend Roma. I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn’t so bad. Roma was a nurse at a Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with swirling brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with life.
The four of us drove out to Coney Island. Roma was easy to talk to, easy to be with. Turned out she was wary of blind dates too! We were both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by the shore. I couldn’t remember having a better time.
We piled back into Sid’s car, Roma and I sharing the backseat. As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had been left unsaid between us. She broached the subject. “Where were you,” she asked softly, “during the war?”
“The camps,” I said, the terrible memories still vivid, the irreparable loss. I had tried to forget. But you never forget.
She nodded. “My family was hiding on a farm in Germany, not far from Berlin,” she told me. “My father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan papers.” I imagined how she must have suffered too—fear, a constant companion. And yet here we were, both survivors, in a new world. “There was a camp next to the farm,” Roma continued. “I saw a boy there, and I would throw him apples every day.”
What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy. “What did he look like?” I asked.
“He was tall. Skinny. Hungry. I must have seen him every day for six months.”
My heart was racing. I couldn’t believe it…this couldn’t be.… “Did he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving Schlieben?”
Roma looked at me in amazement. “Yes.”
“That was me!” I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded with emotions. I couldn’t believe it. My angel. “I’m not letting you go,” I said to Roma. And in the back of the car on that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn’t want to wait.
“You’re crazy!” she said. But she invited me to meet her parents for Shabbat dinner the following week. There was so much I looked forward to learning about Roma, but the most important things I always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness. For many months, in the worst of circumstances, she had come to the fence and given me hope. Now that I’d found her again, I could never let her go. That day, she said yes. And I kept my word: After nearly 50 years of marriage, two children and three grandchildren, I have never let her go.
To find out more about Guideposts, America's favorite inspirational magazine, go to www.guidepostsmag.com, call (800) 431-2344 or write to Guideposts, 39 Seminary Hill Road, Carmel, NY 10512.
'The Girl with the Apple' by Herman Rosenblat is reprinted with permission from Guideposts magazine
Airport Angel
Was the mysterious old lady the grandmother Edith had never known?
By Joan Wester Anderson
Eighteen-year-old Edith Gomez had been visiting family members in Ixtapa, Mexico, and was heading back to her home in Dallas, Texas, with just a little bit of money in her purse. She had to stop in Monterrey, Mexico, to go through customs and catch her plane to the United States, and when she got there, she realized that the airport charged travelers a "user" fee of ten dollars, payable only in cash. Travelers could use either American or Mexican currency, but Edith didn't have enough in either denomination. However, airport personnel were firm. No user fee, no permission for Edith to board her plane. In tears, Edith placed a collect phone call to her mother, Gloria, in Dallas. "What should I do?" she wept. "I don't know anyone at the airport, and the plane is due to leave soon."
"Your Aunt Maria lives just outside Monterrey," Gloria reminded her. "I’ll call her now, and see if she can get to the airport with money for you." Relieved, Edith hung up and tried to calm down.
Gloria phoned her sister Maria, and was happy to find her home. She explained the problem, and Maria immediately left for the airport. But the timing was against her, Gloria knew, given the traffic and the impending flight.
Then Gloria had another idea. Although her own mother had been dead for many years, Gloria often asked her to watch over their large extended family from her heavenly vantage point, and keep everyone safe. Her mother, Edith's grandmother, had died when Edith was tiny, and the two had never known each other in this life. But Edith's grandmother certainly was aware of her. "You know what Edith needs," Gloria said now to Grandma. "Please ask God to see that she gets it."
Within minutes, the telephone rang. It was Edith and she sounded fine. "Mom, forget everything I told you--I can pay the user fee, and I'm flying home."
"What happened?" Gloria asked. Aunt Maria could never have reached the airport so quickly.
Edith explained. After talking with her mother, she had gone to the ladies' room to try and pull herself together. Suddenly the door opened. "Edith?" an unfamiliar woman put her head in. "There's someone here who's looking for you." Her aunt from Monterrey? No, it was way too soon....
Perplexed, Edith went out into the hallway. The woman who had just summoned her was nowhere to be seen. Instead, an elderly lady stood there, smiling at her in recognition and holding out a ten-dollar bill. "Edith, here's the money you need."
"Why, thank you," Edith said, astonished. She had never seen the woman before. She fumbled for her purse. "Here, let me write you a check for it."
"That's not necessary," the grey-haired lady said, turning away.
"But..." Edith watched the woman walk down the hallway toward the same flight she was taking. Maybe they would have a chance to talk later. Right now Edith needed to phone her mother, pay her user fee and check in.
Edith boarded the plane just as its doors were closing. As she took her seat, she noticed that the grey-haired lady was sitting right behind her. Edith smiled at her, then leaned back, exhausted. It had been a tense and tricky situation, but fortunately this kind Samaritan had come to her rescue. Only..how had the woman known of Edith's predicament? Or her name? And the other lady who had summoned her from the bathroom--how had she known Edith's name? It was all very curious. But Edith reached for her checkbook, and wrote a check for ten dollars. However her rescue had occurred, the lady deserved to be reimbursed.
When the plane touched down in Dallas, Edith waited until the people in front of her had gone down the aisle, then stood to slip the check to the woman before she left.
But there was no one sitting in the seat behind Edith, and no elderly lady among the passengers still waiting to disembark. "She couldn't have left the plane without passing my seat," Edith says. "And no one changed seats during the flight. I would have noticed."
The family has wondered about the woman ever since. Was she, in fact, the grandmother that Edith had never known? Or was she an angel sent by the Lord to care for a distraught and worried girl? The family is sure they will find the answer one day. Until then, they live in peace, knowing heaven is watching.
Copyrighted 2002 by Joan Wester Anderson. For more information on books or stories, check the website at: www.joanwanderson.com.
Was the mysterious old lady the grandmother Edith had never known?
By Joan Wester Anderson
Eighteen-year-old Edith Gomez had been visiting family members in Ixtapa, Mexico, and was heading back to her home in Dallas, Texas, with just a little bit of money in her purse. She had to stop in Monterrey, Mexico, to go through customs and catch her plane to the United States, and when she got there, she realized that the airport charged travelers a "user" fee of ten dollars, payable only in cash. Travelers could use either American or Mexican currency, but Edith didn't have enough in either denomination. However, airport personnel were firm. No user fee, no permission for Edith to board her plane. In tears, Edith placed a collect phone call to her mother, Gloria, in Dallas. "What should I do?" she wept. "I don't know anyone at the airport, and the plane is due to leave soon."
"Your Aunt Maria lives just outside Monterrey," Gloria reminded her. "I’ll call her now, and see if she can get to the airport with money for you." Relieved, Edith hung up and tried to calm down.
Gloria phoned her sister Maria, and was happy to find her home. She explained the problem, and Maria immediately left for the airport. But the timing was against her, Gloria knew, given the traffic and the impending flight.
Then Gloria had another idea. Although her own mother had been dead for many years, Gloria often asked her to watch over their large extended family from her heavenly vantage point, and keep everyone safe. Her mother, Edith's grandmother, had died when Edith was tiny, and the two had never known each other in this life. But Edith's grandmother certainly was aware of her. "You know what Edith needs," Gloria said now to Grandma. "Please ask God to see that she gets it."
Within minutes, the telephone rang. It was Edith and she sounded fine. "Mom, forget everything I told you--I can pay the user fee, and I'm flying home."
"What happened?" Gloria asked. Aunt Maria could never have reached the airport so quickly.
Edith explained. After talking with her mother, she had gone to the ladies' room to try and pull herself together. Suddenly the door opened. "Edith?" an unfamiliar woman put her head in. "There's someone here who's looking for you." Her aunt from Monterrey? No, it was way too soon....
Perplexed, Edith went out into the hallway. The woman who had just summoned her was nowhere to be seen. Instead, an elderly lady stood there, smiling at her in recognition and holding out a ten-dollar bill. "Edith, here's the money you need."
"Why, thank you," Edith said, astonished. She had never seen the woman before. She fumbled for her purse. "Here, let me write you a check for it."
"That's not necessary," the grey-haired lady said, turning away.
"But..." Edith watched the woman walk down the hallway toward the same flight she was taking. Maybe they would have a chance to talk later. Right now Edith needed to phone her mother, pay her user fee and check in.
Edith boarded the plane just as its doors were closing. As she took her seat, she noticed that the grey-haired lady was sitting right behind her. Edith smiled at her, then leaned back, exhausted. It had been a tense and tricky situation, but fortunately this kind Samaritan had come to her rescue. Only..how had the woman known of Edith's predicament? Or her name? And the other lady who had summoned her from the bathroom--how had she known Edith's name? It was all very curious. But Edith reached for her checkbook, and wrote a check for ten dollars. However her rescue had occurred, the lady deserved to be reimbursed.
When the plane touched down in Dallas, Edith waited until the people in front of her had gone down the aisle, then stood to slip the check to the woman before she left.
But there was no one sitting in the seat behind Edith, and no elderly lady among the passengers still waiting to disembark. "She couldn't have left the plane without passing my seat," Edith says. "And no one changed seats during the flight. I would have noticed."
The family has wondered about the woman ever since. Was she, in fact, the grandmother that Edith had never known? Or was she an angel sent by the Lord to care for a distraught and worried girl? The family is sure they will find the answer one day. Until then, they live in peace, knowing heaven is watching.
Copyrighted 2002 by Joan Wester Anderson. For more information on books or stories, check the website at: www.joanwanderson.com.
On the Wings of Song
A special hymn--and a singer's miraculous vocal recovery--provide a gift for a dying woman's birthday.
By Joan Wester Anderson
Excerpted from "Where Wonders Prevail" by Joan Wester Anderson. Reprinted with permission.
Margaret Farnaus had sung soprano in her church choir since she was a young girl. "My favorites were the traditional hymns like 'Blessed Assurance' and 'Fairest Lord Jesus'," she says. "When I sang, all my feelings seemed to pour out. It was my absolutely favorite things to do."
Recently, however, her once crystal voice had become gravelly and hoarse. Lozenges and sprays had no effect. Margaret could no longer hit the high notes. "It was a painful thing to face," she says, "but my singing days were apparently over."
Margaret had a friend, Myrtle, who had no family, and was battling cancer. Margaret visited her friend regularly in the hospital oncology ward, even after Myrtle fell into a coma. On Myrtle's birthday, Margaret slipped into the room and gazed at her unconscious friend. Myrtle was hooked up to tubes now, and Margaret sensed her life slipping away. If only they could communicate! She put her hand on Myrtle's arm. "God," she prayed, "help me to help her."
Unbidden, the words to "God Will Take Care of You" came to Margaret's mind. She hadn't sung that song in years--she didn't remember all the lyrics anymore, and her voice was so terrible now... But if Myrtle could still hear, maybe the words would bring her comfort. Bending over the bed, Margaret began to sing. Quietly at first, then with growing confidence because...in astonishment, she heard her own voice as high and sweet as it had been so long ago.
How could this be? Margaret didn't know but, still singing, she sat down next to Myrtle and took her hand. Then she began another favorite, "What a Friend We Have in Jesus." She was remembering ALL the verses, she realized, with no hesitation or groping. Her heart lifted in joy. She kept singing.
All afternoon, with only one woman as her audience, Margaret gave a very special concert. At least forty of her favorite hymns with all the words to all the verses, came to her mind, and she sang every one. And her voice! It was as clear as crystal, true and lovelier than ever before. A stranger glancing into the room might have seen a patient unresponsive and asleep, but Margaret sensed she was indeed making contact, that somehow Myrtle knew she was not alone, that a friend had brought her a special gift for her final birthday.
Margaret was still singing several hours later, when one of Myrtle's bedside machines buzzed. Myrtle took one breath, then relaxed. Nurses came running, but there was nothing more to be done.
Margaret left the hospital in sorrow, yet strangely exalted as well. "I felt as if I had experienced some connection with heaven," she says. And there was also the wonder of her vocal recovery to ponder.
But later, when Margaret attempted to sing at home, her voice had returned to its former hoarse state. Nor could she remember the titles, much less the lyrics, of even a few of the songs she had sung so effortlessly on this blessed day.
Eventually Margaret went to a specialist and discovered that she had Sjogren's syndrome, an immune system disorder that takes moisture out of the body, rendering eyes and mouth dry, and throat hoarse and gravelly. There were treatments Margaret could take, but no cure. Nor did the condition spontaneously improve, even for a few hours. There was no way Margaret's voice could have reverted to its past perfection in the hospital, the doctor told her, not even temporarily. No way at all...
...Unless the heavenly hosts were busy that day, and pressed an earthly angel into service, to send a soul into Paradise on wings of song.
A special hymn--and a singer's miraculous vocal recovery--provide a gift for a dying woman's birthday.
By Joan Wester Anderson
Excerpted from "Where Wonders Prevail" by Joan Wester Anderson. Reprinted with permission.
Margaret Farnaus had sung soprano in her church choir since she was a young girl. "My favorites were the traditional hymns like 'Blessed Assurance' and 'Fairest Lord Jesus'," she says. "When I sang, all my feelings seemed to pour out. It was my absolutely favorite things to do."
Recently, however, her once crystal voice had become gravelly and hoarse. Lozenges and sprays had no effect. Margaret could no longer hit the high notes. "It was a painful thing to face," she says, "but my singing days were apparently over."
Margaret had a friend, Myrtle, who had no family, and was battling cancer. Margaret visited her friend regularly in the hospital oncology ward, even after Myrtle fell into a coma. On Myrtle's birthday, Margaret slipped into the room and gazed at her unconscious friend. Myrtle was hooked up to tubes now, and Margaret sensed her life slipping away. If only they could communicate! She put her hand on Myrtle's arm. "God," she prayed, "help me to help her."
Unbidden, the words to "God Will Take Care of You" came to Margaret's mind. She hadn't sung that song in years--she didn't remember all the lyrics anymore, and her voice was so terrible now... But if Myrtle could still hear, maybe the words would bring her comfort. Bending over the bed, Margaret began to sing. Quietly at first, then with growing confidence because...in astonishment, she heard her own voice as high and sweet as it had been so long ago.
How could this be? Margaret didn't know but, still singing, she sat down next to Myrtle and took her hand. Then she began another favorite, "What a Friend We Have in Jesus." She was remembering ALL the verses, she realized, with no hesitation or groping. Her heart lifted in joy. She kept singing.
All afternoon, with only one woman as her audience, Margaret gave a very special concert. At least forty of her favorite hymns with all the words to all the verses, came to her mind, and she sang every one. And her voice! It was as clear as crystal, true and lovelier than ever before. A stranger glancing into the room might have seen a patient unresponsive and asleep, but Margaret sensed she was indeed making contact, that somehow Myrtle knew she was not alone, that a friend had brought her a special gift for her final birthday.
Margaret was still singing several hours later, when one of Myrtle's bedside machines buzzed. Myrtle took one breath, then relaxed. Nurses came running, but there was nothing more to be done.
Margaret left the hospital in sorrow, yet strangely exalted as well. "I felt as if I had experienced some connection with heaven," she says. And there was also the wonder of her vocal recovery to ponder.
But later, when Margaret attempted to sing at home, her voice had returned to its former hoarse state. Nor could she remember the titles, much less the lyrics, of even a few of the songs she had sung so effortlessly on this blessed day.
Eventually Margaret went to a specialist and discovered that she had Sjogren's syndrome, an immune system disorder that takes moisture out of the body, rendering eyes and mouth dry, and throat hoarse and gravelly. There were treatments Margaret could take, but no cure. Nor did the condition spontaneously improve, even for a few hours. There was no way Margaret's voice could have reverted to its past perfection in the hospital, the doctor told her, not even temporarily. No way at all...
...Unless the heavenly hosts were busy that day, and pressed an earthly angel into service, to send a soul into Paradise on wings of song.
Reaching for the Light of Angels
When the world is facing dark times, remember there are always angels around to help you out of danger.
Interview by Sherry Huang
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/198/story_19847.html
At a young age, Doreen Virtue was clairvoyant, capable of seeing angels and other metaphysical beings. While her parents neither encouraged nor discouraged her psychic ability, she became a loner after being terribly teased by her peers. For years, Doreen rebuffed any contact from angels until she had a life-changing experience in 1995. Her latest book, Angels 101, is a guide for beginners who want to learn how to contact their heavenly helpers. She is currently planning International Angel Day, a day of worldwide workshops on September 10.
If everyone has a guardian angel, why do terrorists and other bad people do evil things? Are they guided by or surrounded by fallen angels?
The word ‘fallen angels’ to me is an oxymoron. There are earth-bound spirits and lower-energy spirits, and everyone who’s very, very angry or very afraid or uses a lot of intoxicants tend to get those spirits. What I know is that everyone has angels; a lot of people just don’t listen to them. In the case of September 11, the terrorists obviously weren’t listening to the benevolent God and the angels that I know would never, ever condone hurting anyone. We can wonder, “How could God let these bad things happen?” The answer is that nobody knows, but what I do know is that angels make things better than they could have been.
Did the angels prepare certain people for the 9/11 tragedy?
Yes, I believe that they did. I believe that many of the people who escaped the tragedy of [9/11] listened to their angels that morning. I have done some mediumship readings on some of the people who passed away in the Twin Towers. I was shown very clearly that Archangel Michael was there to help people pass over and make a peaceful transition. One person who had a horrific physical death showed me that he’s happy in heaven.
Tell me about International Angel Day.
The angels came to me in early June and said, “We want you to hold [a day] where people will give angel workshops worldwide on the same day and give part of the proceeds to children’s charities in their different communities.” So I said, “Ok, that sounds cool.” They told me to call it “International Angel Day” and they gave me a date. I didn’t even realize until after I set up “International Angel Day” that it was going to be on September 10, 2006, which is the day before the five-year anniversary of September 11. When I realized this, I thought, ‘Oh my God, they’re so ingenious.’ They want us to focus on the light and let go of the darkness and the anger. So on September 10, 2006, there will be introductory angel workshops around the world. People don’t even have to attend, but it’s still a day where they can ask the angels to help them to lose fear or to forgive; it’s a day that can bring more peace into everyone’s hearts.
I’ve heard that people who are desperate have a harder time contacting angels. Should people who contact angels always be in a tranquil, calm mood?
There are some people who are so desperate to talk to angels or to see departed loved ones that they try too hard to hear the angels. They’re straining and pushing, and there’s an underlying fear that definitely interferes with contacting angels. So, it is best to be calm, even though it’s not always possible. Sometimes, it’s when we need to hear the angels the most that we have the hardest time hearing them. To avoid interference, I like asking for a sign. Here’s what I say: “Angels, please give me a clear sign in the physical world that I can easily notice and understand to give me guidance.” And then, I let go. I counsel people, “Don’t tell the angels what kind of sign to give you.” Don’t tell the angels to give you a rainbow or a lightning bolt. The angels are so ingenious, they’ll send us things like a song that we keep hearing over and over again. Maybe the song or the lyrics remind us of a friend who’s passed. Or, another sign may be that three people in a row will tell you to see the same movie or read the same book.
What if an angel keeps telling someone to do something, but they repeatedly ignore it. Would the angels eventually give up?
No, what’s so remarkable about angels is that they have eternal patience. The angels know that we humans have egos and our egos can make us afraid, which manifests in stubbornness. Some people think, “Some day I’d like to work with the angels when I’m 80 and have more time.” But, the angels are saying, “You’re not going to have more time when you’re 80; do it now.” The angels will keep suggesting things for you to do.
Should parents nurture their children’s beliefs in angels from a young age?
Children these days are much more open to angels than prior generations. I think it’s because parents are much more open minded. In previous decades, parents were really afraid if a child had an invisible friend, and they would say, “Stop that! Stop lying!” Or, in some cases, parents would say: “This is evil, or this is crazy.” I’ve had two or three students tell me their parents locked them up in the mental hospital or took them to a psychiatrist because they were clairvoyant. But, parents these days actually seem proud: “My little Johnny sees angels.” They brag about it; so that’s why I think children are more psychic now. I give credit to more open-minded parents. One woman who came to my workshop had told her daughter, “I’m going to this workshop to learn how to talk to angels, honey.” And the daughter, who was 7-years-old, said, “Mommy, you don’t need to go to a workshop to learn how to do that.” It’s so cute.
Why do angels appeal so much to people?
Everyone loves angels; they cross all the religious divides, even in the Eastern culture. I think angels are viewed as benevolent and entirely safe. They're like kittens. Everyone loves kittens; even people who are allergic to cats love kittens. Angels are viewed as a little fluffy, so it takes awhile for people to get past the view that they're superficial. For the guys who are working them, they can have a real macho appeal, too. They're also very practical; they're not all airy fairy like some people believe. They can help you open up your heart in your career path, your health, and your relationships. People who work with angels are happier. They just have this feeling of joy and a child-like bliss that you don't find in people who have this removed, detached spiritual path.
Why do more women believe in angels than men?
I find that more women are on a spiritual path than men, with the exception of scientifically-based spirituality like Gregg Braden's work or Dr. [Masaru] Emoto's work. I think that a lot of men are afraid of opening their hearts and getting honest because they're afraid of making big changes.
Is there a danger of listening too hard for angels, to the point where you end up hurting yourself physically?
God and the angels would never ever want anyone to hurt themselves. What I’ve found is that people who work with angels tend to lose their social phobias and become nicer, happier people. Wherever I go, people always say, “Gosh, your audience has the nicest people.” It seems like people who like angels are sweet.
What's your favorite prayer?
Doreen Virtue's Favorite Prayer
I choose to stay centered in the awareness of love, God, and my true self. In the center, like the eye of a hurricane, all is tranquil, safe, and peaceful. My power, wisdom, and peace come from staying in the center and I ask for spiritual support from God and the angels to keep my mind aligned with truth. I now willingly detach from the material world knowing that by so doing, I can effectively help others. I trust God to provide my every need and I allow God's omnipotent wisdom to direct me in all ways. I accept a steady diet of love and joy, knowing that I deserve happiness and health. I willingly and lovingly release all ego judgments about myself and other people, knowing that everything I want comes from my decision to experience the wonders of all life. I know I am meant to be a healer and a teacher for God, and I now accept my mission fully without delay or reservation. I surrender all behaviors that will block me from hearing my inner voice, and I happily trust my inner guide to lead me along this way where I joyfully serve as an instrument of love. I release any doubts or fears I might have about fulfilling my divine mission, and I now commit to staying aware of my inner voice for God. I know that this is the only tool I will ever need for my own healing and the healing of the world. Amen.
Sherry Huang is an assistant editor at Beliefnet.
When the world is facing dark times, remember there are always angels around to help you out of danger.
Interview by Sherry Huang
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/198/story_19847.html
At a young age, Doreen Virtue was clairvoyant, capable of seeing angels and other metaphysical beings. While her parents neither encouraged nor discouraged her psychic ability, she became a loner after being terribly teased by her peers. For years, Doreen rebuffed any contact from angels until she had a life-changing experience in 1995. Her latest book, Angels 101, is a guide for beginners who want to learn how to contact their heavenly helpers. She is currently planning International Angel Day, a day of worldwide workshops on September 10.
If everyone has a guardian angel, why do terrorists and other bad people do evil things? Are they guided by or surrounded by fallen angels?
The word ‘fallen angels’ to me is an oxymoron. There are earth-bound spirits and lower-energy spirits, and everyone who’s very, very angry or very afraid or uses a lot of intoxicants tend to get those spirits. What I know is that everyone has angels; a lot of people just don’t listen to them. In the case of September 11, the terrorists obviously weren’t listening to the benevolent God and the angels that I know would never, ever condone hurting anyone. We can wonder, “How could God let these bad things happen?” The answer is that nobody knows, but what I do know is that angels make things better than they could have been.
Did the angels prepare certain people for the 9/11 tragedy?
Yes, I believe that they did. I believe that many of the people who escaped the tragedy of [9/11] listened to their angels that morning. I have done some mediumship readings on some of the people who passed away in the Twin Towers. I was shown very clearly that Archangel Michael was there to help people pass over and make a peaceful transition. One person who had a horrific physical death showed me that he’s happy in heaven.
Tell me about International Angel Day.
The angels came to me in early June and said, “We want you to hold [a day] where people will give angel workshops worldwide on the same day and give part of the proceeds to children’s charities in their different communities.” So I said, “Ok, that sounds cool.” They told me to call it “International Angel Day” and they gave me a date. I didn’t even realize until after I set up “International Angel Day” that it was going to be on September 10, 2006, which is the day before the five-year anniversary of September 11. When I realized this, I thought, ‘Oh my God, they’re so ingenious.’ They want us to focus on the light and let go of the darkness and the anger. So on September 10, 2006, there will be introductory angel workshops around the world. People don’t even have to attend, but it’s still a day where they can ask the angels to help them to lose fear or to forgive; it’s a day that can bring more peace into everyone’s hearts.
I’ve heard that people who are desperate have a harder time contacting angels. Should people who contact angels always be in a tranquil, calm mood?
There are some people who are so desperate to talk to angels or to see departed loved ones that they try too hard to hear the angels. They’re straining and pushing, and there’s an underlying fear that definitely interferes with contacting angels. So, it is best to be calm, even though it’s not always possible. Sometimes, it’s when we need to hear the angels the most that we have the hardest time hearing them. To avoid interference, I like asking for a sign. Here’s what I say: “Angels, please give me a clear sign in the physical world that I can easily notice and understand to give me guidance.” And then, I let go. I counsel people, “Don’t tell the angels what kind of sign to give you.” Don’t tell the angels to give you a rainbow or a lightning bolt. The angels are so ingenious, they’ll send us things like a song that we keep hearing over and over again. Maybe the song or the lyrics remind us of a friend who’s passed. Or, another sign may be that three people in a row will tell you to see the same movie or read the same book.
What if an angel keeps telling someone to do something, but they repeatedly ignore it. Would the angels eventually give up?
No, what’s so remarkable about angels is that they have eternal patience. The angels know that we humans have egos and our egos can make us afraid, which manifests in stubbornness. Some people think, “Some day I’d like to work with the angels when I’m 80 and have more time.” But, the angels are saying, “You’re not going to have more time when you’re 80; do it now.” The angels will keep suggesting things for you to do.
Should parents nurture their children’s beliefs in angels from a young age?
Children these days are much more open to angels than prior generations. I think it’s because parents are much more open minded. In previous decades, parents were really afraid if a child had an invisible friend, and they would say, “Stop that! Stop lying!” Or, in some cases, parents would say: “This is evil, or this is crazy.” I’ve had two or three students tell me their parents locked them up in the mental hospital or took them to a psychiatrist because they were clairvoyant. But, parents these days actually seem proud: “My little Johnny sees angels.” They brag about it; so that’s why I think children are more psychic now. I give credit to more open-minded parents. One woman who came to my workshop had told her daughter, “I’m going to this workshop to learn how to talk to angels, honey.” And the daughter, who was 7-years-old, said, “Mommy, you don’t need to go to a workshop to learn how to do that.” It’s so cute.
Why do angels appeal so much to people?
Everyone loves angels; they cross all the religious divides, even in the Eastern culture. I think angels are viewed as benevolent and entirely safe. They're like kittens. Everyone loves kittens; even people who are allergic to cats love kittens. Angels are viewed as a little fluffy, so it takes awhile for people to get past the view that they're superficial. For the guys who are working them, they can have a real macho appeal, too. They're also very practical; they're not all airy fairy like some people believe. They can help you open up your heart in your career path, your health, and your relationships. People who work with angels are happier. They just have this feeling of joy and a child-like bliss that you don't find in people who have this removed, detached spiritual path.
Why do more women believe in angels than men?
I find that more women are on a spiritual path than men, with the exception of scientifically-based spirituality like Gregg Braden's work or Dr. [Masaru] Emoto's work. I think that a lot of men are afraid of opening their hearts and getting honest because they're afraid of making big changes.
Is there a danger of listening too hard for angels, to the point where you end up hurting yourself physically?
God and the angels would never ever want anyone to hurt themselves. What I’ve found is that people who work with angels tend to lose their social phobias and become nicer, happier people. Wherever I go, people always say, “Gosh, your audience has the nicest people.” It seems like people who like angels are sweet.
What's your favorite prayer?
Doreen Virtue's Favorite Prayer
I choose to stay centered in the awareness of love, God, and my true self. In the center, like the eye of a hurricane, all is tranquil, safe, and peaceful. My power, wisdom, and peace come from staying in the center and I ask for spiritual support from God and the angels to keep my mind aligned with truth. I now willingly detach from the material world knowing that by so doing, I can effectively help others. I trust God to provide my every need and I allow God's omnipotent wisdom to direct me in all ways. I accept a steady diet of love and joy, knowing that I deserve happiness and health. I willingly and lovingly release all ego judgments about myself and other people, knowing that everything I want comes from my decision to experience the wonders of all life. I know I am meant to be a healer and a teacher for God, and I now accept my mission fully without delay or reservation. I surrender all behaviors that will block me from hearing my inner voice, and I happily trust my inner guide to lead me along this way where I joyfully serve as an instrument of love. I release any doubts or fears I might have about fulfilling my divine mission, and I now commit to staying aware of my inner voice for God. I know that this is the only tool I will ever need for my own healing and the healing of the world. Amen.
Sherry Huang is an assistant editor at Beliefnet.
Three Angels on a Mission
A mother's favorite book on angels is passed on to her daughter in an unexpected way.
By Joan Wester Anderson
Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website.
Mary Joan McNamara is one of six children, but she and her mother always had a special closeness. “She loved us all greatly, as I knew, but the relationship with each of us was different,” Mary Joan says. Her mother had also developed an interest in angels, and in 1990, Mary Joan gave her a book on angels. In 1991, she gave her another book and wrote a message on the flyleaf: "Christmas 1991. To Mother, who is in great company. All my love, M.J.” Her mother was thrilled with this book too, and as she read, she put several of her comments and thoughts in the margins.
A few years later, Mary Joan’s mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. During the next year-and-a-half until her death in October 1997, the two women became even closer. Mary Joan’s mother opened herself up in unexpected ways, and the two women spent the last four holidays together. “We said our goodbyes, and I will never forget that extraordinary time,” Mary Joan says.
Her mother’s death, however, left Mary Joan grief-stricken. She was the only one of her siblings who was alone in the world. Her brothers and sisters seemed to be preoccupied with their own affairs; she had never felt so lonely.
The evening of her mother’s wake, three women came up to Mary Jo as she sat with an aunt. “I can still see their faces,” Mary Jo says. “The woman in the center was the most dominant, with short dark hair and nondescript glasses.” The two ladies on either side were about the same height and age. They were very ordinary-looking. Mary Joan had thought she would know everyone at the wake, but she had never seen these people before.
The woman in the middle leaned into Mary Joan. “You are Mary Jo,” she said, which was the name Mary Joan had been called as a child. “We are friends of your mother’s. She wanted you to have this.” The woman handed her a book. Mary Joan barely glanced at it. Friends of her mother’s? But who were they? Politely, she chatted with them for a few moments, and then the three turned briskly and left, as if their mission had been accomplished. A few moments later, Mary Joan went out into the hall of the funeral home for a brief break. She was still holding the book. She looked down. It was a book about angels.
The book looked familiar. Mary Joan’s heart started to pound. Slowly she turned over the flyleaf. There was her dedication to her mother, written in 1991. She turned another page and another. In her mother’s beloved handwriting were the thoughts she had noted about angels, her comments on her faith and on God. This was the book Mary Joan had given her mother six years before. But how had it gotten into these strangers’ hands?
“Suddenly, the most wonderful peace gave over me,” Mary Joan says. “I knew in an instant that the three women were angels, and they had come to let me know that everything was all right. My mother was in good company. I immediately went to my oldest sister. From looking at my face and from the tone of my tone of voice, she knew that I had seen or experienced something inexplicable.”
Mary Joan looked for the women the next day at her mother’s funeral. She didn’t see them, but she knew they were there.
A mother's favorite book on angels is passed on to her daughter in an unexpected way.
By Joan Wester Anderson
Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website.
Mary Joan McNamara is one of six children, but she and her mother always had a special closeness. “She loved us all greatly, as I knew, but the relationship with each of us was different,” Mary Joan says. Her mother had also developed an interest in angels, and in 1990, Mary Joan gave her a book on angels. In 1991, she gave her another book and wrote a message on the flyleaf: "Christmas 1991. To Mother, who is in great company. All my love, M.J.” Her mother was thrilled with this book too, and as she read, she put several of her comments and thoughts in the margins.
A few years later, Mary Joan’s mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. During the next year-and-a-half until her death in October 1997, the two women became even closer. Mary Joan’s mother opened herself up in unexpected ways, and the two women spent the last four holidays together. “We said our goodbyes, and I will never forget that extraordinary time,” Mary Joan says.
Her mother’s death, however, left Mary Joan grief-stricken. She was the only one of her siblings who was alone in the world. Her brothers and sisters seemed to be preoccupied with their own affairs; she had never felt so lonely.
The evening of her mother’s wake, three women came up to Mary Jo as she sat with an aunt. “I can still see their faces,” Mary Jo says. “The woman in the center was the most dominant, with short dark hair and nondescript glasses.” The two ladies on either side were about the same height and age. They were very ordinary-looking. Mary Joan had thought she would know everyone at the wake, but she had never seen these people before.
The woman in the middle leaned into Mary Joan. “You are Mary Jo,” she said, which was the name Mary Joan had been called as a child. “We are friends of your mother’s. She wanted you to have this.” The woman handed her a book. Mary Joan barely glanced at it. Friends of her mother’s? But who were they? Politely, she chatted with them for a few moments, and then the three turned briskly and left, as if their mission had been accomplished. A few moments later, Mary Joan went out into the hall of the funeral home for a brief break. She was still holding the book. She looked down. It was a book about angels.
The book looked familiar. Mary Joan’s heart started to pound. Slowly she turned over the flyleaf. There was her dedication to her mother, written in 1991. She turned another page and another. In her mother’s beloved handwriting were the thoughts she had noted about angels, her comments on her faith and on God. This was the book Mary Joan had given her mother six years before. But how had it gotten into these strangers’ hands?
“Suddenly, the most wonderful peace gave over me,” Mary Joan says. “I knew in an instant that the three women were angels, and they had come to let me know that everything was all right. My mother was in good company. I immediately went to my oldest sister. From looking at my face and from the tone of my tone of voice, she knew that I had seen or experienced something inexplicable.”
Mary Joan looked for the women the next day at her mother’s funeral. She didn’t see them, but she knew they were there.
The End of an Affair
Intervention from an 'ordinary' man helped restore peace to my family.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/197/stor ... mc_id=NL24
By Beliefnet Member, JesusofZion
I have had several encounters with angels over my life (and with YHWH Himself), but here is one of the most dramatic encounters in my life:
Many years back I worked in a restaurant owned by my in-laws. The restaurant had put a strain on their marriage and my mother-in-law was having an illicit affair with the chef. Everything was simply a big mess...until the day when an angel walked into the restaurant.
This particular angel was in human form and looked common. I did not recognize this "man," yet he knew my full name. He also knew the full name of my mother-in-law and asked to speak with her. She was busy at the time so I sat him at the counter and poured him a cup of tea and a glass of water. The man was gracious, ethereal, and he sat patiently until things had calmed down at the restaurant.
Something inside me seemed to know that the man was no human being. I went to my wife (who also worked at the restaurant) and told her that I believed the "man" was an angel. Even though the man looked to be in his late 50s, when I walked behind him I noticed the back of his neck showed no sign of aging. There was also a certain peace surrounding him.
Eventually, my mother-in-law sat down to talk to him. They sat talking for over four hours and when he got up to leave, my mother-in-law was shining and radiant with a pure light around her. At the same time, I noticed he had not drank a single drop of tea or water. Curious about the “man,” I followed his movements out the door to see where he was going. I kept a close eye on him as he walked down the street. There was a clear view of the entire area except for a camper that sat nearby. He made a right turn at the camper and never reappeared.
I ran outside the restaurant along with two other people who had also been watching him, and we swept the area. We even looked into the camper’s open windows. But, nobody was inside the camper or in the area—he had vanished! (No other explanation was possible, especially since three different people later confirmed witnessing his disappearance.)
After searching, I went back to the restaurant. There, my mother-in-law confirmed the man had stated directly that he was an Angel of God sent to correct her and bring peace to the family. His message changed her life and she immediately ended the affair. I have since heard some fascinating stories regarding what the angel told my mother-in-law.
This story is absolutely true and I will never forget it.... I only wish that I had been honored to talk to the angel myself.
Intervention from an 'ordinary' man helped restore peace to my family.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/197/stor ... mc_id=NL24
By Beliefnet Member, JesusofZion
I have had several encounters with angels over my life (and with YHWH Himself), but here is one of the most dramatic encounters in my life:
Many years back I worked in a restaurant owned by my in-laws. The restaurant had put a strain on their marriage and my mother-in-law was having an illicit affair with the chef. Everything was simply a big mess...until the day when an angel walked into the restaurant.
This particular angel was in human form and looked common. I did not recognize this "man," yet he knew my full name. He also knew the full name of my mother-in-law and asked to speak with her. She was busy at the time so I sat him at the counter and poured him a cup of tea and a glass of water. The man was gracious, ethereal, and he sat patiently until things had calmed down at the restaurant.
Something inside me seemed to know that the man was no human being. I went to my wife (who also worked at the restaurant) and told her that I believed the "man" was an angel. Even though the man looked to be in his late 50s, when I walked behind him I noticed the back of his neck showed no sign of aging. There was also a certain peace surrounding him.
Eventually, my mother-in-law sat down to talk to him. They sat talking for over four hours and when he got up to leave, my mother-in-law was shining and radiant with a pure light around her. At the same time, I noticed he had not drank a single drop of tea or water. Curious about the “man,” I followed his movements out the door to see where he was going. I kept a close eye on him as he walked down the street. There was a clear view of the entire area except for a camper that sat nearby. He made a right turn at the camper and never reappeared.
I ran outside the restaurant along with two other people who had also been watching him, and we swept the area. We even looked into the camper’s open windows. But, nobody was inside the camper or in the area—he had vanished! (No other explanation was possible, especially since three different people later confirmed witnessing his disappearance.)
After searching, I went back to the restaurant. There, my mother-in-law confirmed the man had stated directly that he was an Angel of God sent to correct her and bring peace to the family. His message changed her life and she immediately ended the affair. I have since heard some fascinating stories regarding what the angel told my mother-in-law.
This story is absolutely true and I will never forget it.... I only wish that I had been honored to talk to the angel myself.
Snow Angel
An 80-below wind-chill factor was not enough to deter my son's guardian angel.
By Joan Wester Anderson
Reprinted with permission from "Where Angels Walk," published by Ballantine Books.
It was just past midnight on December 24, 1983. The Midwest was shivering through a record-breaking cold spell, complete with gale-force winds and frozen water pipes. And although our suburban Chicago household was filled with the snug sounds of a family at rest, I couldn't be a part of them, not until our 21-old son pulled into the driveway. At the moment, Tim and his two roommates were driving home for Christmas, their first trip back since they had moved East last May. "Don't worry, Mom," Tim had reassured me over the phone last night. "We're going to leave before dawn tomorrow and drive straight through. We'll be fine!"
Kids. They do insane things. Under normal circumstances, I figured, a Connecticut-to-Illinois trek ought to take about eighteen hours. But the weather had turned so dangerously cold that radio reports warned against venturing outdoors, even for a few moments. And we have heard nothing from the travelers. Distressed, I pictured them on a desolate road. What if they ran into car problems or lost their way? And if they had been delayed, why hadn't Tim phoned. Restlessly I paced and prayed in the familiar shorthand all mothers know: God, send someone to help them.
By now, as I later learned, the trio had stopped briefly in Fort Wayne, Indiana, to deposit Don at his family home. Common sense suggested that Tim and Jim stay the rest of the night and resume their trek in the morning. But when does common sense prevail with invincible young adults?…The two had started out again.
They had been traveling for only a few miles on a rural access road to the Indiana toll way, when they noticed the car's engine seem sluggish. Tim glanced uneasily at Jim. "Do not---" the radio announcer intoned, "-repeat-do not venture outside tonight, friends. There's a record wind-chill of eighty below zero, which means that exposed skin will freeze in less than a minute." The car surged suddenly, then coughed and slowed again.
"Tim," Jim spoke until the darkness, "we're not going to stall here, are we?"
"We can't," Tim answered grimly as he pumped the accelerator. "We'd die for sure."
But instead of picking up speed, the engine sputtered, chugging and slowing again. About a mile later, at the top of a small incline, the car crawled to a frozen stop.
Horrified, Tim and Jim looked at each other. They could see across the fields in every direction...but there was no traffic, no refuge ahead, not even a farmhouse light blinking in the distance...And the appalling, unbelievable cold! Never had they experienced anything so intense. Even if shelter was only a short distance away, they couldn't survive. The temperature would kill them in a manner of minutes....Well, God, Tim prayed, echoing my own distant plea, You're the only one who can help us now."
Then, as if they had already slipped into a dream, they saw headlights flashing at the car's left rear. But that was impossible, for they had seen no twin pinpricks of light in the distance, no hopeful approach. Where had the vehicle come from? Had they already died?
But no. Miraculously, someone was knocking on the drivers' side window. "Need to be pulled?" In disbelief, they heard the muffled shout. But it was true. Their rescuer was driving a tow truck.
(Could he bring them back to Don's? He did, saying nothing, not asking for directions, finally maneuvering around the cul-de-sac and parking in front of the house.) Tim and Jim raced to the side door where Don was waiting. "The tow truck, Don," Tim began. "I have to pay him. I need to borrow--"
"Wait a minute," Don frowned, looking past his friends through the windows. "I don't seen any tow truck out there."
Tim and Jim turned around. There, parked alone at the curb, was Tim's car. There had been no sound in the crystal-clear night of its release from the chains, no door slam, no chug of an engine pulling away. There had been no bill for Tim to pay, to receipt to sign, no farewell or "thank you" or "Merry Christmas..."
Stunned, Tim raced back down the driveway to the curb, but there were no taillights disappearing in the distance, no engine noise echoing through the silent streets, nothing at all to mark the tow truck's presence.
Then Tim saw the tire tracks in the windblown snowdrifts. But there was only one set of tracks marking the cul-de-sac. And they belonged to Tim's car...
...Angels don't submit to litmus tests, testify in court or slide under a microscope for examination. Thus their existence cannot be "proved" by the guidelines we humans usually use. To know one, perhaps, requires a willingness to suspend judgment, to open ourselves to possibilities we've only dreamed about…
Was it an angel? Our family will never know for sure.
But on Christmas Eve in 1983, I heard the whisper of wings as a tow-truck driver answered a heavenly summons, and brought our son safely home.
An 80-below wind-chill factor was not enough to deter my son's guardian angel.
By Joan Wester Anderson
Reprinted with permission from "Where Angels Walk," published by Ballantine Books.
It was just past midnight on December 24, 1983. The Midwest was shivering through a record-breaking cold spell, complete with gale-force winds and frozen water pipes. And although our suburban Chicago household was filled with the snug sounds of a family at rest, I couldn't be a part of them, not until our 21-old son pulled into the driveway. At the moment, Tim and his two roommates were driving home for Christmas, their first trip back since they had moved East last May. "Don't worry, Mom," Tim had reassured me over the phone last night. "We're going to leave before dawn tomorrow and drive straight through. We'll be fine!"
Kids. They do insane things. Under normal circumstances, I figured, a Connecticut-to-Illinois trek ought to take about eighteen hours. But the weather had turned so dangerously cold that radio reports warned against venturing outdoors, even for a few moments. And we have heard nothing from the travelers. Distressed, I pictured them on a desolate road. What if they ran into car problems or lost their way? And if they had been delayed, why hadn't Tim phoned. Restlessly I paced and prayed in the familiar shorthand all mothers know: God, send someone to help them.
By now, as I later learned, the trio had stopped briefly in Fort Wayne, Indiana, to deposit Don at his family home. Common sense suggested that Tim and Jim stay the rest of the night and resume their trek in the morning. But when does common sense prevail with invincible young adults?…The two had started out again.
They had been traveling for only a few miles on a rural access road to the Indiana toll way, when they noticed the car's engine seem sluggish. Tim glanced uneasily at Jim. "Do not---" the radio announcer intoned, "-repeat-do not venture outside tonight, friends. There's a record wind-chill of eighty below zero, which means that exposed skin will freeze in less than a minute." The car surged suddenly, then coughed and slowed again.
"Tim," Jim spoke until the darkness, "we're not going to stall here, are we?"
"We can't," Tim answered grimly as he pumped the accelerator. "We'd die for sure."
But instead of picking up speed, the engine sputtered, chugging and slowing again. About a mile later, at the top of a small incline, the car crawled to a frozen stop.
Horrified, Tim and Jim looked at each other. They could see across the fields in every direction...but there was no traffic, no refuge ahead, not even a farmhouse light blinking in the distance...And the appalling, unbelievable cold! Never had they experienced anything so intense. Even if shelter was only a short distance away, they couldn't survive. The temperature would kill them in a manner of minutes....Well, God, Tim prayed, echoing my own distant plea, You're the only one who can help us now."
Then, as if they had already slipped into a dream, they saw headlights flashing at the car's left rear. But that was impossible, for they had seen no twin pinpricks of light in the distance, no hopeful approach. Where had the vehicle come from? Had they already died?
But no. Miraculously, someone was knocking on the drivers' side window. "Need to be pulled?" In disbelief, they heard the muffled shout. But it was true. Their rescuer was driving a tow truck.
(Could he bring them back to Don's? He did, saying nothing, not asking for directions, finally maneuvering around the cul-de-sac and parking in front of the house.) Tim and Jim raced to the side door where Don was waiting. "The tow truck, Don," Tim began. "I have to pay him. I need to borrow--"
"Wait a minute," Don frowned, looking past his friends through the windows. "I don't seen any tow truck out there."
Tim and Jim turned around. There, parked alone at the curb, was Tim's car. There had been no sound in the crystal-clear night of its release from the chains, no door slam, no chug of an engine pulling away. There had been no bill for Tim to pay, to receipt to sign, no farewell or "thank you" or "Merry Christmas..."
Stunned, Tim raced back down the driveway to the curb, but there were no taillights disappearing in the distance, no engine noise echoing through the silent streets, nothing at all to mark the tow truck's presence.
Then Tim saw the tire tracks in the windblown snowdrifts. But there was only one set of tracks marking the cul-de-sac. And they belonged to Tim's car...
...Angels don't submit to litmus tests, testify in court or slide under a microscope for examination. Thus their existence cannot be "proved" by the guidelines we humans usually use. To know one, perhaps, requires a willingness to suspend judgment, to open ourselves to possibilities we've only dreamed about…
Was it an angel? Our family will never know for sure.
But on Christmas Eve in 1983, I heard the whisper of wings as a tow-truck driver answered a heavenly summons, and brought our son safely home.
Gas Station Guardians
Working another late night, Gerald encounters a dark blue Cadillac with a nervous driver.
By Joan Wester Anderson
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/198/story_19857.html
Thirty-one-year-old Gerald Heffington was the manager of a gas station located in the small town of Morganfield, Kentucky. It was a rather rough section of town. Every night at closing time, his wife drove eight miles round-trip to pick him up since they lived out in the country. Gerald was hoping for a better job someday, but for now, he did his best to make sure every customer was treated well. He knew it was the way God would want him to act. He was on close speaking terms with God and always had been. Sometimes he also asked angels to guard him. They were in the Bible, so if they protected people then, he reasoned, why not now?
One evening at closing time, Gerald started to read the pumps and clear the cash register, just as he always did. His wife was waiting for him inside the station. “Just as I reached for the light switch, a dark blue Cadillac pulled up,” Gerald says. “There was one young man behind the wheel and he seemed nervous.” The man was looking from window to window and appeared to be talking, but there was no one else in the car!
Gerald decided to wait on him, even though it was a little past closing time. It would be the courteous and helpful thing to do, especially since it was so late at night. But as he walked toward the car, he asked God to send protection, especially for his wife who was just as vulnerable inside the station as he was.
“Can I help you?” Gerald asked the driver.
The window was down and the young driver, still looking somewhat nervous and scared, thrust a one-hundred dollar bill out to Gerald. “Give me fifty cents worth of high test,” he demanded.
Fifty cents from a hundred dollars! Now Gerald knew something was wrong. But, he pumped the small amount, keeping his eyes on the driver--who still seemed to be talking to someone--and tried to prepare for whatever happened next. But, as he put the nozzle back, the driver quickly turned on the engine and sped out of the gas station, tires squealing.
Gerald was astonished. What was wrong with this guy? He had acted so strangely--and then left his $100 bill without getting change. Gerald went into the office, told his wife the peculiar details, and took $99.50 out of the register and put it in an envelope. He wrote a note to the day manager about the extra money. Then, he and his wife drove home.
Two days later, Gerald was back at work. He asked the day manager if he had seen the car, and the manager said no. Both men laughed, and shook their heads. But a few hours later, Gerald looked up to see the same driver, in the same blue Cadillac, pulling into the station. He had probably come back for his change, Gerald thought, but he’d better check things out first. “Can I help you?” he asked as he approached the vehicle. The young man, he noticed, was still looking nervously around. Finally, he stared straight at Gerald.
“Where are those two guys?” he asked.
“What two guys?” Gerald asked. He was getting more perplexed by the minute.
“The ones working here two nights ago,” the driver answered.
Was this man crazy? Gerald thought he’d better humor him. “Why do you ask?” he responded.
The aggression seemed to go out of the driver. “When I came in here then, I was planning to rob the station, and to kill you and your woman,” he said. The hair on the back of Gerald’s neck stood up. How well he remembered that nervous feeling as he had approached the car.
“But then,” the young man went on, “as I reached for my gun under the seat, these two big dudes--at least seven feet tall, wearing the same uniform as you--came up to the car and told me straight out: ‘We know why you are here, and if you take out that gun from the front seat, we will use your head for a basketball.’ The names on their uniforms were Clyde and Brutus.”
Clyde and Brutus? “But…” Gerald began.
“So keep the change, and tell those guys that I’m never coming back here again!” The driver revved his engine, and shot out of the station. Gerald stared after him in amazement. Not only did he NOT know a Clyde or a Brutus, but he knew that he had been the only employee on the premises when the dark blue Cadillac pulled in two nights ago.
Yet as he had approached the car, hadn’t he asked God, as always, to protect him from harm? Gerald still has some unanswered questions today about that episode. “I never knew that angels could be named Clyde and Brutus,” he says. Still, he looks forward to meeting them again someday.
Working another late night, Gerald encounters a dark blue Cadillac with a nervous driver.
By Joan Wester Anderson
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/198/story_19857.html
Thirty-one-year-old Gerald Heffington was the manager of a gas station located in the small town of Morganfield, Kentucky. It was a rather rough section of town. Every night at closing time, his wife drove eight miles round-trip to pick him up since they lived out in the country. Gerald was hoping for a better job someday, but for now, he did his best to make sure every customer was treated well. He knew it was the way God would want him to act. He was on close speaking terms with God and always had been. Sometimes he also asked angels to guard him. They were in the Bible, so if they protected people then, he reasoned, why not now?
One evening at closing time, Gerald started to read the pumps and clear the cash register, just as he always did. His wife was waiting for him inside the station. “Just as I reached for the light switch, a dark blue Cadillac pulled up,” Gerald says. “There was one young man behind the wheel and he seemed nervous.” The man was looking from window to window and appeared to be talking, but there was no one else in the car!
Gerald decided to wait on him, even though it was a little past closing time. It would be the courteous and helpful thing to do, especially since it was so late at night. But as he walked toward the car, he asked God to send protection, especially for his wife who was just as vulnerable inside the station as he was.
“Can I help you?” Gerald asked the driver.
The window was down and the young driver, still looking somewhat nervous and scared, thrust a one-hundred dollar bill out to Gerald. “Give me fifty cents worth of high test,” he demanded.
Fifty cents from a hundred dollars! Now Gerald knew something was wrong. But, he pumped the small amount, keeping his eyes on the driver--who still seemed to be talking to someone--and tried to prepare for whatever happened next. But, as he put the nozzle back, the driver quickly turned on the engine and sped out of the gas station, tires squealing.
Gerald was astonished. What was wrong with this guy? He had acted so strangely--and then left his $100 bill without getting change. Gerald went into the office, told his wife the peculiar details, and took $99.50 out of the register and put it in an envelope. He wrote a note to the day manager about the extra money. Then, he and his wife drove home.
Two days later, Gerald was back at work. He asked the day manager if he had seen the car, and the manager said no. Both men laughed, and shook their heads. But a few hours later, Gerald looked up to see the same driver, in the same blue Cadillac, pulling into the station. He had probably come back for his change, Gerald thought, but he’d better check things out first. “Can I help you?” he asked as he approached the vehicle. The young man, he noticed, was still looking nervously around. Finally, he stared straight at Gerald.
“Where are those two guys?” he asked.
“What two guys?” Gerald asked. He was getting more perplexed by the minute.
“The ones working here two nights ago,” the driver answered.
Was this man crazy? Gerald thought he’d better humor him. “Why do you ask?” he responded.
The aggression seemed to go out of the driver. “When I came in here then, I was planning to rob the station, and to kill you and your woman,” he said. The hair on the back of Gerald’s neck stood up. How well he remembered that nervous feeling as he had approached the car.
“But then,” the young man went on, “as I reached for my gun under the seat, these two big dudes--at least seven feet tall, wearing the same uniform as you--came up to the car and told me straight out: ‘We know why you are here, and if you take out that gun from the front seat, we will use your head for a basketball.’ The names on their uniforms were Clyde and Brutus.”
Clyde and Brutus? “But…” Gerald began.
“So keep the change, and tell those guys that I’m never coming back here again!” The driver revved his engine, and shot out of the station. Gerald stared after him in amazement. Not only did he NOT know a Clyde or a Brutus, but he knew that he had been the only employee on the premises when the dark blue Cadillac pulled in two nights ago.
Yet as he had approached the car, hadn’t he asked God, as always, to protect him from harm? Gerald still has some unanswered questions today about that episode. “I never knew that angels could be named Clyde and Brutus,” he says. Still, he looks forward to meeting them again someday.
Our Turnaround Thanksgiving
Who was the grandmotherly stranger that fed us on Thanksgiving--and changed our lives?
By Ivy Olson On Thanksgiving Day, I awoke on the mattress that I shared with my two young children and tumbled into despair. At the time I was 25 and recently divorced. It was three days to pay day and there was no money left. I had a job but was only making $300 a month, and that month's entire paycheck had already gone to pay for the apartment and food for my little boys. I had swallowed my pride and applied for food stamps, but had been turned down because I made two dollars over the monthly limit.
On that Thanksgiving Day, there was nothing left to eat in the house but three hot dogs.
Perhaps hardest of all was my feeling of isolation. There were no friends to help. No one had invited us to share the holiday dinner. The loneliness was worse than the ever-present hunger. But it was Thanksgiving, and for the sake of the children I knew I had to make the best of the day.
"Come on, boys," I said. "Today's a special day. We're having a picnic!"
Together the three of us went to the park and cooked the hot dogs on the grill. We played happily together until late in the afternoon.
But on the way home, the boys asked for more food. The single hot dog they had eaten did not come close to being a decent meal. I knew they were hungrier even than they let on.
I tried to joke about it with them, but inside, I was very, very scared. I didn't know where our next meal was going to come from. I'd reached the end of my rope.
Nothing Beats "Grandma's" Cooking
As we entered our apartment building, an old woman I'd never seen before stepped directly into our path. She was a tiny thing wearing a simple print dress, her wispy white hair pulled up in a bun. With her smile of greeting, she looked like a kind-hearted tutu, an island grandmother.
"Oh, honey," the old lady said as the boys and I started to walk past. "I've been waiting for you. You left this morning before I could catch you. I've got Thanksgiving dinner ready for your family."
Nonplused, I thought that I shouldn't accept such an offer from a complete stranger. With a word of thanks, I started to brush past.
I looked at my boys. Their hunger tore at me. Even though it was against my better judgment, I accepted.
The old lady's apartment was on the ground floor. When she opened the door we saw a beautiful table set for four. It was the perfect Thanksgiving meal with all the traditional trimmings. The candles were lit and it was obvious that guests were expected. We were expected.
Gradually I began to relax. We all sat down together to enjoy the meal. Somehow, I found myself talking freely of my loneliness, the difficulty of raising two small boys by myself, and of the challenges I was facing. The grandmotherly woman listened with compassion and understanding. I remember I felt that for that time, at least, we were home.
As the evening ended, I wondered how could I possibly express my thanks for such incredible kindness. Eyes brimming, I simply said, "Thank you, I know that now I can go on." A complete stranger had reached out and given our little family such an important gift. The boys were grinning from ear to ear as the elderly lady loaded them down with Tupperware bowls full of leftovers.
We left her apartment that evening bubbling with joy, the boys joking and laughing. For the first time in a long time, I felt certain that I could face what had to be faced. I was a different person from the scared girl I had been that morning. I'd somehow been transformed. We all had.
A Temporary Tenant?
Early the next day, in a happy mood, I went back to visit my new friend and to return the borrowed bowls. I knocked, but there was no answer. I looked through an open window.
What I saw shocked me. The apartment was completely empty. There wasn't a stick of furniture. There wasn't anything.
I hurried down to the manager's apartment. "What happened to the elderly lady in apartment three?" I asked.
He gave me a look and said, "What lady? That apartment's been vacant for the past 10 or 12 weeks.
"But I had Thanksgiving dinner last night with the lady who lives there," I told the manager. "Here are her bowls."
The manager gave me a strange look and turned away.
For many years, I didn't tell anyone the story of that special Thanksgiving. Finally, in 1989, I felt compelled to speak out. By then, I had become the wife of the Kahu Doug Olson, Pastor of Calvary by the Sea Church on O'ahu.
I went before the congregation and told them of my dream: to establish a program to help women in Hawai'i who find themselves in a situation similar to the one I had faced so many years ago.
Creating a 'Network' of Angels
Now, over a decade later, the Network has helped over 1400 homeless, single mothers and their children to get back on their feet. After "graduation," a remarkable 93 percent of the families continue to support themselves. Last year's budget, which is funded by state, church and private monies, was $700,000.
I really surprised myself by telling the congregation my entire story that day, but I think it was meant to be. In the end helping the homeless with money and food is only secondary.
What I learned on that Thanksgiving Day, is that an hour of being loved unconditionally can truly change a life. In the end, it is all that we can give.
Who was the grandmotherly stranger that fed us on Thanksgiving--and changed our lives?
By Ivy Olson On Thanksgiving Day, I awoke on the mattress that I shared with my two young children and tumbled into despair. At the time I was 25 and recently divorced. It was three days to pay day and there was no money left. I had a job but was only making $300 a month, and that month's entire paycheck had already gone to pay for the apartment and food for my little boys. I had swallowed my pride and applied for food stamps, but had been turned down because I made two dollars over the monthly limit.
On that Thanksgiving Day, there was nothing left to eat in the house but three hot dogs.
Perhaps hardest of all was my feeling of isolation. There were no friends to help. No one had invited us to share the holiday dinner. The loneliness was worse than the ever-present hunger. But it was Thanksgiving, and for the sake of the children I knew I had to make the best of the day.
"Come on, boys," I said. "Today's a special day. We're having a picnic!"
Together the three of us went to the park and cooked the hot dogs on the grill. We played happily together until late in the afternoon.
But on the way home, the boys asked for more food. The single hot dog they had eaten did not come close to being a decent meal. I knew they were hungrier even than they let on.
I tried to joke about it with them, but inside, I was very, very scared. I didn't know where our next meal was going to come from. I'd reached the end of my rope.
Nothing Beats "Grandma's" Cooking
As we entered our apartment building, an old woman I'd never seen before stepped directly into our path. She was a tiny thing wearing a simple print dress, her wispy white hair pulled up in a bun. With her smile of greeting, she looked like a kind-hearted tutu, an island grandmother.
"Oh, honey," the old lady said as the boys and I started to walk past. "I've been waiting for you. You left this morning before I could catch you. I've got Thanksgiving dinner ready for your family."
Nonplused, I thought that I shouldn't accept such an offer from a complete stranger. With a word of thanks, I started to brush past.
I looked at my boys. Their hunger tore at me. Even though it was against my better judgment, I accepted.
The old lady's apartment was on the ground floor. When she opened the door we saw a beautiful table set for four. It was the perfect Thanksgiving meal with all the traditional trimmings. The candles were lit and it was obvious that guests were expected. We were expected.
Gradually I began to relax. We all sat down together to enjoy the meal. Somehow, I found myself talking freely of my loneliness, the difficulty of raising two small boys by myself, and of the challenges I was facing. The grandmotherly woman listened with compassion and understanding. I remember I felt that for that time, at least, we were home.
As the evening ended, I wondered how could I possibly express my thanks for such incredible kindness. Eyes brimming, I simply said, "Thank you, I know that now I can go on." A complete stranger had reached out and given our little family such an important gift. The boys were grinning from ear to ear as the elderly lady loaded them down with Tupperware bowls full of leftovers.
We left her apartment that evening bubbling with joy, the boys joking and laughing. For the first time in a long time, I felt certain that I could face what had to be faced. I was a different person from the scared girl I had been that morning. I'd somehow been transformed. We all had.
A Temporary Tenant?
Early the next day, in a happy mood, I went back to visit my new friend and to return the borrowed bowls. I knocked, but there was no answer. I looked through an open window.
What I saw shocked me. The apartment was completely empty. There wasn't a stick of furniture. There wasn't anything.
I hurried down to the manager's apartment. "What happened to the elderly lady in apartment three?" I asked.
He gave me a look and said, "What lady? That apartment's been vacant for the past 10 or 12 weeks.
"But I had Thanksgiving dinner last night with the lady who lives there," I told the manager. "Here are her bowls."
The manager gave me a strange look and turned away.
For many years, I didn't tell anyone the story of that special Thanksgiving. Finally, in 1989, I felt compelled to speak out. By then, I had become the wife of the Kahu Doug Olson, Pastor of Calvary by the Sea Church on O'ahu.
I went before the congregation and told them of my dream: to establish a program to help women in Hawai'i who find themselves in a situation similar to the one I had faced so many years ago.
Creating a 'Network' of Angels
Now, over a decade later, the Network has helped over 1400 homeless, single mothers and their children to get back on their feet. After "graduation," a remarkable 93 percent of the families continue to support themselves. Last year's budget, which is funded by state, church and private monies, was $700,000.
I really surprised myself by telling the congregation my entire story that day, but I think it was meant to be. In the end helping the homeless with money and food is only secondary.
What I learned on that Thanksgiving Day, is that an hour of being loved unconditionally can truly change a life. In the end, it is all that we can give.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/8/story_810.html
My Sister's an Angel
Two Vietnam veterans encounter a young girl who asks that they pray for her dying brother.
By Karen Goldman
I was in a VA hospital in Portland, back in 1977 or '78. As a friend and I were walking in front of the hospital--it was about 8:15 p.m.--this girl came up to us. She was blond, wearing overalls. She had been crying. She said, "My brother is dying. He's not going to be here too long!" She asked us to pray for him, to go in and see him, because she couldn't. She also told us that he was an atheist; he didn't believe in Christ, he didn't believe in salvation, he didn't believe in eternal life or anything else.
She gave us the room number, and we went in. The nurse had just gotten done taking blood samples. He had leukemia and throat cancer. He was in bad shape. The doctor came in and told us that the guy'd be dead in the morning.
When a pastor came in moments later, he asked him, "Would you like to have salvation? Do you know the condition you're in?" And he nodded his head yes. He could hardly talk. So we all kinda prayed around his bed.
The next morning, my friend and I went back. I went into his room expecting to find him dead. We saw his bed was cleaned out and the mattress was rolled up and everything. We asked the staff if he was still alive, and they said "Yes," but he had to be transferred outta there.
About three months later I met the same guy in a hallway and, believe it or not, he was passing out flyers for the chaplain's office. He ran right up to me, recognized me right of the bat, and I recognized him. The scar on his throat was just practically gone. He said, "I want to know how you guys got up to my room when you came in to pray for me, because no one in the chaplain's service here remembers!" And I said, "Well, this girl outside came out of nowhere, and she asked us to." He said, "I want to know more about this girl. Who was she?" And I said, "Well, it was just this girl. She wanted to make sure that you were going to make it through the night. She was really afraid that, ya know, you were gonna be lost." And he said, "What did she say her name was?" And I said, "I remember her saying that she was your sister."
His face just went cold white; you had to have been there. He just dropped everything he had in his hands. And then he looked at me and said, "My sister's dead! She was killed in a car wreck three years ago!" And he pulled out his wallet to show me a picture . . . and it was the same girl! It was the very same girl! There was no question. I don't know if she was as pretty-lookin' in that picture, but it was the same girl--she was even wearing the same clothes! I just totally blew my mind. I rocked back in my chair I couldn't even think. I was stunned. I was just sitting there alone, going "What in the heck is going on here?" I never experienced anything like that before, and I tell ya, it put a whole new meaning into faith and belief for me. Every time I think about it...I can't reason it away.
My Sister's an Angel
Two Vietnam veterans encounter a young girl who asks that they pray for her dying brother.
By Karen Goldman
I was in a VA hospital in Portland, back in 1977 or '78. As a friend and I were walking in front of the hospital--it was about 8:15 p.m.--this girl came up to us. She was blond, wearing overalls. She had been crying. She said, "My brother is dying. He's not going to be here too long!" She asked us to pray for him, to go in and see him, because she couldn't. She also told us that he was an atheist; he didn't believe in Christ, he didn't believe in salvation, he didn't believe in eternal life or anything else.
She gave us the room number, and we went in. The nurse had just gotten done taking blood samples. He had leukemia and throat cancer. He was in bad shape. The doctor came in and told us that the guy'd be dead in the morning.
When a pastor came in moments later, he asked him, "Would you like to have salvation? Do you know the condition you're in?" And he nodded his head yes. He could hardly talk. So we all kinda prayed around his bed.
The next morning, my friend and I went back. I went into his room expecting to find him dead. We saw his bed was cleaned out and the mattress was rolled up and everything. We asked the staff if he was still alive, and they said "Yes," but he had to be transferred outta there.
About three months later I met the same guy in a hallway and, believe it or not, he was passing out flyers for the chaplain's office. He ran right up to me, recognized me right of the bat, and I recognized him. The scar on his throat was just practically gone. He said, "I want to know how you guys got up to my room when you came in to pray for me, because no one in the chaplain's service here remembers!" And I said, "Well, this girl outside came out of nowhere, and she asked us to." He said, "I want to know more about this girl. Who was she?" And I said, "Well, it was just this girl. She wanted to make sure that you were going to make it through the night. She was really afraid that, ya know, you were gonna be lost." And he said, "What did she say her name was?" And I said, "I remember her saying that she was your sister."
His face just went cold white; you had to have been there. He just dropped everything he had in his hands. And then he looked at me and said, "My sister's dead! She was killed in a car wreck three years ago!" And he pulled out his wallet to show me a picture . . . and it was the same girl! It was the very same girl! There was no question. I don't know if she was as pretty-lookin' in that picture, but it was the same girl--she was even wearing the same clothes! I just totally blew my mind. I rocked back in my chair I couldn't even think. I was stunned. I was just sitting there alone, going "What in the heck is going on here?" I never experienced anything like that before, and I tell ya, it put a whole new meaning into faith and belief for me. Every time I think about it...I can't reason it away.
A 'Classic' Study of Angels
Ann's beloved books, left behind by her late father, had disappeared. How would she ever find them again?
By Joan Wester Anderson
Good and bad acts have a "ripple" effect—they set off a chain reaction of consequences, both positive and negative. No act is an act in isolation.
—John Ronner
Ann McAllister Clark’s father had died recently, and she was still feeling the loss of his presence. She felt a curious sorrow that surfaced at unexpected moments. In part, this was because she and her father—while loyal to one another—had never been close in the way good friends are close. Ann had been a lifelong lover of books, had majored in literature in college, and had recently opened a used bookstore in her small town of Middleville, Michigan. Mr. McAllister, by contrast, was a lawyer, apparently disinterested in all but the driest of writings.
But Ann’s sense of loss deepened shortly after the funeral, when she found her father’s college diplomas and realized with shock that he, too, had majored in literature at the University of Michigan. Why had he never told her, never alluded to a shared interest that might have bridged some of the gap between them? Ann felt cheated, almost embittered at the missed opportunity.
One day while boxing his law books, she found a fine 1909 set of Harvard Classics, each volume bearing his signature. "Very lightly, I ran my fingers over the inscriptions," Ann says. "Touching them somehow made me feel his presence.' She discovered other excellent works, too, but the Harvard Classics were her favorites. Why hadn’t he signed any of his other books? Ann would never know. But the Classics made him seem closer. She would keep this treasured collection always.
The family finished packing Mr. McAllister’s belongings, everyone took some keepsakes. They held a sale, then arranged an auction for the leftovers. "Not those," Ann cautioned the auctioneer’s burly sons as she pointed to the boxes containing the Classics. "Just take the law books. The rest will go home with me." But three days after the auction, she discovered that the set of Harvard Classics was not in the boxes she had taken. Every volume, each with her father’s signature, was gone.
Ann fought down panic. You’re a former antiques dealer, she reminded herself sternly. You know how to trace sales records. You’ll find the books. But it was no use. The Classics had apparently been sold quickly, then again, and yet again. Hopelessly gone. probably gathering dust on someone’s top shelf halfway around the country. To her, the final link with her father was now forever broken.
Swallowing her sorrow, Ann returned to her new project, the used bookstore. There were few customers, and she worried about whether she could keep going. Yet the store brought her a small measure of comfort, and she needed that right now.
One quiet morning, an elderly man wandered in. He did not seem to be in the market for a used book. Ann noticed the perspiration on his forehead, the eyes slightly glazed. As a diabetic, Ann had occasionally recognized fellow sufferers; this man might be one. On the other hand, he might be mentally disturbed. Was she in danger, or was he? "Do you need help?" she asked.
"Why do you ask?" he responded, somewhat belligerently.
Should she call 911, and turn him over to others? No, she saw in him a vulnerability she could relate to. Surely she could reach out, just a little. "What can I do for you?" she asked again, gently, as if approaching a frightened deer.
“I’m George, and I’ve just gotten out of the hospital,” the man explained. “I have high blood sugar—but I knew I was going to be sick before it happened. I see things that others cannot see.”
Ann thought again about 911. Her visitor probably did have diabetes, but he was obviously delusional as well. “Do you have anyone at home to care for you?” she asked. “My wife. But she’s tired of all these things.” George explained that, the day before, on the drive to the hospital, the road had been strewn with beautiful flowers—like a sign that all would be well.
But his wife couldn’t see them. On another occasion, his deceased mother had appeared at the foot of his bed, holding a small lyre. She had handed it to George to play, and he had done so, although he had never played any musical instrument before. His wife had slept right through it. There were other examples, too, lots of them.
Ann wondered if George was running a high fever. People hallucinated during fevers, didn’t they? “George," she put a hand on his arm. “You’ve just gotten out of the hospital, and your blood sugar is out of whack."
"So?"
“So, I care about you. Why don’t you go home, have a light supper, take a warm bath, get into bed, and listen to some soothing music. Rest and sleep. Your body needs it.”
“You don’t believe me,” George said. Then he smiled, and went out the front door. Ann smiled back. He had not taken offense, and that was good. But would he get home safely?
Ann worried about George all evening. Perhaps she should search for him, or tell someone about him. But that might cause more problems for him, instead of soothing the ones he already had. Maybe she shouldn’t have gotten involved. Yet, wasn’t that what life was supposed to be about, watching out for one another? Finally, she decided that if she didn’t see George the following day, she would contact the police.
Shortly after she opened the store the next morning, however, George arrived. A rejuvenated George, with pink, healthy skin and smiling eyes. “George!” Ann exclaimed. “You look great!”
He explained that her concern had touched him, and he had gone home and done everything she suggested. “I don’t think I have slept that well in months. And it was all because of you.”
She protested a bit, saying that she hadn’t done much, just what any fellow diabetic would do.
But George had more to say. “I came in here yesterday because I knew you were lonely and worried about business picking up.” How had he known? Was it so obvious after all? “I wanted to help you,” George was explaining, “and you ended up helping me instead. So I’ve brought you a present. Some books.”
Just what Ann needed—more used books that no one would probably ever buy. She tried to look enthusiastic and grateful as George went out to his car and carried in two brown paper bags. It was enough that he seemed more normal today. She could always get rid of this latest batch after he left.
But when she pulled out the first few books, she saw that they were Harvard Classics, “George! I lost a set of my father’s just like these!” George nodded, as if he knew all about it. Ann continued to unpack the books, Amazing. The covers were the same as the lost set, maroon leather.
Slowly she opened the first book. There was her father’s signature.
It was impossible. Yet the set was complete, each volume bearing the familiar inscription. Her father’s final gift, returned as a result of her own compassion. She touched the writing, then lifted tear-filled eyes to George. “How?”
But the question was too big, and George would only smile. “You see? I do know things.”
George visited the store several times after delivering the treasured books. “I believe he was lonely and needed company,” Ann says. “I just let him talk.” But he never explained how he had gotten the books, and she never asked. Later, she sold the store to an employee, and now, along with a writing career, runs a rare books business on the Internet.
But whenever Ann becomes discouraged or lonely, she remembers the blessing of that moment of discovery, her father’s unexpected message of love and connection, the awareness that what goes around truly comes around. And she touches the signature again.
Ann's beloved books, left behind by her late father, had disappeared. How would she ever find them again?
By Joan Wester Anderson
Good and bad acts have a "ripple" effect—they set off a chain reaction of consequences, both positive and negative. No act is an act in isolation.
—John Ronner
Ann McAllister Clark’s father had died recently, and she was still feeling the loss of his presence. She felt a curious sorrow that surfaced at unexpected moments. In part, this was because she and her father—while loyal to one another—had never been close in the way good friends are close. Ann had been a lifelong lover of books, had majored in literature in college, and had recently opened a used bookstore in her small town of Middleville, Michigan. Mr. McAllister, by contrast, was a lawyer, apparently disinterested in all but the driest of writings.
But Ann’s sense of loss deepened shortly after the funeral, when she found her father’s college diplomas and realized with shock that he, too, had majored in literature at the University of Michigan. Why had he never told her, never alluded to a shared interest that might have bridged some of the gap between them? Ann felt cheated, almost embittered at the missed opportunity.
One day while boxing his law books, she found a fine 1909 set of Harvard Classics, each volume bearing his signature. "Very lightly, I ran my fingers over the inscriptions," Ann says. "Touching them somehow made me feel his presence.' She discovered other excellent works, too, but the Harvard Classics were her favorites. Why hadn’t he signed any of his other books? Ann would never know. But the Classics made him seem closer. She would keep this treasured collection always.
The family finished packing Mr. McAllister’s belongings, everyone took some keepsakes. They held a sale, then arranged an auction for the leftovers. "Not those," Ann cautioned the auctioneer’s burly sons as she pointed to the boxes containing the Classics. "Just take the law books. The rest will go home with me." But three days after the auction, she discovered that the set of Harvard Classics was not in the boxes she had taken. Every volume, each with her father’s signature, was gone.
Ann fought down panic. You’re a former antiques dealer, she reminded herself sternly. You know how to trace sales records. You’ll find the books. But it was no use. The Classics had apparently been sold quickly, then again, and yet again. Hopelessly gone. probably gathering dust on someone’s top shelf halfway around the country. To her, the final link with her father was now forever broken.
Swallowing her sorrow, Ann returned to her new project, the used bookstore. There were few customers, and she worried about whether she could keep going. Yet the store brought her a small measure of comfort, and she needed that right now.
One quiet morning, an elderly man wandered in. He did not seem to be in the market for a used book. Ann noticed the perspiration on his forehead, the eyes slightly glazed. As a diabetic, Ann had occasionally recognized fellow sufferers; this man might be one. On the other hand, he might be mentally disturbed. Was she in danger, or was he? "Do you need help?" she asked.
"Why do you ask?" he responded, somewhat belligerently.
Should she call 911, and turn him over to others? No, she saw in him a vulnerability she could relate to. Surely she could reach out, just a little. "What can I do for you?" she asked again, gently, as if approaching a frightened deer.
“I’m George, and I’ve just gotten out of the hospital,” the man explained. “I have high blood sugar—but I knew I was going to be sick before it happened. I see things that others cannot see.”
Ann thought again about 911. Her visitor probably did have diabetes, but he was obviously delusional as well. “Do you have anyone at home to care for you?” she asked. “My wife. But she’s tired of all these things.” George explained that, the day before, on the drive to the hospital, the road had been strewn with beautiful flowers—like a sign that all would be well.
But his wife couldn’t see them. On another occasion, his deceased mother had appeared at the foot of his bed, holding a small lyre. She had handed it to George to play, and he had done so, although he had never played any musical instrument before. His wife had slept right through it. There were other examples, too, lots of them.
Ann wondered if George was running a high fever. People hallucinated during fevers, didn’t they? “George," she put a hand on his arm. “You’ve just gotten out of the hospital, and your blood sugar is out of whack."
"So?"
“So, I care about you. Why don’t you go home, have a light supper, take a warm bath, get into bed, and listen to some soothing music. Rest and sleep. Your body needs it.”
“You don’t believe me,” George said. Then he smiled, and went out the front door. Ann smiled back. He had not taken offense, and that was good. But would he get home safely?
Ann worried about George all evening. Perhaps she should search for him, or tell someone about him. But that might cause more problems for him, instead of soothing the ones he already had. Maybe she shouldn’t have gotten involved. Yet, wasn’t that what life was supposed to be about, watching out for one another? Finally, she decided that if she didn’t see George the following day, she would contact the police.
Shortly after she opened the store the next morning, however, George arrived. A rejuvenated George, with pink, healthy skin and smiling eyes. “George!” Ann exclaimed. “You look great!”
He explained that her concern had touched him, and he had gone home and done everything she suggested. “I don’t think I have slept that well in months. And it was all because of you.”
She protested a bit, saying that she hadn’t done much, just what any fellow diabetic would do.
But George had more to say. “I came in here yesterday because I knew you were lonely and worried about business picking up.” How had he known? Was it so obvious after all? “I wanted to help you,” George was explaining, “and you ended up helping me instead. So I’ve brought you a present. Some books.”
Just what Ann needed—more used books that no one would probably ever buy. She tried to look enthusiastic and grateful as George went out to his car and carried in two brown paper bags. It was enough that he seemed more normal today. She could always get rid of this latest batch after he left.
But when she pulled out the first few books, she saw that they were Harvard Classics, “George! I lost a set of my father’s just like these!” George nodded, as if he knew all about it. Ann continued to unpack the books, Amazing. The covers were the same as the lost set, maroon leather.
Slowly she opened the first book. There was her father’s signature.
It was impossible. Yet the set was complete, each volume bearing the familiar inscription. Her father’s final gift, returned as a result of her own compassion. She touched the writing, then lifted tear-filled eyes to George. “How?”
But the question was too big, and George would only smile. “You see? I do know things.”
George visited the store several times after delivering the treasured books. “I believe he was lonely and needed company,” Ann says. “I just let him talk.” But he never explained how he had gotten the books, and she never asked. Later, she sold the store to an employee, and now, along with a writing career, runs a rare books business on the Internet.
But whenever Ann becomes discouraged or lonely, she remembers the blessing of that moment of discovery, her father’s unexpected message of love and connection, the awareness that what goes around truly comes around. And she touches the signature again.
Angels Send Valentines, Don't They?
On the most romantic day of the year, Judy's marriage had failed. How would she ever enjoy Valentine's Day again?
By Joan Wester Anderson
The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us,
and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us,
and we only know them when they are gone.
—George Eliot
The valentines in the window displays seemed to mock Judy Kimball as she sloshed through the drugstore parking lot in Kent, Washington. As others demonstrated their love, she felt only loneliness and heartbreak. She glanced at passersby, all seemingly deep into their own thoughts. Other people's marriages failed, she knew, and somehow they went on living. But how? It had been only six days since her husband had told her he wanted a divorce, six days since her life had taken on a surreal feeling, and grief threatened to overwhelm her.
She hadn't expected anything like this to happen. They'd been together almost nineteen years, and she thought those had been happy years. But now she wondered how much of her husband's supposed contentment had been a lie. He had explained little, just gotten his things together and left while she and their three children reeled, trying to grasp what was happening. She hadn't shared the news with anyone yet, nor had she even cried. The hurt was too wrenching for talk or tears.
The first few days had passed in a blur, Somehow Judy summoned up the composure to cancel a dinner party she and her husband had planned to host on Saturday; she said that all three children had come down with the flu. And then there was her Wednesday night class in fiction writing. Now that the kids were older, she'd felt it was her turn to follow a long-held dream, to write, publish, and share any successes with her husband.
But now that dream was dead. She had skipped last week's class, and would probably drop out. What was the point? She had obviously failed at one of her most important tasks—being a beloved wife—so why should she expect success in any other aspect of her life? This trip to the drugstore for valentines for her children was the first time she'd ventured out all week, and it was taking its toll. She felt shaky and ill.
"Judy!" She heard the call from across the parking lot, and turned. Waving at her was Patricia, another student in her fiction writing class, wearing the same Black Watch plaid cape she always did. Judy waved back, hoping Patricia wouldn't come any closer. She seemed nice, but Judy didn't feel up to talking to anyone. Within seconds however, Patricia was at her side. "Hey, we missed class last week," she said, concern in her eyes. "Are you all right?"
The tears began to come. "My—my husband has asked separation—and ultimately a divorce. He's moved out." Judy astonished at her own words. Patricia was nothing more that casual acquaintance, someone who sat in the back of the classroom and occasionally smiled at her. Why was Judy sharing something personal with her?
But the compassion on Patricia's face was real. "Come on. It's chilly out here. Let's talk in my car." She guided Judy to a nearby vehicle.
The car seemed a warm and safe oasis, and Judy wept as she poured out her hurt, anger, and fear. Hadn't she tried, as best she knew how, to honor her commitment, to be the woman God wanted her to be? Why then, had he let this terrible thing happen to her and their precious children? She looked at Patricia and was shocked to see tears running down her cheeks. She shouldn't be putting this nice woman through this. She didn't even know if Patricia believed in God. "I'm so sorry to burden you with this," she whispered as her sobbing wound down. "You could never understand."
Patricia laid a hand on Judy's arm. "You're wrong," she said softly. "I do understand." Swiftly she removed something from her black cape and dropped it into Judy's hand. It was an angel pin.
"God hasn't forgotten you, Judy," Patricia said gently. "He just has other plans for you. You will survive this. Trust me."
"Thank you." Judy gave Patricia a quick hug and then slipped from the car. She was still shaky, but inside her—glowing as if for the first time—was a little flicker of hope. She closed her fingers around the angel pin and remembered the Lord's faithful promise, "I will never forsake you or abandon you" (Hebrews 13:5). She, who had always relied on her husband, was going to lean on God's strength now.
On the following Wednesday, Judy returned to her fiction class. It had taken a bit of interior pushing, but it was important that she make a beginning. And she knew Patricia, her newfound friend, would cheer her on. However, Patricia was absent, Nor did she come the next week, or the next. if only. Judy had thought to get her last name or telephone number! Class records were private, but on the following Wednesday, Judy approached the teacher. "Remember Patricia, the woman in the Black Watch plaid cape?" she asked.
The teacher looked mystified.
"She sat in the back of class," Judy added. "She hasn't been here the past few weeks, and I'd like to contact her."
The teacher shook her head. "I don't remember any woman in a plaid cape."
"Her first name was Patricia," Judy persisted. "If you can give me her last name.
The teacher ran her finger down the class roster, then looked at Judy. "There's no Patricia enrolled in this class," she said. "And no one by that name has dropped out."
"Pat? Patty? Tricia?"
The instructor shook her head. "Sorry. I wish I could help, but I'm afraid not."
Judy stood in a daze. You will survive this, Patricia had told her. Maybe Patricia had never been there for class. Maybe she had been there only for Judy. It was a mystery, but isn't life filled with them?
Judy sat down at her desk and reached for her notebook. She had a story to write.
On the most romantic day of the year, Judy's marriage had failed. How would she ever enjoy Valentine's Day again?
By Joan Wester Anderson
The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us,
and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us,
and we only know them when they are gone.
—George Eliot
The valentines in the window displays seemed to mock Judy Kimball as she sloshed through the drugstore parking lot in Kent, Washington. As others demonstrated their love, she felt only loneliness and heartbreak. She glanced at passersby, all seemingly deep into their own thoughts. Other people's marriages failed, she knew, and somehow they went on living. But how? It had been only six days since her husband had told her he wanted a divorce, six days since her life had taken on a surreal feeling, and grief threatened to overwhelm her.
She hadn't expected anything like this to happen. They'd been together almost nineteen years, and she thought those had been happy years. But now she wondered how much of her husband's supposed contentment had been a lie. He had explained little, just gotten his things together and left while she and their three children reeled, trying to grasp what was happening. She hadn't shared the news with anyone yet, nor had she even cried. The hurt was too wrenching for talk or tears.
The first few days had passed in a blur, Somehow Judy summoned up the composure to cancel a dinner party she and her husband had planned to host on Saturday; she said that all three children had come down with the flu. And then there was her Wednesday night class in fiction writing. Now that the kids were older, she'd felt it was her turn to follow a long-held dream, to write, publish, and share any successes with her husband.
But now that dream was dead. She had skipped last week's class, and would probably drop out. What was the point? She had obviously failed at one of her most important tasks—being a beloved wife—so why should she expect success in any other aspect of her life? This trip to the drugstore for valentines for her children was the first time she'd ventured out all week, and it was taking its toll. She felt shaky and ill.
"Judy!" She heard the call from across the parking lot, and turned. Waving at her was Patricia, another student in her fiction writing class, wearing the same Black Watch plaid cape she always did. Judy waved back, hoping Patricia wouldn't come any closer. She seemed nice, but Judy didn't feel up to talking to anyone. Within seconds however, Patricia was at her side. "Hey, we missed class last week," she said, concern in her eyes. "Are you all right?"
The tears began to come. "My—my husband has asked separation—and ultimately a divorce. He's moved out." Judy astonished at her own words. Patricia was nothing more that casual acquaintance, someone who sat in the back of the classroom and occasionally smiled at her. Why was Judy sharing something personal with her?
But the compassion on Patricia's face was real. "Come on. It's chilly out here. Let's talk in my car." She guided Judy to a nearby vehicle.
The car seemed a warm and safe oasis, and Judy wept as she poured out her hurt, anger, and fear. Hadn't she tried, as best she knew how, to honor her commitment, to be the woman God wanted her to be? Why then, had he let this terrible thing happen to her and their precious children? She looked at Patricia and was shocked to see tears running down her cheeks. She shouldn't be putting this nice woman through this. She didn't even know if Patricia believed in God. "I'm so sorry to burden you with this," she whispered as her sobbing wound down. "You could never understand."
Patricia laid a hand on Judy's arm. "You're wrong," she said softly. "I do understand." Swiftly she removed something from her black cape and dropped it into Judy's hand. It was an angel pin.
"God hasn't forgotten you, Judy," Patricia said gently. "He just has other plans for you. You will survive this. Trust me."
"Thank you." Judy gave Patricia a quick hug and then slipped from the car. She was still shaky, but inside her—glowing as if for the first time—was a little flicker of hope. She closed her fingers around the angel pin and remembered the Lord's faithful promise, "I will never forsake you or abandon you" (Hebrews 13:5). She, who had always relied on her husband, was going to lean on God's strength now.
On the following Wednesday, Judy returned to her fiction class. It had taken a bit of interior pushing, but it was important that she make a beginning. And she knew Patricia, her newfound friend, would cheer her on. However, Patricia was absent, Nor did she come the next week, or the next. if only. Judy had thought to get her last name or telephone number! Class records were private, but on the following Wednesday, Judy approached the teacher. "Remember Patricia, the woman in the Black Watch plaid cape?" she asked.
The teacher looked mystified.
"She sat in the back of class," Judy added. "She hasn't been here the past few weeks, and I'd like to contact her."
The teacher shook her head. "I don't remember any woman in a plaid cape."
"Her first name was Patricia," Judy persisted. "If you can give me her last name.
The teacher ran her finger down the class roster, then looked at Judy. "There's no Patricia enrolled in this class," she said. "And no one by that name has dropped out."
"Pat? Patty? Tricia?"
The instructor shook her head. "Sorry. I wish I could help, but I'm afraid not."
Judy stood in a daze. You will survive this, Patricia had told her. Maybe Patricia had never been there for class. Maybe she had been there only for Judy. It was a mystery, but isn't life filled with them?
Judy sat down at her desk and reached for her notebook. She had a story to write.
The Marvelous Miracle at 3 a.m.
While talking with her mother and sister, Marvel suddenly smelled smoke--but where was it coming from?
Brad and Sherry Steiger Reprinted with permission from 'Miracles of a Mother's Love' by Brad Steiger and Sherry Hansen Steiger. Copyright c 2002 by Brad Steiger and Sherry Hansen Steiger. Reprinted with permission of Adams Media Corporation.
In January 1994, Marvel Barrick left her home in rural Kansas to travel to northern Michigan for the funeral of her aunt Thelma, leaving her husband, Doug, and twins, Dennis and Dorothy, on the farm.
"Doug felt he should accompany me," Marvel wrote in her report to the questionnaire. "But we were still keeping quite a few head of cattle and other livestock at that time, and it was just about impossible to get anyone who would watch your stock in the winter while you went away. And if there should come any blizzards, then someone just had to go out and bring the herd into the safety of the sheds and see that every other cow, pig, chicken, and duck got feed and shelter."
Also, Marvel pointed out, the twins were only four years old and weren't "the greatest of travelers on long trips." Plus they had never been on an airliner before and she didn't want to tackle that chore for the first time without Doug.
Marvel had intended to stay away for only a couple days, but then unwelcome blizzard conditions at both the Michigan and Kansas airports made travel hazardous and out of the question. Doug told her over the telephone that she should just make the best of her time away from the farm and spend some quality time with her mother and sister in Michigan. He promised that he and the twins were doing just fine amid the snowbanks, and that his younger brother Chet was helping with the livestock after he had gotten stranded there on a visit home from college.
"With my mind as much at peace as a mother's can ever be when she's away from her family, I decided to take Doug's advice and enjoy a nice visit with my sister Crystal and my mom," Marvel said. "The first night we sat up and talked and reminisced, laughed, and cried, until two o'clock in the morning."
The next evening, with cups of extra-strong coffee and a generous supply of Crystal's homemade pastries to shore them up, the ladies were still talking around the fireplace at 3:00 a.m. when Marvel suddenly jumped up from her chair to shout she smelled smoke.
"Of course, you do, honey," her mother chuckled. "We just put another log on the fire."
Marvel insisted that it wasn't smoke from the hickory firewood that she smelled. "It's that horrible, acrid kind of smell that you get with rubber or cloth or electrical wires," she said. "I'm checking it out. Mom, we don't want your new place to burn up."
A few years after the death of Marvel's father, her mother had moved from the family's old five-bedroom home into a comfortable apartment, so it didn't take long for Marvel, accompanied by her obliging sister and mother, to investigate each room and declare it free of smoke and fire.
But Marvel simply could not get the awful smell out of her nostrils.
"Then, all at once, I was overcome with this terrible feeling of fear for Doug and the twins back on the farm," Marvel said. "Suddenly I knew with all my being that there was a fire in our farmhouse."
It was a few minutes after three--two in Kansas--but Marvel went right to the telephone and dialed her home number. Better to awaken Doug from a sound sleep and grumpily be told that nothing was wrong than to take a chance that her intuition was correct and have her family perish in a fire.
The telephone rang and rang. Four, five six rings.
"The smell in my nostrils was getting stronger. I was nearly overcome with nausea and lightheadedness," Marvel recalled. "Why wasn't anyone answering?"
Marvel hung up. Ignoring her sister's and mother's assurances that everyone was sound asleep there in Kansas and everything was all right, she dialed again and let it ring.
At last she heard the receiver being lifted, then dropped, then lifted again. Her heart sank as she heard little Dennis coughing. "Hello this is the Barrick residence," he said, repeating the salutation he had been taught.
"Honey, it's Mommy. Is everything all right. Are you all right, Honey?"
Dennis coughed again, then his voice rising in fear, he began to cry. "Mommy, Mommy! There is smoke, lots of smoke!"
Marvel told her four-year-old son not to be afraid. "Go wake up Daddy. Go wake up Uncle Chet. Tell them about the smoke. Can you do that right away?"
Dennis coughed, then said that he could.
"Then hang up the telephone, honey. Go wake them--and tell them to call me back!"
Crystal and her mother prayed with Marvel during an excruciatingly long twenty-six minutes before the telephone rang. She breathed a silent prayer of thanks when she heard Doug's calm voice.
"I always knew you had some kind of superpowers, sweetheart," Doug chuckled, "but I didn't know they extended to your power of smell."
Uncle Chet had pulled Dennis and Dorothy on a sled while he did chores, and later, when they were back inside, he had set their wet mittens and his leather gloves on the wood box near the old cookstove that they kept fired up out on the porch to help heat the house during the winter months. Sometime during the night, a spark had popped out of the stove and landed on one of the woolen mittens. The mittens and gloves had smoldered until they had burst into flame and fallen into the kindling in the wood box. Although the wood had burned and smoked up the house, the metal box had managed to contain the flames until little Dennis had been awakened by his mother's telephone call.
"Probably about another ten or fifteen minutes and furniture and things near the blazing wood box would have caught fire and this story would have had a very unhappy ending," Marvel said, concluding her account. "I went to bed that night relieved that no real harm had been done to our farm home, but I know if I hadn't somehow smelled smoke where there was none and called home, the house could have burned to the ground with my loved ones inside. Ever since that night, Doug has teased me about my super sense of smell that could detect smoke all the way from Michigan to Kansas, but I just tell him that all mothers have superpowers when it comes to their family."
While talking with her mother and sister, Marvel suddenly smelled smoke--but where was it coming from?
Brad and Sherry Steiger Reprinted with permission from 'Miracles of a Mother's Love' by Brad Steiger and Sherry Hansen Steiger. Copyright c 2002 by Brad Steiger and Sherry Hansen Steiger. Reprinted with permission of Adams Media Corporation.
In January 1994, Marvel Barrick left her home in rural Kansas to travel to northern Michigan for the funeral of her aunt Thelma, leaving her husband, Doug, and twins, Dennis and Dorothy, on the farm.
"Doug felt he should accompany me," Marvel wrote in her report to the questionnaire. "But we were still keeping quite a few head of cattle and other livestock at that time, and it was just about impossible to get anyone who would watch your stock in the winter while you went away. And if there should come any blizzards, then someone just had to go out and bring the herd into the safety of the sheds and see that every other cow, pig, chicken, and duck got feed and shelter."
Also, Marvel pointed out, the twins were only four years old and weren't "the greatest of travelers on long trips." Plus they had never been on an airliner before and she didn't want to tackle that chore for the first time without Doug.
Marvel had intended to stay away for only a couple days, but then unwelcome blizzard conditions at both the Michigan and Kansas airports made travel hazardous and out of the question. Doug told her over the telephone that she should just make the best of her time away from the farm and spend some quality time with her mother and sister in Michigan. He promised that he and the twins were doing just fine amid the snowbanks, and that his younger brother Chet was helping with the livestock after he had gotten stranded there on a visit home from college.
"With my mind as much at peace as a mother's can ever be when she's away from her family, I decided to take Doug's advice and enjoy a nice visit with my sister Crystal and my mom," Marvel said. "The first night we sat up and talked and reminisced, laughed, and cried, until two o'clock in the morning."
The next evening, with cups of extra-strong coffee and a generous supply of Crystal's homemade pastries to shore them up, the ladies were still talking around the fireplace at 3:00 a.m. when Marvel suddenly jumped up from her chair to shout she smelled smoke.
"Of course, you do, honey," her mother chuckled. "We just put another log on the fire."
Marvel insisted that it wasn't smoke from the hickory firewood that she smelled. "It's that horrible, acrid kind of smell that you get with rubber or cloth or electrical wires," she said. "I'm checking it out. Mom, we don't want your new place to burn up."
A few years after the death of Marvel's father, her mother had moved from the family's old five-bedroom home into a comfortable apartment, so it didn't take long for Marvel, accompanied by her obliging sister and mother, to investigate each room and declare it free of smoke and fire.
But Marvel simply could not get the awful smell out of her nostrils.
"Then, all at once, I was overcome with this terrible feeling of fear for Doug and the twins back on the farm," Marvel said. "Suddenly I knew with all my being that there was a fire in our farmhouse."
It was a few minutes after three--two in Kansas--but Marvel went right to the telephone and dialed her home number. Better to awaken Doug from a sound sleep and grumpily be told that nothing was wrong than to take a chance that her intuition was correct and have her family perish in a fire.
The telephone rang and rang. Four, five six rings.
"The smell in my nostrils was getting stronger. I was nearly overcome with nausea and lightheadedness," Marvel recalled. "Why wasn't anyone answering?"
Marvel hung up. Ignoring her sister's and mother's assurances that everyone was sound asleep there in Kansas and everything was all right, she dialed again and let it ring.
At last she heard the receiver being lifted, then dropped, then lifted again. Her heart sank as she heard little Dennis coughing. "Hello this is the Barrick residence," he said, repeating the salutation he had been taught.
"Honey, it's Mommy. Is everything all right. Are you all right, Honey?"
Dennis coughed again, then his voice rising in fear, he began to cry. "Mommy, Mommy! There is smoke, lots of smoke!"
Marvel told her four-year-old son not to be afraid. "Go wake up Daddy. Go wake up Uncle Chet. Tell them about the smoke. Can you do that right away?"
Dennis coughed, then said that he could.
"Then hang up the telephone, honey. Go wake them--and tell them to call me back!"
Crystal and her mother prayed with Marvel during an excruciatingly long twenty-six minutes before the telephone rang. She breathed a silent prayer of thanks when she heard Doug's calm voice.
"I always knew you had some kind of superpowers, sweetheart," Doug chuckled, "but I didn't know they extended to your power of smell."
Uncle Chet had pulled Dennis and Dorothy on a sled while he did chores, and later, when they were back inside, he had set their wet mittens and his leather gloves on the wood box near the old cookstove that they kept fired up out on the porch to help heat the house during the winter months. Sometime during the night, a spark had popped out of the stove and landed on one of the woolen mittens. The mittens and gloves had smoldered until they had burst into flame and fallen into the kindling in the wood box. Although the wood had burned and smoked up the house, the metal box had managed to contain the flames until little Dennis had been awakened by his mother's telephone call.
"Probably about another ten or fifteen minutes and furniture and things near the blazing wood box would have caught fire and this story would have had a very unhappy ending," Marvel said, concluding her account. "I went to bed that night relieved that no real harm had been done to our farm home, but I know if I hadn't somehow smelled smoke where there was none and called home, the house could have burned to the ground with my loved ones inside. Ever since that night, Doug has teased me about my super sense of smell that could detect smoke all the way from Michigan to Kansas, but I just tell him that all mothers have superpowers when it comes to their family."
Angel on the Highway
Who else could have rescued John from his 70-mile-per-hour motorcycle crash?
By Joan Wester Anderson Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website.
John Mustain is a popular radio talk show host on WNWS-FM in Jackson, Tennessee. He's also a devoted husband and father, a writer, security director and a minister in the Church of Christ. Given all these accomplishments, we could assume John had always followed a straight path of good behavior. But we would be wrong!
John was a teenager in the '70's, raised in a very religious family. But he was more interested in hot cars and pretty girls. "My faith was very superficial," he says, "consisting mostly of a strict adherence to the rules---except when my parents weren't looking." Shortly after getting his driver's license, John landed a well-paying job at a local grocery store chain. It wasn't long before he talked his dad into letting him buy a motorcycle. "Now, my independence was complete," John explains. "I earned my own money. I was buying my own vehicle. I felt like an adult." (And at six feet and 250 pounds, he certainly looked like one!) So one morning when John's mother forbade him to visit his girlfriend after school that day, he was immediately rebellious. "I'm going, and nothing you can say or do will change my mind!" he shouted. His mother, stunned, began to cry. John had never openly defied her. But now her son was storming out the back door. "I'll be home by ten!" he shouted over his shoulder.
After school, John went to his girlfriend's house in a nearby town about 30 minutes away. The teens spent the evening together watching television, "and trying to stay as far away from her parents as possible," John says. "I was so wrapped up in her that I paid no attention to the time. Finally at 9:45, I headed for home."
Home was, of course, thirty minutes away, not fifteen. But John decided he could arrive by ten p.m. if he rode fast. He decided to take a "shortcut" across a highway closed for construction. Veering around the yellow-and-black striped barricades, John increased his speed to about 70 miles per hour. Just a few moments later, he lost control and the motorcycle began to flip.
"Everything slowed to a crawl," John says. "I hit the pavement, head first, and tumbled down the highway, head over heels. I remember seeing the moon pass my knees! And as I rolled to a stop, I remember the extreme silence of the night." John's clothes had been torn off, he was bleeding from head to toe and could barely move. He was also in the middle of nowhere, on a detoured highway, with no hope of traffic coming by. Would he die, he wondered hazily, before the road crews discovered him the next morning?
Who Was This Man? Was He Old, Young?
"As I lay there drifting in and out of consciousness, I saw two very bright lights approaching," John says. "It was a vehicle---and I needed to stop it." Shakily, John stumbled to his feet, stood swaying in the middle of the road and waved his arms for a moment, then fell again onto the pavement. But the driver had apparently seen him, for the car slowed, then stopped. It was a recreational vehicle.
A man stepped out of the RV and quickly assessed the situation. He lifted John's huge motorcycle to the side of the road, then walked over to John. He leaned over and easily picked John up in his arms, then carried him to the RV and gently laid him in the back. Was the man old, young? John couldn't concentrate. Everything seemed to be happening a million miles away.... It was the last he remembered until they reached his girlfriend's house. "Her surprised mother opened the door, and the man carried me inside and laid me down on their couch," John says. He passed out again.
Later at the hospital, John and his mother heard an amazing story. His girlfriend's mother explained that, with hardly a word of explanation, the stranger had deposited John on their couch, and while the women were caring for John, had simply disappeared, never to be seen again.
The incident was a turning point for John; he became far more serious about his behavior, his respect for his mother, and especially his faith in God. But today, despite his role in his church, John is a major skeptic when it comes to miracles. "Yet I have thought about these events over the years, and have found several things that I cannot explain."
For example, how did John escape a 70 miles-per-hour crash with only minor cuts and abrasions? Why was the stranger driving on a barricaded road? How could he be strong enough to move the motorcycle off the road, and carry John in his arms? How did he know where John's girlfriend lived? ("While it is possible I could have awakened in the RV and told him, I don't remember doing that.") How did he leave without the women noticing his departure?
Finally, why didn't the man stick around and see how John was doing? Unless he already knew. "I believe in angelic beings, although I am skeptical as to the popular view of their interventions," John says. "But I can't help but wonder if my rescuer that night wasn't an angel."
Who else?
Who else could have rescued John from his 70-mile-per-hour motorcycle crash?
By Joan Wester Anderson Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website.
John Mustain is a popular radio talk show host on WNWS-FM in Jackson, Tennessee. He's also a devoted husband and father, a writer, security director and a minister in the Church of Christ. Given all these accomplishments, we could assume John had always followed a straight path of good behavior. But we would be wrong!
John was a teenager in the '70's, raised in a very religious family. But he was more interested in hot cars and pretty girls. "My faith was very superficial," he says, "consisting mostly of a strict adherence to the rules---except when my parents weren't looking." Shortly after getting his driver's license, John landed a well-paying job at a local grocery store chain. It wasn't long before he talked his dad into letting him buy a motorcycle. "Now, my independence was complete," John explains. "I earned my own money. I was buying my own vehicle. I felt like an adult." (And at six feet and 250 pounds, he certainly looked like one!) So one morning when John's mother forbade him to visit his girlfriend after school that day, he was immediately rebellious. "I'm going, and nothing you can say or do will change my mind!" he shouted. His mother, stunned, began to cry. John had never openly defied her. But now her son was storming out the back door. "I'll be home by ten!" he shouted over his shoulder.
After school, John went to his girlfriend's house in a nearby town about 30 minutes away. The teens spent the evening together watching television, "and trying to stay as far away from her parents as possible," John says. "I was so wrapped up in her that I paid no attention to the time. Finally at 9:45, I headed for home."
Home was, of course, thirty minutes away, not fifteen. But John decided he could arrive by ten p.m. if he rode fast. He decided to take a "shortcut" across a highway closed for construction. Veering around the yellow-and-black striped barricades, John increased his speed to about 70 miles per hour. Just a few moments later, he lost control and the motorcycle began to flip.
"Everything slowed to a crawl," John says. "I hit the pavement, head first, and tumbled down the highway, head over heels. I remember seeing the moon pass my knees! And as I rolled to a stop, I remember the extreme silence of the night." John's clothes had been torn off, he was bleeding from head to toe and could barely move. He was also in the middle of nowhere, on a detoured highway, with no hope of traffic coming by. Would he die, he wondered hazily, before the road crews discovered him the next morning?
Who Was This Man? Was He Old, Young?
"As I lay there drifting in and out of consciousness, I saw two very bright lights approaching," John says. "It was a vehicle---and I needed to stop it." Shakily, John stumbled to his feet, stood swaying in the middle of the road and waved his arms for a moment, then fell again onto the pavement. But the driver had apparently seen him, for the car slowed, then stopped. It was a recreational vehicle.
A man stepped out of the RV and quickly assessed the situation. He lifted John's huge motorcycle to the side of the road, then walked over to John. He leaned over and easily picked John up in his arms, then carried him to the RV and gently laid him in the back. Was the man old, young? John couldn't concentrate. Everything seemed to be happening a million miles away.... It was the last he remembered until they reached his girlfriend's house. "Her surprised mother opened the door, and the man carried me inside and laid me down on their couch," John says. He passed out again.
Later at the hospital, John and his mother heard an amazing story. His girlfriend's mother explained that, with hardly a word of explanation, the stranger had deposited John on their couch, and while the women were caring for John, had simply disappeared, never to be seen again.
The incident was a turning point for John; he became far more serious about his behavior, his respect for his mother, and especially his faith in God. But today, despite his role in his church, John is a major skeptic when it comes to miracles. "Yet I have thought about these events over the years, and have found several things that I cannot explain."
For example, how did John escape a 70 miles-per-hour crash with only minor cuts and abrasions? Why was the stranger driving on a barricaded road? How could he be strong enough to move the motorcycle off the road, and carry John in his arms? How did he know where John's girlfriend lived? ("While it is possible I could have awakened in the RV and told him, I don't remember doing that.") How did he leave without the women noticing his departure?
Finally, why didn't the man stick around and see how John was doing? Unless he already knew. "I believe in angelic beings, although I am skeptical as to the popular view of their interventions," John says. "But I can't help but wonder if my rescuer that night wasn't an angel."
Who else?
For even in imagining the nature of angels, we are drawing from ideas that already exist within ourselves, within the range of human potential. By comparing ourselves to the angels, we reflect on our own better natures, our own capacity to experience a higher value of life.
-David Connolly,
"In Search of Angels"
Highway Hero
How this woman survived a brush with death is a mystery--but no accident.
By Joan Wester Anderson Reprinted with permission from the website of Joan Wester Anderson.
Beth called Radio Station CFRB in Toronto during a discussion on angels, to add her story.
She was late for a party, and was driving far too fast on a wet and lonely highway. Suddenly as she approached an intersection, a dog dashed in front of the car, and Beth hit her brakes. Horrified, she felt the car sliding out of control, spinning, turning over again and again in a sickening sound of shattering glass. There was another impact and despite her seat belt, Beth felt the car closing in on her. "I didn't really feel pain, at least not anything intense," she told us, "but I had this sensation that I was being entombed. I shut my eyes and screamed."
Had she hit another car? No one seemed to be nearby; Beth heard no shouts, no footsteps racing toward her. Shocked and dazed, she was afraid to open her eyes. What if she did--and saw herself maimed? She couldn't face it, at least not yet.
Then, as she lay sobbing, she sensed that she was not alone. Someone had approached her, was bending over her. His hand gently brushed her brow. "Take it easy," he said quietly. "I'll get you out of here."
Thank God the paramedics had arrived! It had all happened so fast... Trembling, Beth felt the man's firm arms around her. Carefully he lifted her, carrying her to what was probably the side of the road. Eyes still tightly shut, Beth felt him lay her gently on the damp grass, an aura of tenderness about his movements. The blades tickled her cheek. Slowly, she moved every part of herself. Why, she could wiggle her toes, feel her fingers. She was bruised and shaken, but she seemed to have only minor injuries, despite the violence of the crash.
She would open her eyes in a minute, she decided, as soon as she sensed her rescuer was near. "Where are you?" she called to him. But there was no response. Then Beth heard sirens in the distance. More paramedics?
A van screeched to a stop beside her, and now Beth did peek. Two shadowy uniformed figures were running toward her. "Lady, how did you get to the side of the road?" one asked.
"The man," Beth tried to look for him. "He lifted me out.."
"No one could have lifted you out of that, lady," the paramedic responded, strapping a blood pressure cuff around Beth's arm.
"Maybe she was thrown," suggested his partner.
"Are you kidding? Look at that car," argued the first.
It was then that Beth opened her eyes completely and looked at the accident scene. Hers was the lone vehicle on the road, wedged against a parkway tree. It was obvious that she had skidded, flipped over and rolled without involving anyone else.
But it was the car itself that held her attention. Both doors were crushed and jammed shut, and the roof had caved in. No one could have been brought out of that twisted metal without a great deal of painful and time-consuming maneuvering. Yet she had felt herself lightly lifted, carried effortlessly through the metal maze to safety. Who had done it? "The first paramedic?" Beth whispered. "Where did he go?"
"We're the only ones on this call," the second man told her. "And you were alone when we arrived."
Beth's injuries healed easily, and she has learned to drive more carefully. But the memory of that quiet rescue will be with her forever. There are angels everywhere, even on deserted highways.
-David Connolly,
"In Search of Angels"
Highway Hero
How this woman survived a brush with death is a mystery--but no accident.
By Joan Wester Anderson Reprinted with permission from the website of Joan Wester Anderson.
Beth called Radio Station CFRB in Toronto during a discussion on angels, to add her story.
She was late for a party, and was driving far too fast on a wet and lonely highway. Suddenly as she approached an intersection, a dog dashed in front of the car, and Beth hit her brakes. Horrified, she felt the car sliding out of control, spinning, turning over again and again in a sickening sound of shattering glass. There was another impact and despite her seat belt, Beth felt the car closing in on her. "I didn't really feel pain, at least not anything intense," she told us, "but I had this sensation that I was being entombed. I shut my eyes and screamed."
Had she hit another car? No one seemed to be nearby; Beth heard no shouts, no footsteps racing toward her. Shocked and dazed, she was afraid to open her eyes. What if she did--and saw herself maimed? She couldn't face it, at least not yet.
Then, as she lay sobbing, she sensed that she was not alone. Someone had approached her, was bending over her. His hand gently brushed her brow. "Take it easy," he said quietly. "I'll get you out of here."
Thank God the paramedics had arrived! It had all happened so fast... Trembling, Beth felt the man's firm arms around her. Carefully he lifted her, carrying her to what was probably the side of the road. Eyes still tightly shut, Beth felt him lay her gently on the damp grass, an aura of tenderness about his movements. The blades tickled her cheek. Slowly, she moved every part of herself. Why, she could wiggle her toes, feel her fingers. She was bruised and shaken, but she seemed to have only minor injuries, despite the violence of the crash.
She would open her eyes in a minute, she decided, as soon as she sensed her rescuer was near. "Where are you?" she called to him. But there was no response. Then Beth heard sirens in the distance. More paramedics?
A van screeched to a stop beside her, and now Beth did peek. Two shadowy uniformed figures were running toward her. "Lady, how did you get to the side of the road?" one asked.
"The man," Beth tried to look for him. "He lifted me out.."
"No one could have lifted you out of that, lady," the paramedic responded, strapping a blood pressure cuff around Beth's arm.
"Maybe she was thrown," suggested his partner.
"Are you kidding? Look at that car," argued the first.
It was then that Beth opened her eyes completely and looked at the accident scene. Hers was the lone vehicle on the road, wedged against a parkway tree. It was obvious that she had skidded, flipped over and rolled without involving anyone else.
But it was the car itself that held her attention. Both doors were crushed and jammed shut, and the roof had caved in. No one could have been brought out of that twisted metal without a great deal of painful and time-consuming maneuvering. Yet she had felt herself lightly lifted, carried effortlessly through the metal maze to safety. Who had done it? "The first paramedic?" Beth whispered. "Where did he go?"
"We're the only ones on this call," the second man told her. "And you were alone when we arrived."
Beth's injuries healed easily, and she has learned to drive more carefully. But the memory of that quiet rescue will be with her forever. There are angels everywhere, even on deserted highways.
Mom's Last Laugh
Sometimes, in life's most difficult moments, happiness catches us by surprise.
By Robin Lee Shope Reprinted with permission from "Chicken Soup for the Christian Family Soul".
Consumed by my loss, I didn't notice the hardness of the pew where I sat. I was at the funeral of my dearest friend--my mother. She finally had lost her long battle with cancer. The hurt was so intense, I found it hard to breathe at times.
Always supportive, Mother clapped loudest at my school plays, held a box of tissues while listening to my first heartbreak, comforted me when my father died, encouraged me in college, and prayed for me my entire life.
When Mother's illness was diagnosed, my sister had a new baby and my brother had recently married his childhood sweetheart, so it fell to me, the 27-year-old middle child without entanglements, to take care of her. I counted it as an honor.
"What now, Lord?" I asked, sitting in the church. My life stretched before me as an empty abyss.
My brother sat stoically with his face toward the cross while clutching his wife's hand. My sister sat slumped against her husband's shoulder, his arms around her as she cradled their child. All so deeply grieving they didn't seem to notice that I sat alone.
My place had been with our mother, preparing her meals, helping her walk, taking her to the doctor, seeing to her medication, reading the Bible together. Now she was with the Lord. My work was finished and I was alone.
'I'm Sorry I'm Late...'
I heard a door open and slam shut at the back of the church. Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted floor. An exasperated young man looked around briefly and then sat next to me. He folded his hands and placed them on his lap. His eyes were brimming with tears. He began to sniffle.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he explained, though no explanation was necessary.
After several eulogies, he leaned over and commented, "Why do they keep calling Mary by the name of Margaret?"
"Because Margaret was her name. Never Mary. No one called her 'Mary,'" I whispered. I wondered why this person couldn't have sat on the other side of the church. He kept interrupting my grieving with his own tears. Who was this stranger, anyway?
"No, that isn't correct," he insisted, as several people glanced over at us whispering. "Her name is Mary, Mary Peters."
"That isn't whose funeral this is."
"Isn't this the Lutheran church?"
"The Lutheran church is across the street."
"Oh."
"I believe you're at the wrong funeral, sir."
The solemn nature of the occasion mixed with the realization of the man's mistake bubbled up inside me and erupted as laughter. I cupped my hands over my face, hoping the noise would be interpreted as sobs.
The creaking pew gave me away. Sharp looks from other mourners only made the situation seem more hilarious.
I peeked at the bewildered, misguided man sitting beside me. He was laughing, too, as he glanced around; deciding it was too late for an uneventful exit. I imagined Mother laughing.
Wrong Funeral, Right Place
At the final "Amen," we darted out a door and into the parking lot.
"I do believe we'll be the talk of the town," he smiled. He said his name was Rick, and since he had missed his aunt's funeral, he asked me to join him for a cup of coffee.
That afternoon began a lifelong journey for me with this man, who attended the wrong funeral, but was in the right place. A year after our meeting, we were married at a country church where he was the assistant pastor. This time we both arrived at the same church, right on time.
In my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter. In place of loneliness, God gave me love. This past June we celebrated our 22nd wedding anniversary.
Whenever anyone asks us how we met, Rick tells them, "Her mother and my Aunt Mary introduced us, and its truly a match made in heaven."
Sometimes, in life's most difficult moments, happiness catches us by surprise.
By Robin Lee Shope Reprinted with permission from "Chicken Soup for the Christian Family Soul".
Consumed by my loss, I didn't notice the hardness of the pew where I sat. I was at the funeral of my dearest friend--my mother. She finally had lost her long battle with cancer. The hurt was so intense, I found it hard to breathe at times.
Always supportive, Mother clapped loudest at my school plays, held a box of tissues while listening to my first heartbreak, comforted me when my father died, encouraged me in college, and prayed for me my entire life.
When Mother's illness was diagnosed, my sister had a new baby and my brother had recently married his childhood sweetheart, so it fell to me, the 27-year-old middle child without entanglements, to take care of her. I counted it as an honor.
"What now, Lord?" I asked, sitting in the church. My life stretched before me as an empty abyss.
My brother sat stoically with his face toward the cross while clutching his wife's hand. My sister sat slumped against her husband's shoulder, his arms around her as she cradled their child. All so deeply grieving they didn't seem to notice that I sat alone.
My place had been with our mother, preparing her meals, helping her walk, taking her to the doctor, seeing to her medication, reading the Bible together. Now she was with the Lord. My work was finished and I was alone.
'I'm Sorry I'm Late...'
I heard a door open and slam shut at the back of the church. Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted floor. An exasperated young man looked around briefly and then sat next to me. He folded his hands and placed them on his lap. His eyes were brimming with tears. He began to sniffle.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he explained, though no explanation was necessary.
After several eulogies, he leaned over and commented, "Why do they keep calling Mary by the name of Margaret?"
"Because Margaret was her name. Never Mary. No one called her 'Mary,'" I whispered. I wondered why this person couldn't have sat on the other side of the church. He kept interrupting my grieving with his own tears. Who was this stranger, anyway?
"No, that isn't correct," he insisted, as several people glanced over at us whispering. "Her name is Mary, Mary Peters."
"That isn't whose funeral this is."
"Isn't this the Lutheran church?"
"The Lutheran church is across the street."
"Oh."
"I believe you're at the wrong funeral, sir."
The solemn nature of the occasion mixed with the realization of the man's mistake bubbled up inside me and erupted as laughter. I cupped my hands over my face, hoping the noise would be interpreted as sobs.
The creaking pew gave me away. Sharp looks from other mourners only made the situation seem more hilarious.
I peeked at the bewildered, misguided man sitting beside me. He was laughing, too, as he glanced around; deciding it was too late for an uneventful exit. I imagined Mother laughing.
Wrong Funeral, Right Place
At the final "Amen," we darted out a door and into the parking lot.
"I do believe we'll be the talk of the town," he smiled. He said his name was Rick, and since he had missed his aunt's funeral, he asked me to join him for a cup of coffee.
That afternoon began a lifelong journey for me with this man, who attended the wrong funeral, but was in the right place. A year after our meeting, we were married at a country church where he was the assistant pastor. This time we both arrived at the same church, right on time.
In my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter. In place of loneliness, God gave me love. This past June we celebrated our 22nd wedding anniversary.
Whenever anyone asks us how we met, Rick tells them, "Her mother and my Aunt Mary introduced us, and its truly a match made in heaven."
Easter Awakening
While my son was in a coma, I dreamt of two beautiful angels who gave me hope for his recovery.
By Delores Bates from
I leaned over the hospital bed in which my 18-year-old son, Art, lay in a comatose state that seemed like death. Tubes fed him through the nose; a machine breathed for him, breaking the harsh stillness of the room with its mechanical gasps.
I moved my lips close to Art's ear and whispered, "Honey, I had a dream last night, so beautiful that it seemed real. Two magnificent angels stood by your bed. It means you will be healed, I know it."
Did he hear me? Can the soul hear when the body is asleep? Art didn't move, and didn't acknowledge my words. If only he would open his eyes! Just that, Lord.
Before the accident two nights earlier, this limp form under the stiff hospital bedsheets had been a strapping high school senior, star captain of his football team and the finest son a mother could ever want. Proud of the body God had given him, Art didn't drink or smoke. He held strong values and went to church regularly. His dream was to play professional football and set a good example for other young people.
But now doctors held out little hope that he would walk or talk or do anything productive again. It was as if Art had gone on and left his broken body behind. Could that be true?
On the evening of January 1, 1989, Art had attended a dance with some friends. When his father and I went to bed that night, a cold rain beat at the windows. I am usually a sound sleeper, but at about 1:00 A.M. I awoke with a start and shook my husband. "Arthur," I said, my heart racing, "I'm afraid something terrible has happened to our boy." Before I could get back to sleep, a call came from St. Vincent's Hospital. Art had been driving his friends home when a pickup truck turned into the side of his car, slamming it into a tree. One of Art's passengers died. The others weren't badly hurt. But Art lay close to death in the emergency room.
I will never forget the panic of that night, the dread and the sense of helplessness as my boy fought for life. After Arthur and I threw on some clothes we raced in our car to St. Vincent's. Along with some friends and family members we had alerted, we huddled together and prayed unceasingly while doctors worked on Art. The news from the operating room was grim. Art's windpipe and chest were nearly crushed from the impact with the steering wheel. Most worrisome was the injury to his brain.
"All that's saved him so far," one doctor told us, "is his strong athlete's body. But the area around his brain stem is so severely damaged he might never regain consciousness."
At about 5:00 A.M. Dr. Frank A. Redmond finally came to us and said Art's condition was stabilized and he would be moved into the intensive care unit. He revealed that on at least one occasion that night Art had been clinically dead but they were able to revive him. "I did a lot of praying," Dr. Redmond admitted. "Something kept your boy alive."
Eventually they let us see Art in ICU. I tiptoed to his bedside. To see him so still, to see the breathing tube in his trachea, his closed and swollen eyes—my own flesh and blood—it was just devastating. I collapsed into my husband's arms and sobbed. "We can't give up," he whispered, holding me tight. "We have to keep praying for a miracle."
I wiped my eyes and turned back to Art. Would his eyes ever open again, his lips speak, or his arms move voluntarily? Would he ever again sneak up behind me in the kitchen, throw those muscled arms around my waist and kiss me, saying, "Ma, I sure do love ya"?
The doctors didn't think so. "Even if your son wakes up, he probably won't be able to walk," one said. "He won't have a memory. He won't know who you are."
I refused to believe my own son wouldn't know me. God is merciful.
Asleep in a nearby room the hospital let me use that night, I was given a different prognosis. In a dream as vivid as life, I saw two colossal angels floating over Art's bed, one above his head and the other at his side. They were glowing, shimmering, their streaming robes lighter than air. Their faces were indistinct, but they had a golden brilliance that emanated love, compassion and healing. Then I saw Art sitting up in bed, talking with his friends. My heart beat with joy. My son would be healed! What else could this vision mean?
I awakened with the images still flowing through my mind and rushed into Art's room, half expecting to see him sitting up in bed laughing. But he was still in a coma, still near death. That is when I pressed my lips close and whispered my dream to him.
From then on I carried the picture of those two great heavenly beauties in my mind's eye, and every day I reminded Art about them. I knew his spirit heard me. That's why we talked to him—his father and I, our relatives and ministers, his friends from school, and the football team and his coaches. We spoke to Art constantly, telling him how much we loved him, keeping a vigil.
Thirty days passed. I was at my son's side continually, talking, praying, playing tapes from his friends. I refused to believe he wouldn't ever get up out of that bed, that he wouldn't know his own mother. The doctors tried to temper my optimism, while we continued to pray.
What in life is more realistic than faith, more practical, really, than hope? Isn't that all I had? I knew my son would get well. I kept visualizing it and thanking the Lord, over and over again. But it was hard to keep believing as the weeks wore on. To see my boy fed by tubes when he used to feast on my cooking, homemade lasagna and fried chicken.
Finally Art was transferred to St. Francis Hospital in Green Springs. Every time I came to visit him all of the nurses would shake their heads, knowing the question that was on my lips: Has there been a change? Anything?
Three months passed. Then I saw the angels again.
It was during Holy Week and Art's older sister, Rachael, and I had been talking about how much Art loved Easter. Again I dreamed I was at Art's bedside. Those same golden angels, both powerful and compassionate, looked over my son, who was awake, his eyes alert and bright. This time, however, the angels were both on Art's right. I took this as a reaffirmation of God's message.
Art's eyes opened on Good Friday. I had had a special feeling when I came to see him that afternoon. When I walked into his room those big, brown eyes were looking right at me. Could it really be? I slowly walked around the bed. Art's eyes followed. He was awake! He was tracking me! I fell to my knees at his bedside and gave thanks.
Doctors, however, were cautious about interpreting this too optimistically. Then came Easter. As his father and I arrived for a visit after church, a nurse rushed up waving a piece of paper. In a handwriting I knew as well as my own was our phone number, obviously written out with great difficulty. "It was as if he wanted us to call you," the nurse reported. "His memory is intact!" On the day of our Savior's resurrection, part of Art had been resurrected too. He hadn't forgotten us.
A month went by and nothing much changed. Art still hadn't uttered a word since coming out of his coma. One day Art's grandmother accompanied me to the hospital. When we left Art's room she lamented, "Delores, I don't think he's ever going to talk again!"
I was about to disagree when a familiar voice jolted us: "Ma!"
We froze. It rang out again, loud and clear. "Ma!"
Art was talking. His first word now was the first word he had ever said as a baby: Ma. I knew the Lord would not let my son forget his mother.
Though his words were few and hesitant, the hospital immediately began speech therapy, followed by physical therapy. His progress was slow—until a therapist used a little psychology and a mirror. The athlete in Art was proud of the body he had taken care of and trained so well. When the therapist showed Art how his physique had atrophied during the coma, Art's face tightened with determination. From that moment on he strove to regain his old physical form.
Finally Art was able to tell us what he recalled about the night of the accident.
"I remember being on the operating table," he said. "I saw the doctors working on me. Three times I tried to leave my body, and three times the Holy Spirit made me go back because my family was praying and God would heal me."
Art has had a long road back, and I remind him about the angels I saw in my dream whenever his struggle is wearing him down. His speech was slow for a long time, but now he speaks almost as well as he did before the accident. He walks with a cane, but leans on it less and less. This June he will graduate from the University of Toledo with a degree in marketing. Art still wants to play football again, which some people might think is too optimistic. But Art believes that with the power of many prayers behind him, anything is possible.
I know it's a miracle when my son sneaks up behind me in the kitchen, slips his arms around my waist, kisses me and says, "Ma, I sure do love ya." It's the miracle we prayed for and the one the angels in my dream promised. It's the miracle of my Art, alive today.
While my son was in a coma, I dreamt of two beautiful angels who gave me hope for his recovery.
By Delores Bates from
I leaned over the hospital bed in which my 18-year-old son, Art, lay in a comatose state that seemed like death. Tubes fed him through the nose; a machine breathed for him, breaking the harsh stillness of the room with its mechanical gasps.
I moved my lips close to Art's ear and whispered, "Honey, I had a dream last night, so beautiful that it seemed real. Two magnificent angels stood by your bed. It means you will be healed, I know it."
Did he hear me? Can the soul hear when the body is asleep? Art didn't move, and didn't acknowledge my words. If only he would open his eyes! Just that, Lord.
Before the accident two nights earlier, this limp form under the stiff hospital bedsheets had been a strapping high school senior, star captain of his football team and the finest son a mother could ever want. Proud of the body God had given him, Art didn't drink or smoke. He held strong values and went to church regularly. His dream was to play professional football and set a good example for other young people.
But now doctors held out little hope that he would walk or talk or do anything productive again. It was as if Art had gone on and left his broken body behind. Could that be true?
On the evening of January 1, 1989, Art had attended a dance with some friends. When his father and I went to bed that night, a cold rain beat at the windows. I am usually a sound sleeper, but at about 1:00 A.M. I awoke with a start and shook my husband. "Arthur," I said, my heart racing, "I'm afraid something terrible has happened to our boy." Before I could get back to sleep, a call came from St. Vincent's Hospital. Art had been driving his friends home when a pickup truck turned into the side of his car, slamming it into a tree. One of Art's passengers died. The others weren't badly hurt. But Art lay close to death in the emergency room.
I will never forget the panic of that night, the dread and the sense of helplessness as my boy fought for life. After Arthur and I threw on some clothes we raced in our car to St. Vincent's. Along with some friends and family members we had alerted, we huddled together and prayed unceasingly while doctors worked on Art. The news from the operating room was grim. Art's windpipe and chest were nearly crushed from the impact with the steering wheel. Most worrisome was the injury to his brain.
"All that's saved him so far," one doctor told us, "is his strong athlete's body. But the area around his brain stem is so severely damaged he might never regain consciousness."
At about 5:00 A.M. Dr. Frank A. Redmond finally came to us and said Art's condition was stabilized and he would be moved into the intensive care unit. He revealed that on at least one occasion that night Art had been clinically dead but they were able to revive him. "I did a lot of praying," Dr. Redmond admitted. "Something kept your boy alive."
Eventually they let us see Art in ICU. I tiptoed to his bedside. To see him so still, to see the breathing tube in his trachea, his closed and swollen eyes—my own flesh and blood—it was just devastating. I collapsed into my husband's arms and sobbed. "We can't give up," he whispered, holding me tight. "We have to keep praying for a miracle."
I wiped my eyes and turned back to Art. Would his eyes ever open again, his lips speak, or his arms move voluntarily? Would he ever again sneak up behind me in the kitchen, throw those muscled arms around my waist and kiss me, saying, "Ma, I sure do love ya"?
The doctors didn't think so. "Even if your son wakes up, he probably won't be able to walk," one said. "He won't have a memory. He won't know who you are."
I refused to believe my own son wouldn't know me. God is merciful.
Asleep in a nearby room the hospital let me use that night, I was given a different prognosis. In a dream as vivid as life, I saw two colossal angels floating over Art's bed, one above his head and the other at his side. They were glowing, shimmering, their streaming robes lighter than air. Their faces were indistinct, but they had a golden brilliance that emanated love, compassion and healing. Then I saw Art sitting up in bed, talking with his friends. My heart beat with joy. My son would be healed! What else could this vision mean?
I awakened with the images still flowing through my mind and rushed into Art's room, half expecting to see him sitting up in bed laughing. But he was still in a coma, still near death. That is when I pressed my lips close and whispered my dream to him.
From then on I carried the picture of those two great heavenly beauties in my mind's eye, and every day I reminded Art about them. I knew his spirit heard me. That's why we talked to him—his father and I, our relatives and ministers, his friends from school, and the football team and his coaches. We spoke to Art constantly, telling him how much we loved him, keeping a vigil.
Thirty days passed. I was at my son's side continually, talking, praying, playing tapes from his friends. I refused to believe he wouldn't ever get up out of that bed, that he wouldn't know his own mother. The doctors tried to temper my optimism, while we continued to pray.
What in life is more realistic than faith, more practical, really, than hope? Isn't that all I had? I knew my son would get well. I kept visualizing it and thanking the Lord, over and over again. But it was hard to keep believing as the weeks wore on. To see my boy fed by tubes when he used to feast on my cooking, homemade lasagna and fried chicken.
Finally Art was transferred to St. Francis Hospital in Green Springs. Every time I came to visit him all of the nurses would shake their heads, knowing the question that was on my lips: Has there been a change? Anything?
Three months passed. Then I saw the angels again.
It was during Holy Week and Art's older sister, Rachael, and I had been talking about how much Art loved Easter. Again I dreamed I was at Art's bedside. Those same golden angels, both powerful and compassionate, looked over my son, who was awake, his eyes alert and bright. This time, however, the angels were both on Art's right. I took this as a reaffirmation of God's message.
Art's eyes opened on Good Friday. I had had a special feeling when I came to see him that afternoon. When I walked into his room those big, brown eyes were looking right at me. Could it really be? I slowly walked around the bed. Art's eyes followed. He was awake! He was tracking me! I fell to my knees at his bedside and gave thanks.
Doctors, however, were cautious about interpreting this too optimistically. Then came Easter. As his father and I arrived for a visit after church, a nurse rushed up waving a piece of paper. In a handwriting I knew as well as my own was our phone number, obviously written out with great difficulty. "It was as if he wanted us to call you," the nurse reported. "His memory is intact!" On the day of our Savior's resurrection, part of Art had been resurrected too. He hadn't forgotten us.
A month went by and nothing much changed. Art still hadn't uttered a word since coming out of his coma. One day Art's grandmother accompanied me to the hospital. When we left Art's room she lamented, "Delores, I don't think he's ever going to talk again!"
I was about to disagree when a familiar voice jolted us: "Ma!"
We froze. It rang out again, loud and clear. "Ma!"
Art was talking. His first word now was the first word he had ever said as a baby: Ma. I knew the Lord would not let my son forget his mother.
Though his words were few and hesitant, the hospital immediately began speech therapy, followed by physical therapy. His progress was slow—until a therapist used a little psychology and a mirror. The athlete in Art was proud of the body he had taken care of and trained so well. When the therapist showed Art how his physique had atrophied during the coma, Art's face tightened with determination. From that moment on he strove to regain his old physical form.
Finally Art was able to tell us what he recalled about the night of the accident.
"I remember being on the operating table," he said. "I saw the doctors working on me. Three times I tried to leave my body, and three times the Holy Spirit made me go back because my family was praying and God would heal me."
Art has had a long road back, and I remind him about the angels I saw in my dream whenever his struggle is wearing him down. His speech was slow for a long time, but now he speaks almost as well as he did before the accident. He walks with a cane, but leans on it less and less. This June he will graduate from the University of Toledo with a degree in marketing. Art still wants to play football again, which some people might think is too optimistic. But Art believes that with the power of many prayers behind him, anything is possible.
I know it's a miracle when my son sneaks up behind me in the kitchen, slips his arms around my waist, kisses me and says, "Ma, I sure do love ya." It's the miracle we prayed for and the one the angels in my dream promised. It's the miracle of my Art, alive today.
Not a Time for Angels
While she was sick Deirdre's room filled up with angels, but she knew it wasn't her time to leave earth...
By Joan Wester Anderson Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website.
Some people, like Deirdre West, never think about retirement. Right now, Deirdre is 78-years-old (by Indian or Chinese reckoning--they count the day you were born as your first birthday, she says) and we met via email because she is busy setting up a library for hospital patients in South India and my book, "Where Angels Walk," had been one of the books she selected. Deirdre is originally from England, but she has lived in many different places, and she has been exposed to a variety of lifestyles and ideas. I love what she says about her faith:
"Unlike most readers of your angel stories, I was not brought up a Roman Catholic, but a Christian Scientist, though I have always had the deepest respect for other denominations of the Christian Church and for other world religions," she says. "I firmly believe there is only one God who responds swiftly to those in great need, irrespective of their creed, when their prayers come from the heart with faith, trust, and love." (Joan's two cents: Angel-lovers are not all Roman Catholic; in fact, in fact, my readers are of many faiths. Angels have a tendency to bring everyone together.)
Deirdre has always believed in angels, and for good reason. When she was in her late twenties, married, and working as a teacher in London, she received a special touch from angels. For some weeks she had been seriously ill, struggling with severe anemia. There came a point one morning when she felt herself slipping away; her husband was in another room in their apartment. She seemed to be having a hallucination because she could see her adoptive mother--who had died the previous year--standing in a corner of the room, beckoning to her. (Another note from Joan: Remember how common it is for people on their deathbeds to see their deceased friends and relatives coming to escort them to heaven…)
Then, all of a sudden, the room was filled with angels! Deirdre could see them all around her bed, at the doorway. The angels appeared to be filled with joy and love, blessing a holy moment. For a moment Deirdre felt the most wonderful thing she could do was to let herself be taken away…
Yet Deirdre felt it was not her time to go. Instead, with a struggle, she got up and sat on the edge of the bed. She proclaimed over and over, "God is my life, God is my life, God is my life." She then lay down, with a feeling of peace and surrender. Gradually, both the vision of her adoptive mother and the angels disappeared. Within days, she regained her strength.
Deirdre resumed teaching and used her holidays in England to visit India and volunteer in hospitals there. "In 1983 I went to China to teach English in universities, and after six years I left for Australia," she says. "That is where I heard of Sathya Sai Baba and I went to India to investigate his teachings. I was able to spend six months there, and then I returned to China." Eventually Deirdre became a nurse and put down roots in India. "I did a lot of writing on health education, and I was recently given the job of setting up the library. It will have medical books, of course, but the spiritual section of the hospital library is very important, too. I have books representing all faiths as well as some books on alternative medicine."
Until now, Deirdre has never told anyone about her angelic vision. "From that experience, I knew it was possible to see the divine messengers and to receive their messages of inspiration, comfort, and encouragement." Teacher, nurse, writer, librarian...What an amazing life Deirdre has had--and how richly blessed we all are to hear her story.
While she was sick Deirdre's room filled up with angels, but she knew it wasn't her time to leave earth...
By Joan Wester Anderson Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website.
Some people, like Deirdre West, never think about retirement. Right now, Deirdre is 78-years-old (by Indian or Chinese reckoning--they count the day you were born as your first birthday, she says) and we met via email because she is busy setting up a library for hospital patients in South India and my book, "Where Angels Walk," had been one of the books she selected. Deirdre is originally from England, but she has lived in many different places, and she has been exposed to a variety of lifestyles and ideas. I love what she says about her faith:
"Unlike most readers of your angel stories, I was not brought up a Roman Catholic, but a Christian Scientist, though I have always had the deepest respect for other denominations of the Christian Church and for other world religions," she says. "I firmly believe there is only one God who responds swiftly to those in great need, irrespective of their creed, when their prayers come from the heart with faith, trust, and love." (Joan's two cents: Angel-lovers are not all Roman Catholic; in fact, in fact, my readers are of many faiths. Angels have a tendency to bring everyone together.)
Deirdre has always believed in angels, and for good reason. When she was in her late twenties, married, and working as a teacher in London, she received a special touch from angels. For some weeks she had been seriously ill, struggling with severe anemia. There came a point one morning when she felt herself slipping away; her husband was in another room in their apartment. She seemed to be having a hallucination because she could see her adoptive mother--who had died the previous year--standing in a corner of the room, beckoning to her. (Another note from Joan: Remember how common it is for people on their deathbeds to see their deceased friends and relatives coming to escort them to heaven…)
Then, all of a sudden, the room was filled with angels! Deirdre could see them all around her bed, at the doorway. The angels appeared to be filled with joy and love, blessing a holy moment. For a moment Deirdre felt the most wonderful thing she could do was to let herself be taken away…
Yet Deirdre felt it was not her time to go. Instead, with a struggle, she got up and sat on the edge of the bed. She proclaimed over and over, "God is my life, God is my life, God is my life." She then lay down, with a feeling of peace and surrender. Gradually, both the vision of her adoptive mother and the angels disappeared. Within days, she regained her strength.
Deirdre resumed teaching and used her holidays in England to visit India and volunteer in hospitals there. "In 1983 I went to China to teach English in universities, and after six years I left for Australia," she says. "That is where I heard of Sathya Sai Baba and I went to India to investigate his teachings. I was able to spend six months there, and then I returned to China." Eventually Deirdre became a nurse and put down roots in India. "I did a lot of writing on health education, and I was recently given the job of setting up the library. It will have medical books, of course, but the spiritual section of the hospital library is very important, too. I have books representing all faiths as well as some books on alternative medicine."
Until now, Deirdre has never told anyone about her angelic vision. "From that experience, I knew it was possible to see the divine messengers and to receive their messages of inspiration, comfort, and encouragement." Teacher, nurse, writer, librarian...What an amazing life Deirdre has had--and how richly blessed we all are to hear her story.
Not a Second to Spare
The little boy was already on the tracks with an incoming train when I began running, running...
By Kassandra Guymon from Angels
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/216/story_21692.html
Usually I had to be at school by 7:30 A.M. Northridge High School was doing some testing in the lower grades that day, so seniors like me got to go in late. Mom offered me a ride when it was time to go. I sat beside her in our van, kicked off my sandals, and daydreamed about my future. I’d be graduating from high school in a few months. This summer was going to be the best one yet. I’d leave high school behind and do whatever I wanted. What would I do? Go to college? Turn my job coaching gymnastics into a full-time gig? Or get a job in an office where I could work my way up? And what about marriage, kids? I had plenty of time to figure all that out later. There were millions of things I could do with my life, and whatever I chose I was sure would turn out fine. Maybe I just had spring fever. Or senioritis. Or a little of both.
Mom interrupted my thoughts. “Kassandra, do you see that?” she asked just as we were crossing the railroad tracks. She stopped the van on the other side and pointed out the window. “It looks like a child.” Sure enough, I saw a small boy walking by himself. A blue bicycle rested on its kickstand nearby, but there was no one else in sight.
“He looks too young to be out here alone,” I said. The road next to the train tracks was pretty busy and the boy was awfully close to it. What if he tried to cross the street and got hurt? “I’ll see if I can find his parents.” I slipped on my sandals. “He might be afraid if a stranger comes up to him.”
I got out of the van, walked to the nearest house and rang the doorbell. “Excuse me,” I asked the man who answered. “There’s a little boy over there, he looks about five or six, and he’s all alone. Do you know his parents?”
“Kassandra!” my mom called. I turned. I couldn’t see the boy from where I was standing. Mom was waving frantically at me from the van.
“What?” I yelled back, a little impatient. I went to the edge of the yard to make sure the boy wasn’t in the street.
The warning lights on the train tracks flashed red. The wooden arms descended in front of the road, blocking cars from crossing. The rhythmic chug-chug-chug of a train got louder. “Run!” Mom screamed from the van. The terror in her voice cut through the clear morning air. The train rumbled into view and let out two desperate whistles. A warning: The engineer saw the boy! But he stayed where he was—right in the middle of the tracks. The whistle sounded again. There’s no way that train can stop in time! The boy jumped up and down and waved at the engineer.
I took off running. My sandals flopped against my feet as I ran, so I kicked them off. The train sped so fast. How could I hope to beat it running barefoot across gravel? I ran faster. I tried to picture myself reaching the boy and picking him up without stopping, crossing the tracks just before the train hit us.
Stones crunched and flew under my bare feet. The ground shook. God, let me get to him! The train was almost on top of him. But so was I! I put my head down and pumped my legs hard. Keep going forward, I thought. Get the boy and keep running across the tracks. Just a few inches more...
I grabbed the boy in my arms. Keep running! But something pushed me. I fell backward, away from the train. I pulled the boy with me onto safe ground. The train barreled past. The noise was deafening. The wheels were so close I could have reached out and touched one. The train was huge. It was going even faster than I’d thought. I never would have made it if I’d kept going across the tracks, I thought. We would have been killed! I clutched the little boy tightly. Did he have any idea of the danger he’d been in?
Once the train was out of sight I stood up. My legs felt like jelly and I shook all over. I took the boy’s hand in mine. Mom ran up and hugged me. “Kassandra, I didn’t think you were going to make it!” I held on to the boy. He was much younger than I’d thought. Probably only three or four.
A woman ran toward us. Her hair was wet, like she’d just come out of the shower. I let the boy go and he ran quickly over to her. She reached down and picked him up, squeezing him close to her. “Baby!” she cried. “How did you get out of the house?”
I felt an arm around my shoulders. It was Mom. “He’ll be okay now,” she said. I nodded, still a little in shock.
Mom looked down. “Oh, honey, your feet!” she said. I lifted up one foot to look at the sole. It was embedded with bits of gravel. Mom leaned down and tried to pluck some of it out.
I brushed the gravel away, still staring at the train tracks. I could almost hear the roar of the train, almost feel it rumbling over the ground. I could have been killed, I kept thinking.
I didn’t go to school. My legs were so shaky I could barely walk. Usually I considered a day off a rare treat. But I missed going to school that day. All the things about it I’d taken for granted suddenly seemed important.
That afternoon Mom and I sat on the couch, going over what had happened. “I ran at top speed,” I said. “All I was thinking was that I had to go forward. The closer I got, the faster I ran. With that kind of momentum I shouldn’t have been able to stop at all. But not only did I stop short, I fell backward, away from the train. It was almost as if something pushed me.”
Mom was quiet for a second. She looked at me with a strange expression. “In the car I asked God to send angels to protect you,” she said. “I guess my prayer was answered.”
My own guardian angels. That was definitely something to think about. I got ready for bed that night already looking forward to school the next day. I wanted to enjoy every moment in life. Maybe I’d even go see my school guidance counselor to talk about my future. Would I go to college? Get a job? Have a family? Maybe I’ll do all three. Whatever I do, God will be watching over me. And with him watching over me, anything is possible.
The little boy was already on the tracks with an incoming train when I began running, running...
By Kassandra Guymon from Angels
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/216/story_21692.html
Usually I had to be at school by 7:30 A.M. Northridge High School was doing some testing in the lower grades that day, so seniors like me got to go in late. Mom offered me a ride when it was time to go. I sat beside her in our van, kicked off my sandals, and daydreamed about my future. I’d be graduating from high school in a few months. This summer was going to be the best one yet. I’d leave high school behind and do whatever I wanted. What would I do? Go to college? Turn my job coaching gymnastics into a full-time gig? Or get a job in an office where I could work my way up? And what about marriage, kids? I had plenty of time to figure all that out later. There were millions of things I could do with my life, and whatever I chose I was sure would turn out fine. Maybe I just had spring fever. Or senioritis. Or a little of both.
Mom interrupted my thoughts. “Kassandra, do you see that?” she asked just as we were crossing the railroad tracks. She stopped the van on the other side and pointed out the window. “It looks like a child.” Sure enough, I saw a small boy walking by himself. A blue bicycle rested on its kickstand nearby, but there was no one else in sight.
“He looks too young to be out here alone,” I said. The road next to the train tracks was pretty busy and the boy was awfully close to it. What if he tried to cross the street and got hurt? “I’ll see if I can find his parents.” I slipped on my sandals. “He might be afraid if a stranger comes up to him.”
I got out of the van, walked to the nearest house and rang the doorbell. “Excuse me,” I asked the man who answered. “There’s a little boy over there, he looks about five or six, and he’s all alone. Do you know his parents?”
“Kassandra!” my mom called. I turned. I couldn’t see the boy from where I was standing. Mom was waving frantically at me from the van.
“What?” I yelled back, a little impatient. I went to the edge of the yard to make sure the boy wasn’t in the street.
The warning lights on the train tracks flashed red. The wooden arms descended in front of the road, blocking cars from crossing. The rhythmic chug-chug-chug of a train got louder. “Run!” Mom screamed from the van. The terror in her voice cut through the clear morning air. The train rumbled into view and let out two desperate whistles. A warning: The engineer saw the boy! But he stayed where he was—right in the middle of the tracks. The whistle sounded again. There’s no way that train can stop in time! The boy jumped up and down and waved at the engineer.
I took off running. My sandals flopped against my feet as I ran, so I kicked them off. The train sped so fast. How could I hope to beat it running barefoot across gravel? I ran faster. I tried to picture myself reaching the boy and picking him up without stopping, crossing the tracks just before the train hit us.
Stones crunched and flew under my bare feet. The ground shook. God, let me get to him! The train was almost on top of him. But so was I! I put my head down and pumped my legs hard. Keep going forward, I thought. Get the boy and keep running across the tracks. Just a few inches more...
I grabbed the boy in my arms. Keep running! But something pushed me. I fell backward, away from the train. I pulled the boy with me onto safe ground. The train barreled past. The noise was deafening. The wheels were so close I could have reached out and touched one. The train was huge. It was going even faster than I’d thought. I never would have made it if I’d kept going across the tracks, I thought. We would have been killed! I clutched the little boy tightly. Did he have any idea of the danger he’d been in?
Once the train was out of sight I stood up. My legs felt like jelly and I shook all over. I took the boy’s hand in mine. Mom ran up and hugged me. “Kassandra, I didn’t think you were going to make it!” I held on to the boy. He was much younger than I’d thought. Probably only three or four.
A woman ran toward us. Her hair was wet, like she’d just come out of the shower. I let the boy go and he ran quickly over to her. She reached down and picked him up, squeezing him close to her. “Baby!” she cried. “How did you get out of the house?”
I felt an arm around my shoulders. It was Mom. “He’ll be okay now,” she said. I nodded, still a little in shock.
Mom looked down. “Oh, honey, your feet!” she said. I lifted up one foot to look at the sole. It was embedded with bits of gravel. Mom leaned down and tried to pluck some of it out.
I brushed the gravel away, still staring at the train tracks. I could almost hear the roar of the train, almost feel it rumbling over the ground. I could have been killed, I kept thinking.
I didn’t go to school. My legs were so shaky I could barely walk. Usually I considered a day off a rare treat. But I missed going to school that day. All the things about it I’d taken for granted suddenly seemed important.
That afternoon Mom and I sat on the couch, going over what had happened. “I ran at top speed,” I said. “All I was thinking was that I had to go forward. The closer I got, the faster I ran. With that kind of momentum I shouldn’t have been able to stop at all. But not only did I stop short, I fell backward, away from the train. It was almost as if something pushed me.”
Mom was quiet for a second. She looked at me with a strange expression. “In the car I asked God to send angels to protect you,” she said. “I guess my prayer was answered.”
My own guardian angels. That was definitely something to think about. I got ready for bed that night already looking forward to school the next day. I wanted to enjoy every moment in life. Maybe I’d even go see my school guidance counselor to talk about my future. Would I go to college? Get a job? Have a family? Maybe I’ll do all three. Whatever I do, God will be watching over me. And with him watching over me, anything is possible.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/129/story_12985.html
Dimes in the Desert
Earl gave his wife Leena a special gift. She passed that gift on to her son, who served in Iraq.
By Joan Wester Anderson Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website.
Leena Parker married a Marine, and her son Daniel eventually followed in his step-dad's footsteps. In December 2000, Leena's husband, Earl, became a patient at the local VA hospital. The prognosis was not good. "One day when I came into his room, he was holding his hand closed," Leena says. "I asked him what he had there, and he opened his hand to show me a shiny dime." Leena took it--wondering briefly who had given it to Earl--set it on the dresser, and forgot about it. Soon after, Earl passed away.
The morning after his death, Leena awakened and started to get out of bed. It seemed as if she was sitting on something. She looked on the sheet beneath her, and saw a shiny dime. "How did that get there?" she wondered.
Through the next few weeks, Leena began finding dimes in places where they had never been before. Could this be Earl, trying to tell her something? she wondered. But, like many of us, she was afraid to read too much into these finds. They could all be coincidences, couldn't they?
Gradually, the flow of dimes slowed, but it never completely stopped. Leena would find a dime on the floor of her living room, or outside as she was walking down the street. She missed Earl, and wished she could believe that the dimes were a sign he was well and happy. Then this past January, her son Daniel received orders. He was being sent to Iraq.
"I had told Daniel about the dimes," Leena says. "And the night before he was to leave, he told me he was really hoping Earl would be with him over there." Leena made a gesture of taking Earl from her heart, and giving him to Daniel. The two smiled. Earl would be watching over both of them, they hoped.
The morning before the Iraqi war started, Daniel awakened, and began to get dressed. When he reached for his helmet, there were two shiny dimes in it. Daniel was surprised. There was no need for currency in the desert, and virtually no coins anywhere around. Where had the dimes come from? He was still pondering that evening when he attended a meeting, and looked down. In between his feet was another dime. Daniel remembered what his mother had told him about the dimes, and the gesture she had made. He knew that his beloved step-dad was definitely with him, and was sending him a message of love.
Daniel was in Baghdad during the fighting there, and is now safely home and nominated for the Medal of Honor. Leena does not know why certain people became casualties and others, like her son, did not. She can only express her gratitude to God, and watch for more dimes. She knows where they're coming from.
Dimes in the Desert
Earl gave his wife Leena a special gift. She passed that gift on to her son, who served in Iraq.
By Joan Wester Anderson Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website.
Leena Parker married a Marine, and her son Daniel eventually followed in his step-dad's footsteps. In December 2000, Leena's husband, Earl, became a patient at the local VA hospital. The prognosis was not good. "One day when I came into his room, he was holding his hand closed," Leena says. "I asked him what he had there, and he opened his hand to show me a shiny dime." Leena took it--wondering briefly who had given it to Earl--set it on the dresser, and forgot about it. Soon after, Earl passed away.
The morning after his death, Leena awakened and started to get out of bed. It seemed as if she was sitting on something. She looked on the sheet beneath her, and saw a shiny dime. "How did that get there?" she wondered.
Through the next few weeks, Leena began finding dimes in places where they had never been before. Could this be Earl, trying to tell her something? she wondered. But, like many of us, she was afraid to read too much into these finds. They could all be coincidences, couldn't they?
Gradually, the flow of dimes slowed, but it never completely stopped. Leena would find a dime on the floor of her living room, or outside as she was walking down the street. She missed Earl, and wished she could believe that the dimes were a sign he was well and happy. Then this past January, her son Daniel received orders. He was being sent to Iraq.
"I had told Daniel about the dimes," Leena says. "And the night before he was to leave, he told me he was really hoping Earl would be with him over there." Leena made a gesture of taking Earl from her heart, and giving him to Daniel. The two smiled. Earl would be watching over both of them, they hoped.
The morning before the Iraqi war started, Daniel awakened, and began to get dressed. When he reached for his helmet, there were two shiny dimes in it. Daniel was surprised. There was no need for currency in the desert, and virtually no coins anywhere around. Where had the dimes come from? He was still pondering that evening when he attended a meeting, and looked down. In between his feet was another dime. Daniel remembered what his mother had told him about the dimes, and the gesture she had made. He knew that his beloved step-dad was definitely with him, and was sending him a message of love.
Daniel was in Baghdad during the fighting there, and is now safely home and nominated for the Medal of Honor. Leena does not know why certain people became casualties and others, like her son, did not. She can only express her gratitude to God, and watch for more dimes. She knows where they're coming from.