http://www.beliefnet.com/story/222/stor ... mc_id=NL24
The Special Ad for Rosebushes
Every week, Rosemary was reminded of her promise to St. Therese of Lisieux.
By Joan Wester Anderson Reprinted with permission from Joan Wester Anderson's website.
"Angels are our special helpmates," Rosemary says, "but so are saints. St Therese, a favorite among Catholics, is often nicknamed 'The Little Flower' because of her association with roses. She promised to send a shower of roses from heaven as a blessing, and a few days after she died rose petals floated down from the ceiling of her convent chapel! Since then, people who ask her for help often receive a rose as a special signal of reassurance."
In June 2000 Rosemary was praying in the Adoration Chapel of the Church of the Immaculate Conception in Westerly, Rhode Island. "As I was praying, a thought popped into my head (I believe from St. Therese herself) to pray for all the missionary priests under her patronage. So I did," Rosemary says. "Surprisingly, as I left the chapel, I stepped on something very small and hard--a single silver bead with a rose engraved on it. I smiled thinking, Oh, St. Therese you don't have to thank me."
The following weekend, Rosemary went away on a religious retreat and continued to pray for the missionaries under St. Therese's patronage. After she returned home, she saw an ad for St. Therese's Rosebushes being offered by a monastery. What a fun coincidence! Rosemary loves roses, so she ordered one for her backyard.
Instead of a rosebush, however, she received a letter from Sister Mary, a nun at the monastery. Rosemary had misread the ad. The rose bushes were actually gifts for those who sponsored a missionary priest. The sponsor cost was $1500. Would Rosemary be interested?
"I laughed and wrote back, explaining that I was a housewife and mom with no income of my own. I would not be able to sponsor a future priest, but I would continue to pray those becoming priests," Rosemary explains. She thought that was the end of it, but St. Therese apparently had other ideas.
One of Rosemary's hobbies is basket weaving. With the school year ending, she had thought about teaching children how to make baskets and had already ordered some supplies. But, as she and her own kids searched for students, they discovered that everyone were already programmed for summer activities. Frustrated, Rosemary sent up a prayer, "Please fill my classes this summer." As an afterthought she added, "If you do, I'll donate the money towards St. Therese's Rosebush!" Within 3 days, Rosemary began getting phone calls from mothers. Soon, she had a list of fourteen students, more than ever before. But would they stay for all eight Saturday morning classes?
Rosemary didn't know, but the whole matter was in God's hands now. Excitedly, she wrote to Sister Mary, telling the nun what had happened and hinting she might be able to send a donation for sponsoring a priest. The donation wouldn't be the full amount, of course, but every little bit helps, especially for missionaries. Sister Mary assured Rosemary that she could take as long as she needed to pay for the sponsorship.
The kids all showed up for the first class, and Rosemary was able to send a check for $200 to Sister Mary. By now the two were old friends, and Sister became more amazed as the children continued to attend classes and Rosemary continued to send checks each week. By the last class Rosemary had paid off her rosebush--and she was the inspiration of the entire monastery.
"I am thrilled to see HOW the Lord has worked!" Sister Mary wrote, and Rosemary responded with photographs of her students weaving and displaying their beautiful baskets.
"There must be a very special future missionary priest out there that needed to be sponsored," Rosemary says, "and St. Therese brought him to us." She hopes someday they'll meet, but, if not, her rosebush will serve as a wonderful reminder.
Angels
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/220/story_22032.html
Living with Angels in Jerusalem
Invoking the archangels is a mystic, powerful connection that takes us into the heart of the spiritual realm.
By Rabbi David A. Cooper Archangel Meditation
One of my most significant encounters with angels occurred in Jerusalem on December 31, 1990. The winters are chilly in Jerusalem, and many homes do not have central heating. My wife, Shoshana, and I lived in a two-story apartment with a large storage heater filled with bricks in the downstairs living room. Most of the heat naturally flowed up the stairwell, but the heater was far too heavy to move to a different location. After a number of chilly winters in our living room, I realized that a ceiling fan needed to be installed at the top of the stairs.
The upstairs ceiling was quite high, and I needed to balance with one foot on the railing of the stairs, leaning away from the ladder as I installed a toggle bolt for the fan. I wanted to be certain that the bolt would hold the heavy fan, so I tested it by hanging from it with my ft1ll weight, not considering what might happen if, in fact, the bolt did not hold me. Even to this day I remember a clear warning somewhere in the depths of my consciousness. I heard it, and ignored it. (We will see in the upcoming story of Balaam how easy it is to be blind to obvious signals.)
The primary building materials in the Old City are stone, marble, iron, and plaster. As the bolt broke loose from the plastered ceiling, I felt myself toppling over, about to fall headfirst to the bottom of the marble stairs. My instinct was to reach back for the rail or ladder as the weight of my body was falling in the opposite direction. In that instant, a voice distinctly cried out: “You must jump for the middle of the stairwell!”
It was counterintuitive to jump, but within a split second I realized that it was now or never; I only had a toehold left. So I jumped. I was able to land halfway down the stairs on one foot instead of falling out of control the full distance, which almost certainly would have resulted in a major injury. Instead, only my heel was crushed—broken into a few dozen pieces.
The moment I hit the uncarpeted marble floor, I knew something was wrong with my foot. But at that same instant I had the most enormous wave of relief wash over me. I was alive and not crippled! Except for the foot, I felt fine. It could have been far more serious. I found myself feeling the deepest sense of gratitude, almost euphoria, for the rest of that evening—despite the trip to the hospital, the pain, and the slow response of the physicians.
In that state of mind, throughout the evening I felt and knew clearly the surrounding and protective forces that people call angels. This was the first time I truly experienced an extraordinary, palpable sense of Presence, and I have returned to that experience many times over the years. It was not a visual experience of beings with wings, but rather a profound knowing that transcends the intellect.
Do We Need Special Glasses to See Spiritual Beings?
Mystics over the ages have attempted to describe this feeling, but it defies words. Let me simply say that most of us have experienced the excitement and joy of anticipation when we are about to meet a beloved person, and most of us have experienced the deep pleasure at certain times when our beloved is sitting next to us. These experiences are similarly impossible to convey fully with words. The palpable sense of Presence is like the profound joy and pleasure of being held in the arms of a beloved; it elicits a peace of mind that transcends description.
My studies in Jerusalem often brought me in touch with realities beyond the ordinary mundane world, It is as if I put on glasses tinted with a certain hue, and everything is seen in that new way. With special glasses in place in the spiritual realm, the world fills up with angels of all types, shapes, sizes, and energies. They are part of daily prayers, they show up in many of the biblical texts, they fill the commentaries on the texts, and they can be seen in virtually every act that is performed.
When my mother died, a few years before the stairwell incident, my older brother called to tell me the news. On the flight to California from Israel, I gazed out of the window and experienced not simply clouds and sky, but myriads of angels and my mother’s spirit dancing everywhere I looked. She danced happily, finally released. This was an amazing experience. I am certain that had I not been studying biblical commentaries for years, it would have been unlikely to have had that experience on the way to my mother’s funeral. Yet seeing Mom dancing with angels opened my heart. While I grieved the loss, I was happy for her; she was now free. This is one important way that learning to invoke angels can be of enormous value when difficult or tragic situations arise.
Living with angels on a daily basis cultivates an entirely new view. I do not experience angels in Hollywood images as beatific forms with wings. Rather, everything takes on a special quality; everything feels connected in a fascinating way. Whatever sense calls to me—sight, sound, touch, taste or smell—each sensation has a new feel to it. The puff of a breeze, the dance of a shadow, all shapes, movements, energies—each has a special quality. Moreover, when angels are invoked, there is a fascinating experience of never feeling alone. There is a sense of being in the midst of a constantly unfolding creation that is rich, awesome, brilliant, and complete; each and every moment is stunning.
When the Archangel Raphael Saved My Brother
A couple of months after breaking my heel, I got a call from my niece that my older brother had a nearly fatal heart attack. My niece is a physician, and she told me on the phone that he had about a one-in-ten chance of surviving. I caught the next plane out for New York and got to Syracuse as quickly as I could. On the way, I found myself doing a traditional archangel meditation, surrounding myself with the archangels: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, and Uriel. My oldest brother’s name is Ralph, and Raphael, as will be seen, is the archangel of healing.
I arrived at his bedside in the cardiac unit and saw all the tubes running in and out of his body. He could not speak because the machines were helping him breathe, but his recognition and his smile as I entered the room were priceless. When I got there, he demanded that the tube in his throat be removed, even though the risk was high. As they pulled the tube, I was in communion with the angel Raphael.
My brother survived and continues to do well fifteen years later. I do not talk to Ralph about the angel Raphael, for my brother does not want to hear about such things. His world, like that of so many, is not inhabited by angels; even the word makes him cringe. So what? My invoking Raphael was as much for me as it was for Ralph.
I do not claim that my connection with this archangel was the cause for my brother’s survival, yet I felt that both of us were “helped!’ I gained strength and conviction, and nobody knows to what extent this kind of conscious support and prayer for healing is useful. Still, faced with the choice between feeling entirely helpless, or using the tools of angelic imagery and prayer, I am drawn to calling upon a mysterious force of healing in which I find relief and comfort.
I have found that the archangel prayer is one of the most powerful ways to cultivate a kind of intimacy with the angelic realm. Its extraordinary power has been revealed to me time and again as I assist people in my role as a rabbi in situations of great stress, especially in times of illness or serious accidents or when I work with someone who is dying.
'The Archangel Meditation Is Universal'
Archangel Meditation
(Short Form)
In the mid-nineties I was contacted by a dear friend whose son had just been seriously injured in a freak accident. He had a head injury that was causing swelling of the brain and spinal cord, and the outlook was not good. When we spoke, the surgeons had induced a coma to relieve the pressure in the hope that the swelling could be controlled. By phone, I taught my friend the archangel prayer and meditation as well as a melody that is often associated with it, and suggested that she do it out loud with her son as often as possible. Though my friend is Christian, the Archangel Meditation is universal, and people from all traditions can work with it comfortably.
She began immediately, talking and singing this guided meditation and prayer, despite the fact that her son was in a coma. She did this for days, virtually nonstop, except to sleep occasionally. When he finally came out of the coma, her son knew the words and melody of the prayer by heart; moreover, he reported visualizations of light-filled beings that he had experienced while unconscious. To this day, my friend is certain that archangels were invoked, and they saved her son.
In a story like this most of us focus on the healing power of the angels. I would like to draw attention to the fact that this mother put her heart and soul into the experience of invoking angel, which is a process that must not be ignored; it was clearly for her a vital part of the healing that took place. Moreover, the prayers offered her a refuge in which she could participate and find some solace during those anxious days while the boy was in a coma. Healing can occur on many levels in the practice of invoking angels.
Living with Angels in Jerusalem
Invoking the archangels is a mystic, powerful connection that takes us into the heart of the spiritual realm.
By Rabbi David A. Cooper Archangel Meditation
One of my most significant encounters with angels occurred in Jerusalem on December 31, 1990. The winters are chilly in Jerusalem, and many homes do not have central heating. My wife, Shoshana, and I lived in a two-story apartment with a large storage heater filled with bricks in the downstairs living room. Most of the heat naturally flowed up the stairwell, but the heater was far too heavy to move to a different location. After a number of chilly winters in our living room, I realized that a ceiling fan needed to be installed at the top of the stairs.
The upstairs ceiling was quite high, and I needed to balance with one foot on the railing of the stairs, leaning away from the ladder as I installed a toggle bolt for the fan. I wanted to be certain that the bolt would hold the heavy fan, so I tested it by hanging from it with my ft1ll weight, not considering what might happen if, in fact, the bolt did not hold me. Even to this day I remember a clear warning somewhere in the depths of my consciousness. I heard it, and ignored it. (We will see in the upcoming story of Balaam how easy it is to be blind to obvious signals.)
The primary building materials in the Old City are stone, marble, iron, and plaster. As the bolt broke loose from the plastered ceiling, I felt myself toppling over, about to fall headfirst to the bottom of the marble stairs. My instinct was to reach back for the rail or ladder as the weight of my body was falling in the opposite direction. In that instant, a voice distinctly cried out: “You must jump for the middle of the stairwell!”
It was counterintuitive to jump, but within a split second I realized that it was now or never; I only had a toehold left. So I jumped. I was able to land halfway down the stairs on one foot instead of falling out of control the full distance, which almost certainly would have resulted in a major injury. Instead, only my heel was crushed—broken into a few dozen pieces.
The moment I hit the uncarpeted marble floor, I knew something was wrong with my foot. But at that same instant I had the most enormous wave of relief wash over me. I was alive and not crippled! Except for the foot, I felt fine. It could have been far more serious. I found myself feeling the deepest sense of gratitude, almost euphoria, for the rest of that evening—despite the trip to the hospital, the pain, and the slow response of the physicians.
In that state of mind, throughout the evening I felt and knew clearly the surrounding and protective forces that people call angels. This was the first time I truly experienced an extraordinary, palpable sense of Presence, and I have returned to that experience many times over the years. It was not a visual experience of beings with wings, but rather a profound knowing that transcends the intellect.
Do We Need Special Glasses to See Spiritual Beings?
Mystics over the ages have attempted to describe this feeling, but it defies words. Let me simply say that most of us have experienced the excitement and joy of anticipation when we are about to meet a beloved person, and most of us have experienced the deep pleasure at certain times when our beloved is sitting next to us. These experiences are similarly impossible to convey fully with words. The palpable sense of Presence is like the profound joy and pleasure of being held in the arms of a beloved; it elicits a peace of mind that transcends description.
My studies in Jerusalem often brought me in touch with realities beyond the ordinary mundane world, It is as if I put on glasses tinted with a certain hue, and everything is seen in that new way. With special glasses in place in the spiritual realm, the world fills up with angels of all types, shapes, sizes, and energies. They are part of daily prayers, they show up in many of the biblical texts, they fill the commentaries on the texts, and they can be seen in virtually every act that is performed.
When my mother died, a few years before the stairwell incident, my older brother called to tell me the news. On the flight to California from Israel, I gazed out of the window and experienced not simply clouds and sky, but myriads of angels and my mother’s spirit dancing everywhere I looked. She danced happily, finally released. This was an amazing experience. I am certain that had I not been studying biblical commentaries for years, it would have been unlikely to have had that experience on the way to my mother’s funeral. Yet seeing Mom dancing with angels opened my heart. While I grieved the loss, I was happy for her; she was now free. This is one important way that learning to invoke angels can be of enormous value when difficult or tragic situations arise.
Living with angels on a daily basis cultivates an entirely new view. I do not experience angels in Hollywood images as beatific forms with wings. Rather, everything takes on a special quality; everything feels connected in a fascinating way. Whatever sense calls to me—sight, sound, touch, taste or smell—each sensation has a new feel to it. The puff of a breeze, the dance of a shadow, all shapes, movements, energies—each has a special quality. Moreover, when angels are invoked, there is a fascinating experience of never feeling alone. There is a sense of being in the midst of a constantly unfolding creation that is rich, awesome, brilliant, and complete; each and every moment is stunning.
When the Archangel Raphael Saved My Brother
A couple of months after breaking my heel, I got a call from my niece that my older brother had a nearly fatal heart attack. My niece is a physician, and she told me on the phone that he had about a one-in-ten chance of surviving. I caught the next plane out for New York and got to Syracuse as quickly as I could. On the way, I found myself doing a traditional archangel meditation, surrounding myself with the archangels: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, and Uriel. My oldest brother’s name is Ralph, and Raphael, as will be seen, is the archangel of healing.
I arrived at his bedside in the cardiac unit and saw all the tubes running in and out of his body. He could not speak because the machines were helping him breathe, but his recognition and his smile as I entered the room were priceless. When I got there, he demanded that the tube in his throat be removed, even though the risk was high. As they pulled the tube, I was in communion with the angel Raphael.
My brother survived and continues to do well fifteen years later. I do not talk to Ralph about the angel Raphael, for my brother does not want to hear about such things. His world, like that of so many, is not inhabited by angels; even the word makes him cringe. So what? My invoking Raphael was as much for me as it was for Ralph.
I do not claim that my connection with this archangel was the cause for my brother’s survival, yet I felt that both of us were “helped!’ I gained strength and conviction, and nobody knows to what extent this kind of conscious support and prayer for healing is useful. Still, faced with the choice between feeling entirely helpless, or using the tools of angelic imagery and prayer, I am drawn to calling upon a mysterious force of healing in which I find relief and comfort.
I have found that the archangel prayer is one of the most powerful ways to cultivate a kind of intimacy with the angelic realm. Its extraordinary power has been revealed to me time and again as I assist people in my role as a rabbi in situations of great stress, especially in times of illness or serious accidents or when I work with someone who is dying.
'The Archangel Meditation Is Universal'
Archangel Meditation
(Short Form)
In the mid-nineties I was contacted by a dear friend whose son had just been seriously injured in a freak accident. He had a head injury that was causing swelling of the brain and spinal cord, and the outlook was not good. When we spoke, the surgeons had induced a coma to relieve the pressure in the hope that the swelling could be controlled. By phone, I taught my friend the archangel prayer and meditation as well as a melody that is often associated with it, and suggested that she do it out loud with her son as often as possible. Though my friend is Christian, the Archangel Meditation is universal, and people from all traditions can work with it comfortably.
She began immediately, talking and singing this guided meditation and prayer, despite the fact that her son was in a coma. She did this for days, virtually nonstop, except to sleep occasionally. When he finally came out of the coma, her son knew the words and melody of the prayer by heart; moreover, he reported visualizations of light-filled beings that he had experienced while unconscious. To this day, my friend is certain that archangels were invoked, and they saved her son.
In a story like this most of us focus on the healing power of the angels. I would like to draw attention to the fact that this mother put her heart and soul into the experience of invoking angel, which is a process that must not be ignored; it was clearly for her a vital part of the healing that took place. Moreover, the prayers offered her a refuge in which she could participate and find some solace during those anxious days while the boy was in a coma. Healing can occur on many levels in the practice of invoking angels.
Just How Strong Are Angels?
Do they have power that rivals Superman?Have a question about angels? Email Bill Webber at [email protected].*
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/222/story_22299.html
Find Out:
How strong and powerful are angels?
When did God create angels?
Do angels come at a certain time during death?
I remember a minister saying once that angels can be up to nine feet tall, and he described their incredible power. He said that their height, strength, and power were revealed in the scriptures. Can you tell me where these scriptural references come from?
- Ernie Massar
Peter puts the case mildly when he says angels are "stronger and more powerful" than humans (2 Peter 2:11). In the Bible they are better known for their power than their beauty or anything else. An angel rolled back the stone that covered Jesus' tomb—a real exhibition of strength (Matthew 28:2). An angel opened locked prison doors (Acts 5:17-20). Only one angel was sent to destroy the entire city of Jerusalem (1 Chronicles 21:15) and only two angels were needed to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah (Genesis 19:13, 24, 25). Angels were also responsible for the plagues in Egypt (Exodus 12:13-30; Psalm 78:43, 49; Hebrews 11:28). As you can see, angels "excel in strength" (Psalm 103:20).
Since angels are spirit beings, they take on a physical form only when carrying out God's will. This can be of any shape and size. See my article "What Do Angels Look Like?" So how tall are angels? Even though angels are described in the Bible, we do not know how tall they were. Still, we do find measurements of the angel figures in Solomon's temple—two cherubim figures that were each 15 feet tall with a wingspan of 15 feet (1 Kings 6:23-28). Both figures were carved from olive wood and covered with gold. Solomon's cherubim were certainly different from the cute pictures of cherubs we see on greeting cards today.
Last week in my Bible study class, we were trying to find verses that say when God created angels, but we were unsuccessful. We know that angels were created before the seven-day creation of Earth and that angels were not created in God's image. Please enlighten me and send me in the right direction.
- Pam
The reason you could not easily find such text is because verses stating the creation of angels often do not use the word angel. Although the word angel is used almost 300 times in the Bible, many synonyms such as "the heavenly hosts" are used. In Colossians 1:16 Jesus Christ is called the creator of angels, and the angels referred to as "things invisible, thrones, powers, rulers, and authorities." Psalm 148 also states, "Praise him, all his angels, praise him all his heavenly hosts. Let them praise the name of the Lord, for he commanded and they were created." (Psalm 148:2, 5). This is the basis for the statement of faith found in the Nicene Creed which is affirmed every Sunday in many churches: "We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen."
Most theologians hold that all of the angels were created at the same time. There are no hints in scripture of angels being continually created. Angels do not reproduce. There are no baby angels. In Matthew 22:28-30 Jesus taught that angels do not procreate, so we can conclude that each angel is a direct creation of God. We know that "the morning stars" (another term for angels in the Bible) sang together, and all the angels shouted with joy at the creation of Earth (Job 38:7). So it follows that angels were created before the planet.
Augustine, writing in the fifth century, made an interesting argument that angels were formed on the first day of creation. He reasoned that since "all things were created and ordered and the work of creation was completed in six days," the angels must have been created during the six days as well. He also said that because God made light on the first day and angels are "participators of [God's] eternal light," they must have been created in that time span.
But many, including myself, are not convinced by Augustine's reasoning. The Bible never tells us when angels were created, but it does teach that God created the angels before the world. What point is there in speculating any further?
My friend recently passed away. She was a very devout Catholic, but she embraced all religions and was very spiritual. Her belief in angels and how they take care of her was a great comfort to all of us who loved her. Toward the end she would tell us that we didn't have to be with her every minute because angels would come for her at 3:00 (a.m. or p.m.) She did pass away at 3:00 p.m. I have been looking for references about the "time the angels come" and have been unable to find any. Is there a basis in fact for this?
--J. Florio
Nowhere in the Bible are there any verses about the "time the angels come." Death records indicate that people die at all hours and minutes of the day and night. Your friend was right in believing that the angels would take her to Heaven, and it was thoughtful of her to say that you didn't have to be with her every minute. Perhaps an angel, during your friend's final hours, revealed her death would be at 3:00. If so, this is the exception rather than the rule.
Do they have power that rivals Superman?Have a question about angels? Email Bill Webber at [email protected].*
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/222/story_22299.html
Find Out:
How strong and powerful are angels?
When did God create angels?
Do angels come at a certain time during death?
I remember a minister saying once that angels can be up to nine feet tall, and he described their incredible power. He said that their height, strength, and power were revealed in the scriptures. Can you tell me where these scriptural references come from?
- Ernie Massar
Peter puts the case mildly when he says angels are "stronger and more powerful" than humans (2 Peter 2:11). In the Bible they are better known for their power than their beauty or anything else. An angel rolled back the stone that covered Jesus' tomb—a real exhibition of strength (Matthew 28:2). An angel opened locked prison doors (Acts 5:17-20). Only one angel was sent to destroy the entire city of Jerusalem (1 Chronicles 21:15) and only two angels were needed to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah (Genesis 19:13, 24, 25). Angels were also responsible for the plagues in Egypt (Exodus 12:13-30; Psalm 78:43, 49; Hebrews 11:28). As you can see, angels "excel in strength" (Psalm 103:20).
Since angels are spirit beings, they take on a physical form only when carrying out God's will. This can be of any shape and size. See my article "What Do Angels Look Like?" So how tall are angels? Even though angels are described in the Bible, we do not know how tall they were. Still, we do find measurements of the angel figures in Solomon's temple—two cherubim figures that were each 15 feet tall with a wingspan of 15 feet (1 Kings 6:23-28). Both figures were carved from olive wood and covered with gold. Solomon's cherubim were certainly different from the cute pictures of cherubs we see on greeting cards today.
Last week in my Bible study class, we were trying to find verses that say when God created angels, but we were unsuccessful. We know that angels were created before the seven-day creation of Earth and that angels were not created in God's image. Please enlighten me and send me in the right direction.
- Pam
The reason you could not easily find such text is because verses stating the creation of angels often do not use the word angel. Although the word angel is used almost 300 times in the Bible, many synonyms such as "the heavenly hosts" are used. In Colossians 1:16 Jesus Christ is called the creator of angels, and the angels referred to as "things invisible, thrones, powers, rulers, and authorities." Psalm 148 also states, "Praise him, all his angels, praise him all his heavenly hosts. Let them praise the name of the Lord, for he commanded and they were created." (Psalm 148:2, 5). This is the basis for the statement of faith found in the Nicene Creed which is affirmed every Sunday in many churches: "We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen."
Most theologians hold that all of the angels were created at the same time. There are no hints in scripture of angels being continually created. Angels do not reproduce. There are no baby angels. In Matthew 22:28-30 Jesus taught that angels do not procreate, so we can conclude that each angel is a direct creation of God. We know that "the morning stars" (another term for angels in the Bible) sang together, and all the angels shouted with joy at the creation of Earth (Job 38:7). So it follows that angels were created before the planet.
Augustine, writing in the fifth century, made an interesting argument that angels were formed on the first day of creation. He reasoned that since "all things were created and ordered and the work of creation was completed in six days," the angels must have been created during the six days as well. He also said that because God made light on the first day and angels are "participators of [God's] eternal light," they must have been created in that time span.
But many, including myself, are not convinced by Augustine's reasoning. The Bible never tells us when angels were created, but it does teach that God created the angels before the world. What point is there in speculating any further?
My friend recently passed away. She was a very devout Catholic, but she embraced all religions and was very spiritual. Her belief in angels and how they take care of her was a great comfort to all of us who loved her. Toward the end she would tell us that we didn't have to be with her every minute because angels would come for her at 3:00 (a.m. or p.m.) She did pass away at 3:00 p.m. I have been looking for references about the "time the angels come" and have been unable to find any. Is there a basis in fact for this?
--J. Florio
Nowhere in the Bible are there any verses about the "time the angels come." Death records indicate that people die at all hours and minutes of the day and night. Your friend was right in believing that the angels would take her to Heaven, and it was thoughtful of her to say that you didn't have to be with her every minute. Perhaps an angel, during your friend's final hours, revealed her death would be at 3:00. If so, this is the exception rather than the rule.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/6/story_ ... mc_id=NL24
To Become as Angels
Technological advances characterized the last millennium; perhaps advances in consciousness and compassion will mark the next.
Sophy Burnham
As the year 2000 and the next millennium begin to unfold, it is obvious that life is far different than it was a thousand years ago. In fact, human beings have seen such radical changes since 999 that some wonder if the blaze of invention and achievement has not being guided by an invisible intelligence and by the angels that guard and serve us. And that the greatest transformation in the next thousand years will occur not in technology but within humankind.
A thousand years ago, people lived, as they had for millennia, in a world lit only by fire. Almost nothing changed in Europe. The only new invention in Europe was the windmill, and even that was not yet known. (While it developed in Persia as early as 500 AD, it did not reach Europe until the first Crusades, about 1100.)
Since then, in each succeeding century, changes have accelerated with a speed that sets the mind spinning. More innovations have occurred in the last 200 years than in the previous 10,000, and more in the last 50 than in the two previous centuries. The 1800s were the age of exploration and transportation, of steel and steam, industrialization and engineering feats, democratic government, and for the first time in the history of the world, the end (in most places) of serfs and slaves. Machines brought physical freedom.
The 20th century has been the age of information and communication, with airplanes, radio, phones, fax, television, the Internet, and the launch of space probes. Worldwide literacy and an almost universal language--English--have fueled an explosion of information. These developments offer us freedom from ignorance and geographical isolation.
The past century also saw a medical explosion. In the last 50 years--only since the development of penicillin in World War II--could a woman expect to live past childbirth and see her babies live past infancy. We have checked cholera, typhoid, TB, small pox, polio, plague, malaria, measles, mumps, whooping cough, scarlet fever.
Psychologist Abraham H. Maslow theorized that, once survival basics are met, human beings naturally grow toward their highest potential. Self-actualized people are psychologically healthy and happy, with a marked ability to live free from stereotypes and to approach life realistically and without defensiveness. They have "peak experiences" of insight and joy, and an intense awareness of a spiritual dimension.
So the logical question becomes: In the next millennium, now that our basic needs are met, will we develop spiritually?
It's difficult to answer that question, but we do know two things: One is that a force of love and goodness--angels, God, however you name it--has always been with us, guiding and helping us. The second is that so long as we are alive, we will experience suffering and hurt. This is so, first, because each generation begins at scratch, having to learn all over again what its parents and grandparents learned 40 or 80 years before. And second, because the human heart is full of longing, love, desires, and passions, and therefore, is subject to pain. A young woman grieves as her mother dies. A man loses his child. Another breaks up with his beloved. A girl gets pregnant; a boy gets hooked on drugs. Pain abounds.
In the next millennium, that will not change. Families will face financial ruin. Wars will break out and young men people will die. Forests will be felled, planes will burst into flames, misunderstandings will occur, and tears will be shed. Where the blame cannot be laid to human hands, then acts of God--natural disasters--will bring us floods, fires, and earthquakes, taking further lives in humiliating and anguished ways.
But here is the good news: The angels promise, not an absence of suffering, but the promise that we will never face this suffering alone. Spiritual help walks beside us, whispering guidance in our ear, creating miracles, murmuring encouragement. And, perhaps in the next millennium, the challenge, as we struggle on the path to self-hood, will be to become as angels. And then we shall--all of humanity--reach enlightenment, and stand blinded by the beauty and love of God.
To Become as Angels
Technological advances characterized the last millennium; perhaps advances in consciousness and compassion will mark the next.
Sophy Burnham
As the year 2000 and the next millennium begin to unfold, it is obvious that life is far different than it was a thousand years ago. In fact, human beings have seen such radical changes since 999 that some wonder if the blaze of invention and achievement has not being guided by an invisible intelligence and by the angels that guard and serve us. And that the greatest transformation in the next thousand years will occur not in technology but within humankind.
A thousand years ago, people lived, as they had for millennia, in a world lit only by fire. Almost nothing changed in Europe. The only new invention in Europe was the windmill, and even that was not yet known. (While it developed in Persia as early as 500 AD, it did not reach Europe until the first Crusades, about 1100.)
Since then, in each succeeding century, changes have accelerated with a speed that sets the mind spinning. More innovations have occurred in the last 200 years than in the previous 10,000, and more in the last 50 than in the two previous centuries. The 1800s were the age of exploration and transportation, of steel and steam, industrialization and engineering feats, democratic government, and for the first time in the history of the world, the end (in most places) of serfs and slaves. Machines brought physical freedom.
The 20th century has been the age of information and communication, with airplanes, radio, phones, fax, television, the Internet, and the launch of space probes. Worldwide literacy and an almost universal language--English--have fueled an explosion of information. These developments offer us freedom from ignorance and geographical isolation.
The past century also saw a medical explosion. In the last 50 years--only since the development of penicillin in World War II--could a woman expect to live past childbirth and see her babies live past infancy. We have checked cholera, typhoid, TB, small pox, polio, plague, malaria, measles, mumps, whooping cough, scarlet fever.
Psychologist Abraham H. Maslow theorized that, once survival basics are met, human beings naturally grow toward their highest potential. Self-actualized people are psychologically healthy and happy, with a marked ability to live free from stereotypes and to approach life realistically and without defensiveness. They have "peak experiences" of insight and joy, and an intense awareness of a spiritual dimension.
So the logical question becomes: In the next millennium, now that our basic needs are met, will we develop spiritually?
It's difficult to answer that question, but we do know two things: One is that a force of love and goodness--angels, God, however you name it--has always been with us, guiding and helping us. The second is that so long as we are alive, we will experience suffering and hurt. This is so, first, because each generation begins at scratch, having to learn all over again what its parents and grandparents learned 40 or 80 years before. And second, because the human heart is full of longing, love, desires, and passions, and therefore, is subject to pain. A young woman grieves as her mother dies. A man loses his child. Another breaks up with his beloved. A girl gets pregnant; a boy gets hooked on drugs. Pain abounds.
In the next millennium, that will not change. Families will face financial ruin. Wars will break out and young men people will die. Forests will be felled, planes will burst into flames, misunderstandings will occur, and tears will be shed. Where the blame cannot be laid to human hands, then acts of God--natural disasters--will bring us floods, fires, and earthquakes, taking further lives in humiliating and anguished ways.
But here is the good news: The angels promise, not an absence of suffering, but the promise that we will never face this suffering alone. Spiritual help walks beside us, whispering guidance in our ear, creating miracles, murmuring encouragement. And, perhaps in the next millennium, the challenge, as we struggle on the path to self-hood, will be to become as angels. And then we shall--all of humanity--reach enlightenment, and stand blinded by the beauty and love of God.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/225/stor ... mc_id=NL24
My Son's Two 'Jimmys'
Who were the two young, blond-haired men my son believed he saw?
By Patricia Gaddis
It was Sunday morning and I was awakened by the cries of my three-year-old. Fear seized my heart as I jumped out of bed, knowing that my toddler had managed to rise before me, as so many young ones do. I hurried to the bathroom where my son, Shawn, stood in the bathtub with one eye in a squint, screaming at the top of his lungs. At his feet lay a broken bottle of aftershave that his father had forgotten to put safely out of reach. I assumed that the rest of it had gone into his eye, but just to be on the safe side I smelled his breath to see if he had drank any of the liquid. There were no cuts on his hands or feet, and I scooped him up in my arms with a sigh of relief.
“What were you doing?” I asked as I washed out his eye.
He ignored my question.
“Mommy,” he exclaimed, "Where did the two Jimmys go?”
With eyes now wide he looked around the bathroom.
“Two Jimmys?” I replied. “Honey, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Two Jimmys right there at the bathtub,” he said. “Now they’ve gone away!” The only Jimmy I knew of was my nephew—a tall 16-year-old with wavy blond hair. He and his mother (my sister) had visited us the evening before and Jimmy had played with Shawn, carrying him around the yard on his big shoulders.
“Jimmy went home with his mother last night,” I replied.
“No!” Shawn said stubbornly. “There were two Jimmys right there,” he insisted, pointing at the tub.
Curious by now, I decided to go along to see how the story would play out.
“What did the two Jimmys want?” I asked.
“One of them knocked the bottle out of my hand,” he said.
“Were you going to drink it?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” he replied softly, looking down at his feet, knowing that he was not supposed to drink such things.
“I’m glad you didn’t because it could have made you very sick,” I said as I washed his face and gave him a small lecture on danger. “What about the other Jimmy?” I asked. “What did he do?”
“Oh, the other Jimmy said he was going to wake you up before I got hurt real bad,” he said. “And then there you were,” he smiled, clapping his hands together.
As I prepared our breakfast, my son went into the living room to play with his toy train and the day moved along with the two Jimmys forgotten, replaced by the busyness of church and family. Then, a few weeks later it was my turn to teach the pre-K church Sunday school class The lesson for that particular Sunday was about guardian angels. I assigned each child a task to draw and color a picture of what they thought their own guardian angel looked like. As I went over the lesson about guardian angels and how Jesus sends them to protect us from harm, I showed the children a large poster that I had discovered in the church closet. It was a colorful painting of two young men, angels wearing white flowing robes with blond wavy hair and big strong wings.
When my son saw the picture he smiled brightly.
“Look, mommy!," he shouted. “My two Jimmys!”
Then he turned to the little girl sitting next to him and said: “Two Jimmys visited my house and knocked daddy’s aftershave out of my hand. They did that so I wouldn’t drink it and get sick,” he said in a nonchalant way.
“My two angels are called Andy,” the little girl said as though it were no big deal. “They caught me with their wings when I fell off the roof of my playhouse and kept me from breaking my arm. But their wings tickled my nose,” she giggled.
Of course! I thought. The “two Jimmys” that my son had spoken about were his guardian angels. Maybe they chose to take on the appearance of my nephew so that Shawn would not be frightened. Or perhaps they just resembled my nephew Jimmy, with big strong arms and wavy blond hair. Either way, the explanation satisfied me and from that time on I knew without a doubt that children have two guardian angels—maybe even more! How else could so many of these little ones reach adulthood without that extra wing and prayer of protection?
My Son's Two 'Jimmys'
Who were the two young, blond-haired men my son believed he saw?
By Patricia Gaddis
It was Sunday morning and I was awakened by the cries of my three-year-old. Fear seized my heart as I jumped out of bed, knowing that my toddler had managed to rise before me, as so many young ones do. I hurried to the bathroom where my son, Shawn, stood in the bathtub with one eye in a squint, screaming at the top of his lungs. At his feet lay a broken bottle of aftershave that his father had forgotten to put safely out of reach. I assumed that the rest of it had gone into his eye, but just to be on the safe side I smelled his breath to see if he had drank any of the liquid. There were no cuts on his hands or feet, and I scooped him up in my arms with a sigh of relief.
“What were you doing?” I asked as I washed out his eye.
He ignored my question.
“Mommy,” he exclaimed, "Where did the two Jimmys go?”
With eyes now wide he looked around the bathroom.
“Two Jimmys?” I replied. “Honey, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Two Jimmys right there at the bathtub,” he said. “Now they’ve gone away!” The only Jimmy I knew of was my nephew—a tall 16-year-old with wavy blond hair. He and his mother (my sister) had visited us the evening before and Jimmy had played with Shawn, carrying him around the yard on his big shoulders.
“Jimmy went home with his mother last night,” I replied.
“No!” Shawn said stubbornly. “There were two Jimmys right there,” he insisted, pointing at the tub.
Curious by now, I decided to go along to see how the story would play out.
“What did the two Jimmys want?” I asked.
“One of them knocked the bottle out of my hand,” he said.
“Were you going to drink it?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” he replied softly, looking down at his feet, knowing that he was not supposed to drink such things.
“I’m glad you didn’t because it could have made you very sick,” I said as I washed his face and gave him a small lecture on danger. “What about the other Jimmy?” I asked. “What did he do?”
“Oh, the other Jimmy said he was going to wake you up before I got hurt real bad,” he said. “And then there you were,” he smiled, clapping his hands together.
As I prepared our breakfast, my son went into the living room to play with his toy train and the day moved along with the two Jimmys forgotten, replaced by the busyness of church and family. Then, a few weeks later it was my turn to teach the pre-K church Sunday school class The lesson for that particular Sunday was about guardian angels. I assigned each child a task to draw and color a picture of what they thought their own guardian angel looked like. As I went over the lesson about guardian angels and how Jesus sends them to protect us from harm, I showed the children a large poster that I had discovered in the church closet. It was a colorful painting of two young men, angels wearing white flowing robes with blond wavy hair and big strong wings.
When my son saw the picture he smiled brightly.
“Look, mommy!," he shouted. “My two Jimmys!”
Then he turned to the little girl sitting next to him and said: “Two Jimmys visited my house and knocked daddy’s aftershave out of my hand. They did that so I wouldn’t drink it and get sick,” he said in a nonchalant way.
“My two angels are called Andy,” the little girl said as though it were no big deal. “They caught me with their wings when I fell off the roof of my playhouse and kept me from breaking my arm. But their wings tickled my nose,” she giggled.
Of course! I thought. The “two Jimmys” that my son had spoken about were his guardian angels. Maybe they chose to take on the appearance of my nephew so that Shawn would not be frightened. Or perhaps they just resembled my nephew Jimmy, with big strong arms and wavy blond hair. Either way, the explanation satisfied me and from that time on I knew without a doubt that children have two guardian angels—maybe even more! How else could so many of these little ones reach adulthood without that extra wing and prayer of protection?
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/224/stor ... mc_id=NL24
Out of Danger
One night when my life was in danger, I finally realized the power of guardian angels.
By Claire Nahmad
I had offered the refuge of my home to a man who had just been just released from prison. Unknown to me at the time, the prison in he had been incarcerated was one of the most notorious in Europe, and ran a brutal regime. He had been confined in one of its is for several years, arid as the days passed, it became increasingly clear that this man had both witnessed and participated in such extremes of experience that he had become dangerously unstable, if psychopathic. To make matters even more unsettling and eerie, his mental balance deserted him as darkness fell each evening, turning gradually after dawn. This meant that sleep during the night was usually impossible; and after a week or two of this harrowing routine, I began to feel that my own sanity was becoming somewhat blurred around the edges. One night, events reached a climax. He grabbed the curtains and tried to set them on fire with is cigarette lighter, announcing that it was our destiny to die together in the flames. It was at this point that I put out a silent call to my guardian angel to come to my aid.
Shortly afterwards, his mood changed and his attitude became more normal. He was able to set out on a long healing journey from that point (necessarily, away from my home!) which culminated in a desire to help others trapped in similarly dark places of the soul. The incident I have described was so dramatic, traumatic and transformative that I would like to try to explain what I sensed actually took place after I made my call to my guardian angel.
First of all, I was given instantly an inner reassurance that I was not alone, and that all would be well. Secondly, I received an intimation that the situation was very delicately balanced, and that to bring it to a conclusion without either of us suffering serious injury would require absolute cooperation on my part. This cooperation consisted of remaining quiet and collected, taking no action or decision of my own, and waiting for the Promptings of my guardian angel. Thirdly, I became aware that my angel called on the spirit of the beautiful pine tree that stood outside the window, and that both angel and tree-spirit conjoined to create a stabilizing and protective energy field around my dangerous predicament seemed to have three main functions: to prevent further escalation of the disruption; to ground and calm us both with energies from the wise, strong, serene, sane Earth; and to introduce the cleansing and loving influences from the tree-spirit right into the tumultuous heart of the situation, where they combined with those of my angel to soothe the jagged, lightning-like dangerous dynamics in expression all around us. As this was achieved, the angel and the tree spirit together instantaneously began to build a new, purer atmosphere of reassuring normality in which wholesome human responses could flourish. I then became aware that my disturbed friend's guardian angel was lending its strength and support to the entire operation although its aid was not frilly able to manifest until he had begun to calm down.
All of this took place immediately and simultaneously. It confirmed my half-formed belief that the guardian angel does indeed summon others of its kin to rectify a threatening situation, and, furthermore, calls on etheric beings (such as the tree-spirit) to lend their aid as well. In other words, the guardian angel networks!
Out of Danger
One night when my life was in danger, I finally realized the power of guardian angels.
By Claire Nahmad
I had offered the refuge of my home to a man who had just been just released from prison. Unknown to me at the time, the prison in he had been incarcerated was one of the most notorious in Europe, and ran a brutal regime. He had been confined in one of its is for several years, arid as the days passed, it became increasingly clear that this man had both witnessed and participated in such extremes of experience that he had become dangerously unstable, if psychopathic. To make matters even more unsettling and eerie, his mental balance deserted him as darkness fell each evening, turning gradually after dawn. This meant that sleep during the night was usually impossible; and after a week or two of this harrowing routine, I began to feel that my own sanity was becoming somewhat blurred around the edges. One night, events reached a climax. He grabbed the curtains and tried to set them on fire with is cigarette lighter, announcing that it was our destiny to die together in the flames. It was at this point that I put out a silent call to my guardian angel to come to my aid.
Shortly afterwards, his mood changed and his attitude became more normal. He was able to set out on a long healing journey from that point (necessarily, away from my home!) which culminated in a desire to help others trapped in similarly dark places of the soul. The incident I have described was so dramatic, traumatic and transformative that I would like to try to explain what I sensed actually took place after I made my call to my guardian angel.
First of all, I was given instantly an inner reassurance that I was not alone, and that all would be well. Secondly, I received an intimation that the situation was very delicately balanced, and that to bring it to a conclusion without either of us suffering serious injury would require absolute cooperation on my part. This cooperation consisted of remaining quiet and collected, taking no action or decision of my own, and waiting for the Promptings of my guardian angel. Thirdly, I became aware that my angel called on the spirit of the beautiful pine tree that stood outside the window, and that both angel and tree-spirit conjoined to create a stabilizing and protective energy field around my dangerous predicament seemed to have three main functions: to prevent further escalation of the disruption; to ground and calm us both with energies from the wise, strong, serene, sane Earth; and to introduce the cleansing and loving influences from the tree-spirit right into the tumultuous heart of the situation, where they combined with those of my angel to soothe the jagged, lightning-like dangerous dynamics in expression all around us. As this was achieved, the angel and the tree spirit together instantaneously began to build a new, purer atmosphere of reassuring normality in which wholesome human responses could flourish. I then became aware that my disturbed friend's guardian angel was lending its strength and support to the entire operation although its aid was not frilly able to manifest until he had begun to calm down.
All of this took place immediately and simultaneously. It confirmed my half-formed belief that the guardian angel does indeed summon others of its kin to rectify a threatening situation, and, furthermore, calls on etheric beings (such as the tree-spirit) to lend their aid as well. In other words, the guardian angel networks!
'Look for the Light'
Darkness was descending, and Andrew was lost in the woods. But then, something caught his attention...
By Joan Wester Anderson
We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels,
we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.
—Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
It was Thanksgiving weekend, and Andrew Koval, an avid sportsman, decided to take advantages of the weather. “I’m going hunting,” he called to his wife. “I’ll be back at five-thirty.” Andrew knew his limits; due to an old baseball injury, one of his knees was good for about two hours of walking before pain set in. In addition, darkness would fall at about five o’clock, and since it was already late in the day, his time was short.
Andrew drove to his favorite hunting spot a few miles from his home in rural Cambridge, Ohio, just down the road from a farm where he bought hay every spring. He parked in a familiar hilly area near a field.
He walked awhile, flushed a few grouse out of their hiding places, but never got close enough to try a shot. And, as he slowly realized, his heart wasn’t really in the sport today. “My nephew John Grimes had died of cancer the past summer,” Andrew explains. "We had been very close, working and golfing and socializing together, but most of all, hunting grouse together.” Andrew had grieved deeply for the younger man, and now, in this place where they’d spent so much time together, doubts crowded his mind. Was there really a God? If so, did Andrew believe in him? Was there a heaven? Was John there? Did life, another kind of life, go on after death? As a self-described lukewarm Catholic, Andrew “still had that little doubt.” How could he know for sure?
Andrew had been lost in thought for some time, but it was getting dark, and his expedition was over for the day. He started back to the car. “On the way, I flushed a grouse and decided to follow it to get off at least one shot. The bird flew in the opposite direction, but being in familiar territory, I wasn’t concerned.” As the sun began to set, Andrew lost sight of the bird.
No problem, he told himself. The terrain was wooded, but he knew about where he was. If he walked back in a straight line, he ought to reach the car in about fifteen minutes. And that’s what he did, or thought he did. But soon Andrew realized he had passed the same marker twice. He was going in a circle.
What to do? “I was wearing a light hunting vest, and it was getting colder,” he says. “My knee had started to hurt. I kept walking west, trying to reach an area that I recognized.” Surely he would hit a road soon and be able to flag down a vehicle. He walked and walked, only to realize that he was again traveling in a circle. He thought again of his resourceful young nephew, who would surely have found the way out of this maze.
Cold and tired, his knee throbbing, Andrew knew his wife and son were going to be very worried. How long would it be before they alerted the sheriff? If only he had a cell phone. Should he try to build a temporary shelter and wait to be found? Could he withstand a winter night with a vest as his only warmth?
There was another option, although he didn’t think of it right away. He could pray. It had been a long time since Andrew had really talked to God. But if God were everywhere, even here in this lonely forest, he would surely hear. Andrew sat down under a tree. “God,” he whispered. “I don’t know if you’re listening. But if you are, I need help.” More minutes passed, and a plan came to him. He should climb the highest hill, look for a light, and head straight for it. It was almost as if God were whispering in his ear, “Look for the light.” Andrew didn’t know if it was God’s voice or not. But there was a high hill nearby.
Gathering the last of his failing strength, Andrew staggered to the top. At last! He ought to be able to see a lot of the countryside from here. But he could hardly believe it. There was no light visible, not in any direction. No distant signal blinking from a house or store, not even car headlights moving in the blackness.
It hadn’t been a heavenly message, after all. Yet the feeling of comfort and guidance had been so real. Look for the light. Andrew understood just then that the real light in his life ought to be God, no matter what happened to him now or in the future. His leg ached, and his fear of freezing was strong. But he had felt the light, just a little, and he wouldn’t let it dim again.
Slowly, he turned away. He would go back down the hill and wait. Andrew gazed into the blackness once more, his eyes narrowing. Was it a mirage? No, there in the distance…It was a light! Not in the same direction as his car, but Andrew had run out of choices. He would go toward it. Whoever owned it might have a phone, or warmth, or some way to help him.
“I must have walked at least another mile, but I was able to keep the light in view the whole time, despite the trees,” Andrew says. Unexpectedly, he came upon the road where he had parked his car. It was sitting right there!
Astonished, Andrew scrambled inside, turning on the engine and the heater full blast. Soon he was blissfully warm and content, as if this terrible experience had never happened. He should get home now, to relieve his wife’s fears.
But oddly, he could still see the light streaming from a field about three or four hundred yards down the road, near the farm he visited each spring. He was so late already—it wouldn’t make much difference if he drove down and looked to see exactly what had brought him safely out of his ordeal. So he decided to go take a look.
“There in the field was a two-story house, every room brightly with two floodlights on each corner,” he says. “There were people working all around, both inside and out.” Andrew remembered then that this land was owned by a real estate agent and was for sale in five-acre lots. He had no idea that a house had already been built here. “I thought it was strange that I hadn’t known, also that every room was blazing with light and there was so much activity.” But he had his answer, and he turned around in the house’s driveway and went home.
It was almost nine o’clock by the time Andrew arrived, and his worried wife was preparing to call the sheriff and arrange a search party. But he assured her he was none the worse for wear, and told her about the house. “I haven’t heard about any construction over there,” his wife mused. “But wasn’t it fortunate that you saw the lights?”
Andrew didn’t grouse hunt for the rest of the season. But when spring arrived, he decided it was time to visit the local farmer and buy his straw. Andrew turned onto the same county road where he had seen the house, and he began to look for it. Now he would see if it was as big and beautiful—and busy—during the day as it had looked on that memorable night. Maybe he would even pull into the driveway, ring the doorbell, and tell the owner how his marvelous lights had probably saved Andrew’s life.
Andrew approached the lot where the house had been. But there was no building there, or anywhere around it. The area looked just as it had last spring when Andrew had come to buy his straw. Completely deserted.
He was certainly looking at the same spot where he had been that night—he remembered the familiar markers, the hills beyond, and the driveway where he’d turned around. Had the people who built the house belatedly discovered that their well was inadequate? This had happened before, and when it did, an owner would occasionally have his house moved to another lot.
Andrew went past the lot and pulled into the farm driveway. The farmer’s sister came out to greet him. After purchasing his straw, Andrew paused for a moment. “I was wondering what happened to that big new house down the road,” he asked.
The woman looked puzzled. “What house?”
“The one with all the lights. In the new subdivision. Did they have to move it because of a bad well?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The builder never sold any of those lots. There has never been a house there.”
"But…" Andrew felt a shiver. The woman was looking at him as if he were a bit odd. He didn’t say any more, but he knew what he had seen.
Andrew has never found any evidence that a house was on that lot, or anywhere around there. But he is as sure today as he was that night that it was there. "I have come to believe that God was responsible for it," he says, "because the whole experience completely resolved any doubts I may have had about him, and about the continuance of life after death on earth." And perhaps his nephew was involved, too. One never knows, when one is willing to ask, just what marvels the Light will bring.
Darkness was descending, and Andrew was lost in the woods. But then, something caught his attention...
By Joan Wester Anderson
We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels,
we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.
—Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
It was Thanksgiving weekend, and Andrew Koval, an avid sportsman, decided to take advantages of the weather. “I’m going hunting,” he called to his wife. “I’ll be back at five-thirty.” Andrew knew his limits; due to an old baseball injury, one of his knees was good for about two hours of walking before pain set in. In addition, darkness would fall at about five o’clock, and since it was already late in the day, his time was short.
Andrew drove to his favorite hunting spot a few miles from his home in rural Cambridge, Ohio, just down the road from a farm where he bought hay every spring. He parked in a familiar hilly area near a field.
He walked awhile, flushed a few grouse out of their hiding places, but never got close enough to try a shot. And, as he slowly realized, his heart wasn’t really in the sport today. “My nephew John Grimes had died of cancer the past summer,” Andrew explains. "We had been very close, working and golfing and socializing together, but most of all, hunting grouse together.” Andrew had grieved deeply for the younger man, and now, in this place where they’d spent so much time together, doubts crowded his mind. Was there really a God? If so, did Andrew believe in him? Was there a heaven? Was John there? Did life, another kind of life, go on after death? As a self-described lukewarm Catholic, Andrew “still had that little doubt.” How could he know for sure?
Andrew had been lost in thought for some time, but it was getting dark, and his expedition was over for the day. He started back to the car. “On the way, I flushed a grouse and decided to follow it to get off at least one shot. The bird flew in the opposite direction, but being in familiar territory, I wasn’t concerned.” As the sun began to set, Andrew lost sight of the bird.
No problem, he told himself. The terrain was wooded, but he knew about where he was. If he walked back in a straight line, he ought to reach the car in about fifteen minutes. And that’s what he did, or thought he did. But soon Andrew realized he had passed the same marker twice. He was going in a circle.
What to do? “I was wearing a light hunting vest, and it was getting colder,” he says. “My knee had started to hurt. I kept walking west, trying to reach an area that I recognized.” Surely he would hit a road soon and be able to flag down a vehicle. He walked and walked, only to realize that he was again traveling in a circle. He thought again of his resourceful young nephew, who would surely have found the way out of this maze.
Cold and tired, his knee throbbing, Andrew knew his wife and son were going to be very worried. How long would it be before they alerted the sheriff? If only he had a cell phone. Should he try to build a temporary shelter and wait to be found? Could he withstand a winter night with a vest as his only warmth?
There was another option, although he didn’t think of it right away. He could pray. It had been a long time since Andrew had really talked to God. But if God were everywhere, even here in this lonely forest, he would surely hear. Andrew sat down under a tree. “God,” he whispered. “I don’t know if you’re listening. But if you are, I need help.” More minutes passed, and a plan came to him. He should climb the highest hill, look for a light, and head straight for it. It was almost as if God were whispering in his ear, “Look for the light.” Andrew didn’t know if it was God’s voice or not. But there was a high hill nearby.
Gathering the last of his failing strength, Andrew staggered to the top. At last! He ought to be able to see a lot of the countryside from here. But he could hardly believe it. There was no light visible, not in any direction. No distant signal blinking from a house or store, not even car headlights moving in the blackness.
It hadn’t been a heavenly message, after all. Yet the feeling of comfort and guidance had been so real. Look for the light. Andrew understood just then that the real light in his life ought to be God, no matter what happened to him now or in the future. His leg ached, and his fear of freezing was strong. But he had felt the light, just a little, and he wouldn’t let it dim again.
Slowly, he turned away. He would go back down the hill and wait. Andrew gazed into the blackness once more, his eyes narrowing. Was it a mirage? No, there in the distance…It was a light! Not in the same direction as his car, but Andrew had run out of choices. He would go toward it. Whoever owned it might have a phone, or warmth, or some way to help him.
“I must have walked at least another mile, but I was able to keep the light in view the whole time, despite the trees,” Andrew says. Unexpectedly, he came upon the road where he had parked his car. It was sitting right there!
Astonished, Andrew scrambled inside, turning on the engine and the heater full blast. Soon he was blissfully warm and content, as if this terrible experience had never happened. He should get home now, to relieve his wife’s fears.
But oddly, he could still see the light streaming from a field about three or four hundred yards down the road, near the farm he visited each spring. He was so late already—it wouldn’t make much difference if he drove down and looked to see exactly what had brought him safely out of his ordeal. So he decided to go take a look.
“There in the field was a two-story house, every room brightly with two floodlights on each corner,” he says. “There were people working all around, both inside and out.” Andrew remembered then that this land was owned by a real estate agent and was for sale in five-acre lots. He had no idea that a house had already been built here. “I thought it was strange that I hadn’t known, also that every room was blazing with light and there was so much activity.” But he had his answer, and he turned around in the house’s driveway and went home.
It was almost nine o’clock by the time Andrew arrived, and his worried wife was preparing to call the sheriff and arrange a search party. But he assured her he was none the worse for wear, and told her about the house. “I haven’t heard about any construction over there,” his wife mused. “But wasn’t it fortunate that you saw the lights?”
Andrew didn’t grouse hunt for the rest of the season. But when spring arrived, he decided it was time to visit the local farmer and buy his straw. Andrew turned onto the same county road where he had seen the house, and he began to look for it. Now he would see if it was as big and beautiful—and busy—during the day as it had looked on that memorable night. Maybe he would even pull into the driveway, ring the doorbell, and tell the owner how his marvelous lights had probably saved Andrew’s life.
Andrew approached the lot where the house had been. But there was no building there, or anywhere around it. The area looked just as it had last spring when Andrew had come to buy his straw. Completely deserted.
He was certainly looking at the same spot where he had been that night—he remembered the familiar markers, the hills beyond, and the driveway where he’d turned around. Had the people who built the house belatedly discovered that their well was inadequate? This had happened before, and when it did, an owner would occasionally have his house moved to another lot.
Andrew went past the lot and pulled into the farm driveway. The farmer’s sister came out to greet him. After purchasing his straw, Andrew paused for a moment. “I was wondering what happened to that big new house down the road,” he asked.
The woman looked puzzled. “What house?”
“The one with all the lights. In the new subdivision. Did they have to move it because of a bad well?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The builder never sold any of those lots. There has never been a house there.”
"But…" Andrew felt a shiver. The woman was looking at him as if he were a bit odd. He didn’t say any more, but he knew what he had seen.
Andrew has never found any evidence that a house was on that lot, or anywhere around there. But he is as sure today as he was that night that it was there. "I have come to believe that God was responsible for it," he says, "because the whole experience completely resolved any doubts I may have had about him, and about the continuance of life after death on earth." And perhaps his nephew was involved, too. One never knows, when one is willing to ask, just what marvels the Light will bring.
Angel at Midnight
Around Thanksgiving, mysterious neighbors moved in upstairs--and changed our lives.
By Diane Dean White
Reprinted with permission from Heartwarmers.
One year, while waiting to move into our own home, we rented an older house in town. It had bedrooms for our children, a nice kitchen, dining area and large spacious living room and enclosed front porch. Our bedroom was at the front of the house, and the children's were next to the kitchen near the back.
Similar to other older homes, this one had a large attic that had been converted into a small studio apartment. The young man who lived there was always polite but would soon be moving to another area and new job.
The children walked to their schools across the street, and the playground and library were close by. The apartment upstairs remained empty for sometime.
With the coming of Thanksgiving, I was busy with preparations for the children and the activities they were involved in, so I didn't notice the young mother and her little girl until after they had moved in upstairs. I immediately placed some cookies on a plate and took our eighth-grade daughter Mandy up the side stairway to greet our new neighbors.
A young woman in her middle twenties stood in the doorway, and, stepping back, asked us to come in. Her young daughter spotted the cookies and gave us a bright, cheerful grin. You could tell they were mother and daughter--each had lovely blond hair and a kind smile.
I introduced myself and my daughter, and we talked about the area for a few minutes. Before leaving, Mandy volunteered to watch the little girl if her mother was in need of a babysitter. It turned out that she had her daughter enrolled in day care while she was at work, but Saturdays she might need to call on her. We assured her that was fine.
A few days before Thanksgiving, I realized how much I missed our own stove, which was packed away while we were renting. I made a mental note to clean the oven before baking my pies. It was a gas stove, and although I liked cooking over gas, I'd always had an electric one before.
We were planning on grandparents, aunts, uncles and other family members to come and share the day. I also sent a note to the gal in the upstairs apartment and invited them to join us. She stopped by later and thanked us, but said they would be going home that night to visit her family for the holiday. Thanksgiving was just a few days away!
That evening after the children were in bed, I remembered the oven and asked my husband if he would spray the oven cleaner inside and lay papers under it. He took care of it while I busied myself with other things. Then we went to bed.
A little after midnight, we were awakened by someone banging at the front door. While grabbing our bathrobes, we realized there was smoke all over the place. I ran to the children's rooms as my husband went to the door.
There stood our new neighbor and her little girl. They had just arrived home, and she smelled smoke and called the fire department. Within minutes the firemen came with the siren on and burst into the house. I had gathered the children onto the front porch, wrapped in blankets, far away from the kitchen area.
Immediately, the firemen realized where the smoke had started and what had happened. In my haste to have a clean oven, I forgot that the paper which catches the grease doesn't go under a gas oven. Although it had taken a few hours, it caught on fire and the smoke was spreading through the house.
We felt awful, but the damage was minimal. Most importantly, our three children were safe. After airing the house out, with the help of our friendly fire department, we went back to bed, thankful everyone was okay.
Thanksgiving came and we enjoyed pies and a turkey, roasted in a clean oven, along with sweet potato souffle, cranberry sauce, and other vegetables and favorite dressings and trimmings. We were truly grateful for the Lord's protection over us and for our kind neighbors upstairs.
As we looked forward to the Christmas holiday, I watched for our neighbor and her little girl, having made some eggnog and cookies. I also had a special gift for each of them. But, the truth was, after that fateful evening when she came and knocked on our door, I hadn't seen them again.
I made a trip up to their door and peeked in through the window. The place was empty, as if nobody had even been there. I tried contacting the landlord, but he didn't know anything about them. It seemed incredible. The more I thought about it, the more I realized their short stay had possibly saved us all in an old house that could have gone up in flames so quickly.
A Thanksgiving Day doesn't go by that I don't think about the young mother and her entrance and exit in our lives. I will never know why she was coming home so late that night--she had been going to visit her own family for Thanksgiving. I know God brings many people into our lives for various reasons. An angel? Perhaps.
What I do know for certain is that each Thanksgiving I remember an old house with young children, and I especially give thanks that we have celebrated many more Thanksgiving Days. That is a special blessing from Him.
"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." (Hebrews 13: 2 KJV)
Around Thanksgiving, mysterious neighbors moved in upstairs--and changed our lives.
By Diane Dean White
Reprinted with permission from Heartwarmers.
One year, while waiting to move into our own home, we rented an older house in town. It had bedrooms for our children, a nice kitchen, dining area and large spacious living room and enclosed front porch. Our bedroom was at the front of the house, and the children's were next to the kitchen near the back.
Similar to other older homes, this one had a large attic that had been converted into a small studio apartment. The young man who lived there was always polite but would soon be moving to another area and new job.
The children walked to their schools across the street, and the playground and library were close by. The apartment upstairs remained empty for sometime.
With the coming of Thanksgiving, I was busy with preparations for the children and the activities they were involved in, so I didn't notice the young mother and her little girl until after they had moved in upstairs. I immediately placed some cookies on a plate and took our eighth-grade daughter Mandy up the side stairway to greet our new neighbors.
A young woman in her middle twenties stood in the doorway, and, stepping back, asked us to come in. Her young daughter spotted the cookies and gave us a bright, cheerful grin. You could tell they were mother and daughter--each had lovely blond hair and a kind smile.
I introduced myself and my daughter, and we talked about the area for a few minutes. Before leaving, Mandy volunteered to watch the little girl if her mother was in need of a babysitter. It turned out that she had her daughter enrolled in day care while she was at work, but Saturdays she might need to call on her. We assured her that was fine.
A few days before Thanksgiving, I realized how much I missed our own stove, which was packed away while we were renting. I made a mental note to clean the oven before baking my pies. It was a gas stove, and although I liked cooking over gas, I'd always had an electric one before.
We were planning on grandparents, aunts, uncles and other family members to come and share the day. I also sent a note to the gal in the upstairs apartment and invited them to join us. She stopped by later and thanked us, but said they would be going home that night to visit her family for the holiday. Thanksgiving was just a few days away!
That evening after the children were in bed, I remembered the oven and asked my husband if he would spray the oven cleaner inside and lay papers under it. He took care of it while I busied myself with other things. Then we went to bed.
A little after midnight, we were awakened by someone banging at the front door. While grabbing our bathrobes, we realized there was smoke all over the place. I ran to the children's rooms as my husband went to the door.
There stood our new neighbor and her little girl. They had just arrived home, and she smelled smoke and called the fire department. Within minutes the firemen came with the siren on and burst into the house. I had gathered the children onto the front porch, wrapped in blankets, far away from the kitchen area.
Immediately, the firemen realized where the smoke had started and what had happened. In my haste to have a clean oven, I forgot that the paper which catches the grease doesn't go under a gas oven. Although it had taken a few hours, it caught on fire and the smoke was spreading through the house.
We felt awful, but the damage was minimal. Most importantly, our three children were safe. After airing the house out, with the help of our friendly fire department, we went back to bed, thankful everyone was okay.
Thanksgiving came and we enjoyed pies and a turkey, roasted in a clean oven, along with sweet potato souffle, cranberry sauce, and other vegetables and favorite dressings and trimmings. We were truly grateful for the Lord's protection over us and for our kind neighbors upstairs.
As we looked forward to the Christmas holiday, I watched for our neighbor and her little girl, having made some eggnog and cookies. I also had a special gift for each of them. But, the truth was, after that fateful evening when she came and knocked on our door, I hadn't seen them again.
I made a trip up to their door and peeked in through the window. The place was empty, as if nobody had even been there. I tried contacting the landlord, but he didn't know anything about them. It seemed incredible. The more I thought about it, the more I realized their short stay had possibly saved us all in an old house that could have gone up in flames so quickly.
A Thanksgiving Day doesn't go by that I don't think about the young mother and her entrance and exit in our lives. I will never know why she was coming home so late that night--she had been going to visit her own family for Thanksgiving. I know God brings many people into our lives for various reasons. An angel? Perhaps.
What I do know for certain is that each Thanksgiving I remember an old house with young children, and I especially give thanks that we have celebrated many more Thanksgiving Days. That is a special blessing from Him.
"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." (Hebrews 13: 2 KJV)
-
suomynona1113
- Posts: 1
- Joined: Fri Nov 23, 2007 1:27 am
4am bandagi
hello all....ran into this forum out of no where seems pretty interesting with all the stories of the angelic deeds...was really intrigued by the gas station one...have a father who use to work the graveyard shifts ....as i was young at the time i would always worry about things of that nature...is it true or is this an older myth that you are able to physically see the deceased or ruhanis at 4 am bandagis...would like to open discussion on this
Re: 4am bandagi
Our prayer for the dead is for their final rest and hence all the rituals and prayers towards that end. We do not want our beloved dead to be hovering around in the astral worlds. Angels however have not taken human forms, they can manifest in human form to undertake some tasks assigned to them by the Lord. Nevertheless there are evil souls who hang around and sometimes manifest in weak souls. There is a parallel thread on ghosts under:suomynona1113 wrote:hello all....ran into this forum out of no where seems pretty interesting with all the stories of the angelic deeds...was really intrigued by the gas station one...have a father who use to work the graveyard shifts ....as i was young at the time i would always worry about things of that nature...is it true or is this an older myth that you are able to physically see the deceased or ruhanis at 4 am bandagis...would like to open discussion on this
Doctrines --> Ghosts
HELPERS ON THE HIGHWAY
Cars seem to be involved in many angel stories. Perhaps it's because we spend so much time in them today, and angels must be where we are! Many people make it a habit to pray briefly right before they turn on the ignition, to bless and protect themselves and those they'll meet on the road.
Joe and Mary Prendergast of Marlton, New Jersey, are both musicians. They established a music school in Merchantville, New Jersey, in I960. Mary taught piano, and Joe, piano and voice. As if they weren't busy enough, their family ultimately included six daughters and three sons (and, they both agree, many guardian angels to be there when Mom or Dad couldn't be). Joe took added jobs with a band and was also the music director at a local church. During those busy years, as real-estate taxes continued to go up, the family gave up their original house and lived in the music school. "You do what you have to do when there are nine children," Joe points out.
It had long been a dream of the Prendergasts to have a vacation home in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania, a place where their children could spread out, make noise, ski, and enjoy the pleasures of nature. However, they had all but given up trying to find something affordable until a friend recommended Wagner's Forest on Pocono Lake. Joe and Mary visited the area the following weekend and found two perfect lots. It took almost three years (and plenty of hands) to build their wonderful A-frame home, but everyone agreed that it was a dream come true.
The family enjoyed the home immensely, but it was an expensive luxury, and as time went by, they needed some extra income to keep up with the rising overhead costs. Renting to vacationers when they weren't using the house themselves seemed like a logical solution. After the tenants left, Joe and Mary would drive the three-hour trip to clean the house and make any necessary repairs. Occasionally, Joe went alone.
People usually rented during the summertime but frequently came to ski, too. On a clear Sunday night at about 10:30 p.m., Joe decided to drive to the house to clean up after the latest tenants. "Joe, that's not a good idea," Mary protested. "You know your night vision is becoming a problem. Why don't we both go early tomorrow instead?"
"I want to start first thing in the morning so I can get back here soon," Joe said. "I'll be fine." Mary wasn't happy, but she said nothing more. Angels would accompany him. They always did.
About midnight, however, Joe began to feel drowsy. Traffic on the Pennsylvania turnpike was sparse, but he knew it wouldn't be wise to continue. He was approaching a small rest area where a semitruck was parked, so he pulled behind the semi, turned off the engine, and promptly fell asleep. "At about 1:00 a.m. the driver of the semi started its engine, which awakened me," Joe says. "I felt fine, so I resumed my journey." Soon he saw the familiar roadside sign ahead: "Allentown, next exit to the right." It was the last thing he remembered . . .
. . . until he awakened, midway through the Lehigh Tunnel. He was traveling at exactly thirty-five miles per hour in the middle of the right lane—and was staring, not at the road, but downward at his thighs "That meant that for fifteen miles, sound asleep, I had navigated a road through mountainous terrain, with many twists and turns. And I had not even been looking at the road."
Now, instead of stopping, Joe gently accelerated to about fifty-five miles an hour, since he was still on the turnpike. Everything seemed normal. Perhaps another driver had seen him driving erratically and had awakened Joe by blowing his horn. But there was no one behind or in front of him. He looked at the dashboard. Still plenty of gas—but the dashboard clock told the story. It was 1:45 a.m. For the past half hour his guardian angel had taken the wheel while Joe slept.
"Anyone would think that I would have been excited and trembling," Joe says, "but I wasn't. I was completely calm, although bewildered and surprised that I was still alive. I drove for another hour with complete assurance until I reached Pocono Lake."
Why did this happen? Joe is not sure. "It was clearly not my time to die, and God had his reasons to spare me." He has told many people about this adventure, "and those with faith have no trouble understanding what occurred."
Taken from Joan Webster Anderson's Guardian Angels,pp 122-125
Cars seem to be involved in many angel stories. Perhaps it's because we spend so much time in them today, and angels must be where we are! Many people make it a habit to pray briefly right before they turn on the ignition, to bless and protect themselves and those they'll meet on the road.
Joe and Mary Prendergast of Marlton, New Jersey, are both musicians. They established a music school in Merchantville, New Jersey, in I960. Mary taught piano, and Joe, piano and voice. As if they weren't busy enough, their family ultimately included six daughters and three sons (and, they both agree, many guardian angels to be there when Mom or Dad couldn't be). Joe took added jobs with a band and was also the music director at a local church. During those busy years, as real-estate taxes continued to go up, the family gave up their original house and lived in the music school. "You do what you have to do when there are nine children," Joe points out.
It had long been a dream of the Prendergasts to have a vacation home in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania, a place where their children could spread out, make noise, ski, and enjoy the pleasures of nature. However, they had all but given up trying to find something affordable until a friend recommended Wagner's Forest on Pocono Lake. Joe and Mary visited the area the following weekend and found two perfect lots. It took almost three years (and plenty of hands) to build their wonderful A-frame home, but everyone agreed that it was a dream come true.
The family enjoyed the home immensely, but it was an expensive luxury, and as time went by, they needed some extra income to keep up with the rising overhead costs. Renting to vacationers when they weren't using the house themselves seemed like a logical solution. After the tenants left, Joe and Mary would drive the three-hour trip to clean the house and make any necessary repairs. Occasionally, Joe went alone.
People usually rented during the summertime but frequently came to ski, too. On a clear Sunday night at about 10:30 p.m., Joe decided to drive to the house to clean up after the latest tenants. "Joe, that's not a good idea," Mary protested. "You know your night vision is becoming a problem. Why don't we both go early tomorrow instead?"
"I want to start first thing in the morning so I can get back here soon," Joe said. "I'll be fine." Mary wasn't happy, but she said nothing more. Angels would accompany him. They always did.
About midnight, however, Joe began to feel drowsy. Traffic on the Pennsylvania turnpike was sparse, but he knew it wouldn't be wise to continue. He was approaching a small rest area where a semitruck was parked, so he pulled behind the semi, turned off the engine, and promptly fell asleep. "At about 1:00 a.m. the driver of the semi started its engine, which awakened me," Joe says. "I felt fine, so I resumed my journey." Soon he saw the familiar roadside sign ahead: "Allentown, next exit to the right." It was the last thing he remembered . . .
. . . until he awakened, midway through the Lehigh Tunnel. He was traveling at exactly thirty-five miles per hour in the middle of the right lane—and was staring, not at the road, but downward at his thighs "That meant that for fifteen miles, sound asleep, I had navigated a road through mountainous terrain, with many twists and turns. And I had not even been looking at the road."
Now, instead of stopping, Joe gently accelerated to about fifty-five miles an hour, since he was still on the turnpike. Everything seemed normal. Perhaps another driver had seen him driving erratically and had awakened Joe by blowing his horn. But there was no one behind or in front of him. He looked at the dashboard. Still plenty of gas—but the dashboard clock told the story. It was 1:45 a.m. For the past half hour his guardian angel had taken the wheel while Joe slept.
"Anyone would think that I would have been excited and trembling," Joe says, "but I wasn't. I was completely calm, although bewildered and surprised that I was still alive. I drove for another hour with complete assurance until I reached Pocono Lake."
Why did this happen? Joe is not sure. "It was clearly not my time to die, and God had his reasons to spare me." He has told many people about this adventure, "and those with faith have no trouble understanding what occurred."
Taken from Joan Webster Anderson's Guardian Angels,pp 122-125
Sometimes we see clearly how they work, but most of the time, we don’t understand the obvious ways that we are supported. We forget that the angels are always there, always available, always willing, and always working for us.
-Barbara Mark and Trudy Griswold,
"The Angelspeake Storybook"
Pull Over!
The night was cold and snow was everywhere, but I felt a sudden urge to park my police car by the highway.
By Stan Kid
from Angels
Going on 26 years now, I’ve been a police officer in the town of Malverne on Long Island, N.Y. Day and night I patrol the streets on the lookout to protect my neighbors from vandals, thieves and sometimes worse. I know that no matter how many rounds I make, I can’t be everywhere at once. But sometimes I find myself in just the right place at just the right time.
I was working the midnight to eight shift a few days before Christmas one year. It was bitter cold, and by three o’clock mine was the only car on the road. I’d been all over town that night, but there was still one run I hadn’t made: the parkway. That was technically state police territory, but some of our houses backed up against the highway, so the local force took an interest too. I drove along the parkway, listening to the crunch of my tires in the frozen snow. Nothing going on out here either, I thought. I approached the exit back to town, but for some reason I didn’t take it. I kept driving. I’d catch the next exit up ahead.
The parkway was built on a raised bank, and I could feel the wind from over the treetops battering the sides of the car. Dark woods stretched downhill on either side of the highway, and I drove cautiously in the right-hand lane watching the long path my high beams cut on the road ahead. Suddenly something commanded me, Pull over! It came as a whisper but was urgent and strong nonetheless.
I steered my cruiser into the breakdown lane and stopped at an angle, my headlights shining down the gentle, snow-covered slope into the thick woods below. What was I looking for? Directly in front of my car the hard snow was broken and scattered. Something had gone over the edge. I buttoned my coat, grabbed my flashlight and went to investigate. Below, a Ford two-door was stopped against a tree at the edge of the wood, partly hidden by hanging pine branches. The motor was silent, lights dead. I hope no one’s in there. Not in this cold. I got closer and shined my flashlight in the passenger window. My heart jumped. A woman was sprawled on her back across the front seat. I rapped on the glass. She didn’t move. Am I too late? I opened the door. The car was cold as an icebox, and the woman was breathing in quick, steamy gasps. She was groaning, holding her stomach with both hands. It bulged under her loose dress. She was pregnant.
“Ma’am?” I said, shining the flashlight in her eyes, and she blinked at me with a panicked expression. “Help me,” she murmured. “I think I’m in labor.”
“You’ll be okay now. I’m going to run down to my car and come right back.”
I stumbled up the icy hill to my cruiser and radioed for help. “Make it fast!” I said. I grabbed a blanket from the trunk and slid back down to the woman. I tried to remember everything I’d learned at the academy about emergency childbirth. “Stay calm,” I said, and wrapped the blanket around her. “Help is on the way.” Eventually I saw the red lights of the ambulance flashing from the highway and heard the paramedics get out.
“Over here!” I called as they struggled downhill with the stretcher. The woman was barely conscious when they put her in the ambulance. I followed them to the hospital, then turned back toward town to finish my patrol. When I called the hospital, the woman had already delivered a healthy baby girl.
Two days later, dressed in my civilian clothes, I visited the new mom in the hospital. She didn’t recognize me at first.
“My name is Stan,” I said, “Stan Kid.” Her face brightened.
“They told me what you did” she said. “I can never thank you enough. You saved our lives.”
She had hit a patch of black ice and skidded off the highway. Her door was pinned closed when she hit the tree and the other wouldn’t open from the inside. The car was dead, so she couldn’t use the lights or heater or roll down the electric windows. She was trapped.
“I blew the horn for hours,” she said, “and then the first contractions came. I just lay there praying God would send an angel to rescue me.”
I thought of my decision not to turn off at my usual exit. And then the command to stop right at the spot where she went over. “He was listening,” I said. “But God didn’t send you an angel. Just a cop.”
She smiled at that and asked me if I’d like to see her baby. We went down to the nursery together, and she introduced me to her beautiful, bright-eyed little girl. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I named her after you.”
I stared at her in astonishment. A girl called Stan?
“No, not Stan,” she said. “Angela, for my angel of a cop.”
Maybe she had a point. When I find myself in the right place at the right time it’s because God put me there.
-Barbara Mark and Trudy Griswold,
"The Angelspeake Storybook"
Pull Over!
The night was cold and snow was everywhere, but I felt a sudden urge to park my police car by the highway.
By Stan Kid
from Angels
Going on 26 years now, I’ve been a police officer in the town of Malverne on Long Island, N.Y. Day and night I patrol the streets on the lookout to protect my neighbors from vandals, thieves and sometimes worse. I know that no matter how many rounds I make, I can’t be everywhere at once. But sometimes I find myself in just the right place at just the right time.
I was working the midnight to eight shift a few days before Christmas one year. It was bitter cold, and by three o’clock mine was the only car on the road. I’d been all over town that night, but there was still one run I hadn’t made: the parkway. That was technically state police territory, but some of our houses backed up against the highway, so the local force took an interest too. I drove along the parkway, listening to the crunch of my tires in the frozen snow. Nothing going on out here either, I thought. I approached the exit back to town, but for some reason I didn’t take it. I kept driving. I’d catch the next exit up ahead.
The parkway was built on a raised bank, and I could feel the wind from over the treetops battering the sides of the car. Dark woods stretched downhill on either side of the highway, and I drove cautiously in the right-hand lane watching the long path my high beams cut on the road ahead. Suddenly something commanded me, Pull over! It came as a whisper but was urgent and strong nonetheless.
I steered my cruiser into the breakdown lane and stopped at an angle, my headlights shining down the gentle, snow-covered slope into the thick woods below. What was I looking for? Directly in front of my car the hard snow was broken and scattered. Something had gone over the edge. I buttoned my coat, grabbed my flashlight and went to investigate. Below, a Ford two-door was stopped against a tree at the edge of the wood, partly hidden by hanging pine branches. The motor was silent, lights dead. I hope no one’s in there. Not in this cold. I got closer and shined my flashlight in the passenger window. My heart jumped. A woman was sprawled on her back across the front seat. I rapped on the glass. She didn’t move. Am I too late? I opened the door. The car was cold as an icebox, and the woman was breathing in quick, steamy gasps. She was groaning, holding her stomach with both hands. It bulged under her loose dress. She was pregnant.
“Ma’am?” I said, shining the flashlight in her eyes, and she blinked at me with a panicked expression. “Help me,” she murmured. “I think I’m in labor.”
“You’ll be okay now. I’m going to run down to my car and come right back.”
I stumbled up the icy hill to my cruiser and radioed for help. “Make it fast!” I said. I grabbed a blanket from the trunk and slid back down to the woman. I tried to remember everything I’d learned at the academy about emergency childbirth. “Stay calm,” I said, and wrapped the blanket around her. “Help is on the way.” Eventually I saw the red lights of the ambulance flashing from the highway and heard the paramedics get out.
“Over here!” I called as they struggled downhill with the stretcher. The woman was barely conscious when they put her in the ambulance. I followed them to the hospital, then turned back toward town to finish my patrol. When I called the hospital, the woman had already delivered a healthy baby girl.
Two days later, dressed in my civilian clothes, I visited the new mom in the hospital. She didn’t recognize me at first.
“My name is Stan,” I said, “Stan Kid.” Her face brightened.
“They told me what you did” she said. “I can never thank you enough. You saved our lives.”
She had hit a patch of black ice and skidded off the highway. Her door was pinned closed when she hit the tree and the other wouldn’t open from the inside. The car was dead, so she couldn’t use the lights or heater or roll down the electric windows. She was trapped.
“I blew the horn for hours,” she said, “and then the first contractions came. I just lay there praying God would send an angel to rescue me.”
I thought of my decision not to turn off at my usual exit. And then the command to stop right at the spot where she went over. “He was listening,” I said. “But God didn’t send you an angel. Just a cop.”
She smiled at that and asked me if I’d like to see her baby. We went down to the nursery together, and she introduced me to her beautiful, bright-eyed little girl. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I named her after you.”
I stared at her in astonishment. A girl called Stan?
“No, not Stan,” she said. “Angela, for my angel of a cop.”
Maybe she had a point. When I find myself in the right place at the right time it’s because God put me there.
Gabrielle, My Guardian in New York City
Walking towards the subway station, I noticed a man following me every step of the way.
By Patricia Gaddis
Several years ago after my first book was published I did a lot of traveling and presented several workshops in New York on the dynamics of domestic violence. Most of these trips were uneventful, but one of them will remain forever in my memory.
It was during the week of Thanksgiving and downtown Manhattan was swamped with tourists there for the Macy’s parade. Because of an unpleasant experience that happened to me when I was a teen, I stayed totally clear of the subway system. Any time that I had to be in New York I booked a room within walking distance to my workshops. But during one particular event there were no vacancies near my workshops so I stayed with my cousin, who lived in a lovely Brooklyn Heights apartment with breathtaking views of the East River and the Brooklyn Bridge. Each morning I took a cab into the city and then back to my cousin’s apartment at night. This was a luxury that I could afford simply because I did not have to pay for an expensive hotel.
On the last day of my workshop I walked out into midtown Manhattan at night to find a huge crowd lined up outside of Rockefeller Center for the Christmas tree lighting. For almost an hour I tried to hail a taxi, but none were available. I hurried along the sidewalks and busy streets, waving my arms at all the cabs, but every time a car stopped for me, someone else would jump ahead and get into it first! Finally, with my arms hurting and my voice hoarse, I wearily began walking toward the nearest subway station to catch a train. I hated the idea of having to be in the subway this late in the evening, but I was exhausted and clearly did not have a choice.
As most people know, New York is an exciting place during the holiday season. The city was beautifully decorated and I enjoyed the sound of music and the smell of spiced apples from vendors. Everything was going nicely until I happened to notice a man following me. Every time that I stopped to look into a window, he would also stop a few feet behind me, only to begin following me again as I resumed my pace. When I picked up my speed he would do the same. If I slowed down, he would walk unhurriedly but always remain a few paces behind.
Needless to say, by the time I reached the subway station I was a bundle of nerves, but I went ahead and boarded the train. My follower got into the same car as I did and sat down across from me opening a newspaper. While I did not make eye contact with him, I could tell that the newspaper was just a decoy to make me put my guard down. I really didn’t know what to do! I knew that if he got off the train when I did he would follow me back to my cousin’s apartment. I was horrified. Would I have to ride the subway all night to avoid being followed or attacked in the street? And where on earth was a police officer when you needed one?, I wondered as I scanned the car for a uniformed officer.
Suddenly, a lovely lady wearing a long black leather coat that looked exactly like mine got on the train and sat right down beside me. In desperation I whispered to her that I was being followed by the man sitting directly across the aisle. As I spoke to her, I noticed that my stalker had put down his newspaper and was leaning forward attentively, as though trying to hear what we were saying! She noticed this as well and, for a moment, she stopped talking to me and glared at him until he sat back in his seat and put the newspaper over his face.
“He will not get off at your stop,” she said in a low voice, patting my arm.
How could she know this? I wondered. She seemed so confident!
“Don’t be afraid,” she said firmly. “When the train comes to your stop you will get off and everything will be fine.”
Then she asked me why I was in New York. I told her that I was an author, in town to promote my book and present a workshop on domestic violence. She appeared very knowledgeable about my field and suggested a couple of places where I might promote my book in the future. As I hurriedly wrote down the names of the places I suddenly felt a tremendous peace wash over me. I looked over at the man who had been following me and he was sound asleep and snoring!
“What is your name?” I asked, as the subway car screeched to a halt and I quickly collected my bags.
“Gabrielle,” she replied.
Her bright blue eyes looked at me directly, as though she knew me.
As I stood up and approached the opening doors, I quickly glanced back at my stalker. He was still fast asleep and snoring loudly. The newspaper that he had been pretending to read had fallen onto the floor.
“Thank you,” I smiled.
Gabrielle nodded as the subway doors closed behind me. I hurried out into the night, knowing without a doubt that I had just met my Guardian Angel!
Walking towards the subway station, I noticed a man following me every step of the way.
By Patricia Gaddis
Several years ago after my first book was published I did a lot of traveling and presented several workshops in New York on the dynamics of domestic violence. Most of these trips were uneventful, but one of them will remain forever in my memory.
It was during the week of Thanksgiving and downtown Manhattan was swamped with tourists there for the Macy’s parade. Because of an unpleasant experience that happened to me when I was a teen, I stayed totally clear of the subway system. Any time that I had to be in New York I booked a room within walking distance to my workshops. But during one particular event there were no vacancies near my workshops so I stayed with my cousin, who lived in a lovely Brooklyn Heights apartment with breathtaking views of the East River and the Brooklyn Bridge. Each morning I took a cab into the city and then back to my cousin’s apartment at night. This was a luxury that I could afford simply because I did not have to pay for an expensive hotel.
On the last day of my workshop I walked out into midtown Manhattan at night to find a huge crowd lined up outside of Rockefeller Center for the Christmas tree lighting. For almost an hour I tried to hail a taxi, but none were available. I hurried along the sidewalks and busy streets, waving my arms at all the cabs, but every time a car stopped for me, someone else would jump ahead and get into it first! Finally, with my arms hurting and my voice hoarse, I wearily began walking toward the nearest subway station to catch a train. I hated the idea of having to be in the subway this late in the evening, but I was exhausted and clearly did not have a choice.
As most people know, New York is an exciting place during the holiday season. The city was beautifully decorated and I enjoyed the sound of music and the smell of spiced apples from vendors. Everything was going nicely until I happened to notice a man following me. Every time that I stopped to look into a window, he would also stop a few feet behind me, only to begin following me again as I resumed my pace. When I picked up my speed he would do the same. If I slowed down, he would walk unhurriedly but always remain a few paces behind.
Needless to say, by the time I reached the subway station I was a bundle of nerves, but I went ahead and boarded the train. My follower got into the same car as I did and sat down across from me opening a newspaper. While I did not make eye contact with him, I could tell that the newspaper was just a decoy to make me put my guard down. I really didn’t know what to do! I knew that if he got off the train when I did he would follow me back to my cousin’s apartment. I was horrified. Would I have to ride the subway all night to avoid being followed or attacked in the street? And where on earth was a police officer when you needed one?, I wondered as I scanned the car for a uniformed officer.
Suddenly, a lovely lady wearing a long black leather coat that looked exactly like mine got on the train and sat right down beside me. In desperation I whispered to her that I was being followed by the man sitting directly across the aisle. As I spoke to her, I noticed that my stalker had put down his newspaper and was leaning forward attentively, as though trying to hear what we were saying! She noticed this as well and, for a moment, she stopped talking to me and glared at him until he sat back in his seat and put the newspaper over his face.
“He will not get off at your stop,” she said in a low voice, patting my arm.
How could she know this? I wondered. She seemed so confident!
“Don’t be afraid,” she said firmly. “When the train comes to your stop you will get off and everything will be fine.”
Then she asked me why I was in New York. I told her that I was an author, in town to promote my book and present a workshop on domestic violence. She appeared very knowledgeable about my field and suggested a couple of places where I might promote my book in the future. As I hurriedly wrote down the names of the places I suddenly felt a tremendous peace wash over me. I looked over at the man who had been following me and he was sound asleep and snoring!
“What is your name?” I asked, as the subway car screeched to a halt and I quickly collected my bags.
“Gabrielle,” she replied.
Her bright blue eyes looked at me directly, as though she knew me.
As I stood up and approached the opening doors, I quickly glanced back at my stalker. He was still fast asleep and snoring loudly. The newspaper that he had been pretending to read had fallen onto the floor.
“Thank you,” I smiled.
Gabrielle nodded as the subway doors closed behind me. I hurried out into the night, knowing without a doubt that I had just met my Guardian Angel!
Ordinary Angels in the Courtyard
The night my youngest son passed away, my attention was drawn to a particular group of bystanders.
By Shauna Baker
Dean, three weeks before
he passed away. (Photograph)
I truly believe I saw angels the night my son died in December 1998. Dean was just 18 and a wonderful, friendly young man with the world at his feet. Late one evening, he collapsed in a violent seizure while [going] into his apartment to socialize with his friends and his older brother, David. [Dean] wasn't epileptic. Nearly nine years later, I still do not know why he died.
David called me at around 12:10 am and asked, "Mum, what do I do? I don't know what to do." I told him to call the ambulance. I was 15 minutes away. I started pleading to myself, "Please don't let my son die. I'm coming, Dean, don't die!" I got my purse and keys, locked my house, and jumped in my car. Driving up the highway I prayed that I would not get stopped for speeding, and I made it to the apartment in about seven minutes. I ran inside, expecting to see my son sitting up looking ill and saying, "Oh mum, I don't feel so good." Instead, I saw him lying in the central courtyard, flat on his back. I ran over and asked, "Is he still breathing?" Two young people with him were attempting CPR, and one of them said, "Barely." I told Dean I was there, and everything was going to be alright. The emergency medical technicians arrived just minutes after me, and they took over.
The ambulance crew began working on my son, and I quickly looked around to see if I knew any of the people standing in the courtyard. My older son was crumpled in the doorway of his apartment, unable to face what was happening. He had seen Dean fall and placed him in the coma recovery position before calling me.
There were about 20 people in the area. A group of about 12 were standing hand-in-hand in a semicircle, perfectly quiet. They were ordinary people, some old and young, some male and female, in all kinds of clothes. I thought they were residents of the apartment complex, but their reverence struck me as being very beautiful.
My attention returned to Dean. One of the EMTs directed me, and I worked briefly on Dean's chest as oxygen was provided to him. After a while, Dean was loaded into the ambulance and we went to the hospital, but he was pronounced deceased after half an hour.
The next day, I asked David who all the people were in the courtyard. He began to tell me, and I said, "No, the ones who were standing in the semicircle with their hands linked." David went white, looking at me with total shock on his face. Then he said, "Mum, there was nobody there." I burst into tears because I realized the people I saw must have been angels, and I was so grateful my son did not die alone that night.
Update
David with his fiancee, Heather. (Photographs)
Dean's older brother David is getting married on November 24, 2007, which is Dean's birthday. Dean would have been 27 on this day, and he would have been David's best man.
Dean will be standing alongside his big brother on his wedding day, celebrating love and life with a big grin on his face. Of this I am sure.
Suffice it to say, the angels are an ever-present source of love and guidance in my world, and I trust them implicitly. I have asked them to help David and other friends and family many times, and they have never let me down.
Photographs can be seen at:
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/226/stor ... mc_id=NL24
The night my youngest son passed away, my attention was drawn to a particular group of bystanders.
By Shauna Baker
Dean, three weeks before
he passed away. (Photograph)
I truly believe I saw angels the night my son died in December 1998. Dean was just 18 and a wonderful, friendly young man with the world at his feet. Late one evening, he collapsed in a violent seizure while [going] into his apartment to socialize with his friends and his older brother, David. [Dean] wasn't epileptic. Nearly nine years later, I still do not know why he died.
David called me at around 12:10 am and asked, "Mum, what do I do? I don't know what to do." I told him to call the ambulance. I was 15 minutes away. I started pleading to myself, "Please don't let my son die. I'm coming, Dean, don't die!" I got my purse and keys, locked my house, and jumped in my car. Driving up the highway I prayed that I would not get stopped for speeding, and I made it to the apartment in about seven minutes. I ran inside, expecting to see my son sitting up looking ill and saying, "Oh mum, I don't feel so good." Instead, I saw him lying in the central courtyard, flat on his back. I ran over and asked, "Is he still breathing?" Two young people with him were attempting CPR, and one of them said, "Barely." I told Dean I was there, and everything was going to be alright. The emergency medical technicians arrived just minutes after me, and they took over.
The ambulance crew began working on my son, and I quickly looked around to see if I knew any of the people standing in the courtyard. My older son was crumpled in the doorway of his apartment, unable to face what was happening. He had seen Dean fall and placed him in the coma recovery position before calling me.
There were about 20 people in the area. A group of about 12 were standing hand-in-hand in a semicircle, perfectly quiet. They were ordinary people, some old and young, some male and female, in all kinds of clothes. I thought they were residents of the apartment complex, but their reverence struck me as being very beautiful.
My attention returned to Dean. One of the EMTs directed me, and I worked briefly on Dean's chest as oxygen was provided to him. After a while, Dean was loaded into the ambulance and we went to the hospital, but he was pronounced deceased after half an hour.
The next day, I asked David who all the people were in the courtyard. He began to tell me, and I said, "No, the ones who were standing in the semicircle with their hands linked." David went white, looking at me with total shock on his face. Then he said, "Mum, there was nobody there." I burst into tears because I realized the people I saw must have been angels, and I was so grateful my son did not die alone that night.
Update
David with his fiancee, Heather. (Photographs)
Dean's older brother David is getting married on November 24, 2007, which is Dean's birthday. Dean would have been 27 on this day, and he would have been David's best man.
Dean will be standing alongside his big brother on his wedding day, celebrating love and life with a big grin on his face. Of this I am sure.
Suffice it to say, the angels are an ever-present source of love and guidance in my world, and I trust them implicitly. I have asked them to help David and other friends and family many times, and they have never let me down.
Photographs can be seen at:
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/226/stor ... mc_id=NL24
I would like to greet you all Salegrah Mubarak with the angelic story below which touches upon the Lord's forgiveness.
MY SISTER, MY FRIEND
Hold a true friend with both your hands. —NIGERIAN PROVERB
When sixteen-year-old Susan Kelly* felt blue or wanted to cele-W brate, she turned to music first. She and her sister Cathy just two years younger, had had a gift for singing from the time they were toddlers growing up in Iowa. The entire extended family looked forward to get-togethers because Susan and Cathy needed no encouragement to sing for them. And when there wasn't an audience, "we harmonized around the house while doing chores," Susan says, "and to all the oldies our mom taught us," as well as hymns from the church songbooks. Both girls felt that singing had drawn them close and allowed them to avoid most of the bickering and rivalry common to many teenage sisters.
"last name changed
Now, however, Susan needed more than a song to solve her problem. She was pregnant. Her parents had been devastated at the news, especially because they did not like her boyfriend at all. But they stood by her with encouragement and helped provide a beautiful church wedding. Susan felt like a hypocrite. She had always had a close relationship with God. But now she felt he must be disappointed in her, not only for her own actions but because she had let down the family that loved her. How could God bless this union? How could she even ask?
But Cathy wouldn't accept Susan's assumptions about how God—or others—must think of her. She popped in often to give her sister a hug and a word of support. "God loves you no matter what," she reminded her sister over and over again. On good days, Susan could almost believe it.
However, there weren't very many good days. She was not long into her marriage before Susan discovered that her new husband was not as enthusiastic about impending parenthood as she was. He, too, had dropped out of school and was now working two jobs, one full-time in a factory and the other part-time at a gas station. As her due date grew closer. Susan hoped with all her heart that the baby would bridge the growing gap between them. Baby Bryan was born healthy and strong after a long and complicated labor. Susan's husband and her entire family were with her throughout it. but Cathy seemed to bring her the deepest peace and consolation, holding her hand and praying. After the birth, Susan's husband never returned to the hospital.
At home, motherhood was fascinating, scary, and amazing, all at once. Susan had planned to return to her job, but her husband was completely disinterested in the baby and would not take care of him. "I would come home, and the baby would be in the crib, wet, hungry, and screaming," she says. So she became a stay-at-home mom, and from the start, she sang to Bryan. When Cathy came to visit, she would join the song, too. Soon the girls had an entire repertoire of harmonized songs, everything from nursery rhymes to his apparent favorite, "Rock and Roll Lullaby," which never failed to put him to sleep. Susan's husband, however, was becoming more distant than ever. Susan wondered often what would become of them. Perhaps God had abandoned her after all.
When Bryan was nine months old, he developed a cold, his first real illness. By the third night, after singing countless lullabies and giving the baby one sponge bath after another, Susan was very worried. Infants' Tylenol wasn't bringing Bryan's fever down, and her husband was working late at the gas station that night, so she was alone. She had called the doctor earlier, but he had reassured her that infant colds were rarely serious, and she should relax. But now, as she felt the baby's flushed face, Susan took his temperature again. One hundred and six degrees!
"I was a little hysterical, I think," she says. "I knew I had to get Bryan to the hospital quickly, but after I strapped him into his car seat and roared off, I realized I should get his father, too. So I drove to the gas station first." But when she got there, she saw her husband standing outside the station, kissing a young woman.
This discovery was too shocking and huge to deal with just then, so Susan shot out of the gas station lot and sped down the highway. By the time she reached the hospital emergency room, Bryan was having trouble breathing, and his fever had spiked to one hundred and eight. Dehydration had set in. When the nurses started an IV in each arm, he didn't even move.
Susan sat, exhausted and terrified, outside the intensive care unit, watching through the window at the nurses' station as the baby's chest barely moved. "Please God, save him, save him" was all she could say. At some point, her family members came, except for Cathy, who was too young to visit the ICU. Susan's husband also arrived. She couldn't think of anything to say to him—everything seemed vague, as if she were in some kind of fog. All that mattered to her was Bryan.
But would God answer her prayer? Was he still disappointed in her? Finally, with the nurses' consent, Susan climbed into the oxygen tent, lay on the bed beside Bryan, clutched his little hand, and continued to pray. But after five hours and several bags of fluids, his temperature had dropped only a degree. The doctor told everyone to go home, and everyone did, except Susan. "There has to be something I can do," she begged the nurse on duty. "Anything."
"Well . . ." The nurse looked around and then quickly left the room. She returned with a pitcher of cool water and a syringe with the needle detached. "Fill the syringe with the water from the pitcher," the nurse instructed Susan, "and slowly drip the water down the baby's throat."
Susan got back under the tent and lifted Bryan into her arms. She would do this. She had to! Somehow she knew it was Bryan's last chance. But it was so hard to reach the pitcher, then dip and fill the syringe with the baby in her arms. Susan struggled to balance everything, but the water dribbled out of Bryan's mouth. She was so intent on her tasks that when the nurse came back, Susan didn't look up.
"Here, let me fill the syringe and hand it to you," a woman said. But it wasn't the nurse. It was Cathy!
"Oh, Cathy, I'm so glad you're here!" Susan's eyes filled with tears. How had her sister managed to sneak in, despite being underage? And wasn't it awfully late? Who had driven her? But this was not the time for questions. Calmly, Cathy bent over the pitcher and filled the syringe, handing it to Susan, then taking it back to refill it. The baby settled down, swallowing each drop with his eyes still closed. Peace—in this unlikely and desperate place—began to move across Susan's heart, banishing her terrible fear. She wasn't alone anymore.
Softly she began to sing Bryan's favorite, "Rock and Roll Lullaby." Within seconds, Cathy's voice joined hers, easily harmonizing as they had always done. From "Lullaby" they moved to other favorites as they rhythmically passed the syringe back and forth. No conversation was necessary.
An hour passed, then Bryan fell asleep. Almost immediately the nurse came in the room to check him. "His fever has broken," she smiled at Susan. "That's good news."
Susan looked for Cathy, but she had apparently slipped out of the room. Exhausted and relieved, her hand cramped, Susan lay back on the bed.
For three more days, Susan stayed at Bryan's bedside. Her husband visited, too, but both of them knew now that their marriage had ended. Separating was the right decision, but Susan couldn't help but feel sorrowful. Once again, she had failed at something important. God must be so dissatisfied with her.
Finally. Bryan was discharged, and Susan drove with him to her family's home. Cathy was waiting at the door to greet her. "Oh Cathy ..." Susan hugged her. "Thank you so much for coming to the hospital that night! You were wonderful!"
Cathy hugged her, then stepped back, a puzzled look on her face. "What are you talking about, Sue? I was never at the hospital. You know I'm not old enough to visit the ICU."
Had it been a dream? No! Susan had taken the syringe home with her, and would never forget it passing between them, holding those tiny drops of lifesaving water. She remembered how cramped her own hand had been. But she would say no more until she had visited the hospital staff to thank them for their care.
A few days later, she did, and the same ICU nurse took her aside. "I'll always remember how you stayed up all night alone with your son, singing the whole time," the nurse said.
"But I wasn't alone," Susan pointed out. "Don't you remember the younger girl, the one that sang with me?"
"There wasn't anyone with you," the nurse insisted. "I could see you clearly through the window, dropping the water into the baby's mouth. You were the only one in the room."
Suddenly, as if a warm blanket was settling around her, Susan understood. Cathy had been right all along. God loved her now, and had always loved her, just as she loved her baby. It was he, her Eternal Parent, who had arranged for an angel to watch with her that night in the hospital. Not just any angel either, but one who resembled the person Susan had always been able to trust and depend upon most: her sister.
Susan went on to become a much-cherished wife and the mother of five children. Like all of us, she has encountered trouble and disappointment along the way. But she has never doubted God's forgiveness. And, whenever they can, she and Cathy sing praises to him.
(Taken from 'Guardian Angels' by Joan Wester Anderson)
MY SISTER, MY FRIEND
Hold a true friend with both your hands. —NIGERIAN PROVERB
When sixteen-year-old Susan Kelly* felt blue or wanted to cele-W brate, she turned to music first. She and her sister Cathy just two years younger, had had a gift for singing from the time they were toddlers growing up in Iowa. The entire extended family looked forward to get-togethers because Susan and Cathy needed no encouragement to sing for them. And when there wasn't an audience, "we harmonized around the house while doing chores," Susan says, "and to all the oldies our mom taught us," as well as hymns from the church songbooks. Both girls felt that singing had drawn them close and allowed them to avoid most of the bickering and rivalry common to many teenage sisters.
"last name changed
Now, however, Susan needed more than a song to solve her problem. She was pregnant. Her parents had been devastated at the news, especially because they did not like her boyfriend at all. But they stood by her with encouragement and helped provide a beautiful church wedding. Susan felt like a hypocrite. She had always had a close relationship with God. But now she felt he must be disappointed in her, not only for her own actions but because she had let down the family that loved her. How could God bless this union? How could she even ask?
But Cathy wouldn't accept Susan's assumptions about how God—or others—must think of her. She popped in often to give her sister a hug and a word of support. "God loves you no matter what," she reminded her sister over and over again. On good days, Susan could almost believe it.
However, there weren't very many good days. She was not long into her marriage before Susan discovered that her new husband was not as enthusiastic about impending parenthood as she was. He, too, had dropped out of school and was now working two jobs, one full-time in a factory and the other part-time at a gas station. As her due date grew closer. Susan hoped with all her heart that the baby would bridge the growing gap between them. Baby Bryan was born healthy and strong after a long and complicated labor. Susan's husband and her entire family were with her throughout it. but Cathy seemed to bring her the deepest peace and consolation, holding her hand and praying. After the birth, Susan's husband never returned to the hospital.
At home, motherhood was fascinating, scary, and amazing, all at once. Susan had planned to return to her job, but her husband was completely disinterested in the baby and would not take care of him. "I would come home, and the baby would be in the crib, wet, hungry, and screaming," she says. So she became a stay-at-home mom, and from the start, she sang to Bryan. When Cathy came to visit, she would join the song, too. Soon the girls had an entire repertoire of harmonized songs, everything from nursery rhymes to his apparent favorite, "Rock and Roll Lullaby," which never failed to put him to sleep. Susan's husband, however, was becoming more distant than ever. Susan wondered often what would become of them. Perhaps God had abandoned her after all.
When Bryan was nine months old, he developed a cold, his first real illness. By the third night, after singing countless lullabies and giving the baby one sponge bath after another, Susan was very worried. Infants' Tylenol wasn't bringing Bryan's fever down, and her husband was working late at the gas station that night, so she was alone. She had called the doctor earlier, but he had reassured her that infant colds were rarely serious, and she should relax. But now, as she felt the baby's flushed face, Susan took his temperature again. One hundred and six degrees!
"I was a little hysterical, I think," she says. "I knew I had to get Bryan to the hospital quickly, but after I strapped him into his car seat and roared off, I realized I should get his father, too. So I drove to the gas station first." But when she got there, she saw her husband standing outside the station, kissing a young woman.
This discovery was too shocking and huge to deal with just then, so Susan shot out of the gas station lot and sped down the highway. By the time she reached the hospital emergency room, Bryan was having trouble breathing, and his fever had spiked to one hundred and eight. Dehydration had set in. When the nurses started an IV in each arm, he didn't even move.
Susan sat, exhausted and terrified, outside the intensive care unit, watching through the window at the nurses' station as the baby's chest barely moved. "Please God, save him, save him" was all she could say. At some point, her family members came, except for Cathy, who was too young to visit the ICU. Susan's husband also arrived. She couldn't think of anything to say to him—everything seemed vague, as if she were in some kind of fog. All that mattered to her was Bryan.
But would God answer her prayer? Was he still disappointed in her? Finally, with the nurses' consent, Susan climbed into the oxygen tent, lay on the bed beside Bryan, clutched his little hand, and continued to pray. But after five hours and several bags of fluids, his temperature had dropped only a degree. The doctor told everyone to go home, and everyone did, except Susan. "There has to be something I can do," she begged the nurse on duty. "Anything."
"Well . . ." The nurse looked around and then quickly left the room. She returned with a pitcher of cool water and a syringe with the needle detached. "Fill the syringe with the water from the pitcher," the nurse instructed Susan, "and slowly drip the water down the baby's throat."
Susan got back under the tent and lifted Bryan into her arms. She would do this. She had to! Somehow she knew it was Bryan's last chance. But it was so hard to reach the pitcher, then dip and fill the syringe with the baby in her arms. Susan struggled to balance everything, but the water dribbled out of Bryan's mouth. She was so intent on her tasks that when the nurse came back, Susan didn't look up.
"Here, let me fill the syringe and hand it to you," a woman said. But it wasn't the nurse. It was Cathy!
"Oh, Cathy, I'm so glad you're here!" Susan's eyes filled with tears. How had her sister managed to sneak in, despite being underage? And wasn't it awfully late? Who had driven her? But this was not the time for questions. Calmly, Cathy bent over the pitcher and filled the syringe, handing it to Susan, then taking it back to refill it. The baby settled down, swallowing each drop with his eyes still closed. Peace—in this unlikely and desperate place—began to move across Susan's heart, banishing her terrible fear. She wasn't alone anymore.
Softly she began to sing Bryan's favorite, "Rock and Roll Lullaby." Within seconds, Cathy's voice joined hers, easily harmonizing as they had always done. From "Lullaby" they moved to other favorites as they rhythmically passed the syringe back and forth. No conversation was necessary.
An hour passed, then Bryan fell asleep. Almost immediately the nurse came in the room to check him. "His fever has broken," she smiled at Susan. "That's good news."
Susan looked for Cathy, but she had apparently slipped out of the room. Exhausted and relieved, her hand cramped, Susan lay back on the bed.
For three more days, Susan stayed at Bryan's bedside. Her husband visited, too, but both of them knew now that their marriage had ended. Separating was the right decision, but Susan couldn't help but feel sorrowful. Once again, she had failed at something important. God must be so dissatisfied with her.
Finally. Bryan was discharged, and Susan drove with him to her family's home. Cathy was waiting at the door to greet her. "Oh Cathy ..." Susan hugged her. "Thank you so much for coming to the hospital that night! You were wonderful!"
Cathy hugged her, then stepped back, a puzzled look on her face. "What are you talking about, Sue? I was never at the hospital. You know I'm not old enough to visit the ICU."
Had it been a dream? No! Susan had taken the syringe home with her, and would never forget it passing between them, holding those tiny drops of lifesaving water. She remembered how cramped her own hand had been. But she would say no more until she had visited the hospital staff to thank them for their care.
A few days later, she did, and the same ICU nurse took her aside. "I'll always remember how you stayed up all night alone with your son, singing the whole time," the nurse said.
"But I wasn't alone," Susan pointed out. "Don't you remember the younger girl, the one that sang with me?"
"There wasn't anyone with you," the nurse insisted. "I could see you clearly through the window, dropping the water into the baby's mouth. You were the only one in the room."
Suddenly, as if a warm blanket was settling around her, Susan understood. Cathy had been right all along. God loved her now, and had always loved her, just as she loved her baby. It was he, her Eternal Parent, who had arranged for an angel to watch with her that night in the hospital. Not just any angel either, but one who resembled the person Susan had always been able to trust and depend upon most: her sister.
Susan went on to become a much-cherished wife and the mother of five children. Like all of us, she has encountered trouble and disappointment along the way. But she has never doubted God's forgiveness. And, whenever they can, she and Cathy sing praises to him.
(Taken from 'Guardian Angels' by Joan Wester Anderson)
A Specific Miracle for Christmas
Unemployed during the holidays, I struggled to make ends meet. Praying one night, I heard a voice of encouragement....
By Patricia Gaddis
It was the holiday season of 1984 and I was unemployed as a practical nurse. Instead of shopping and getting ready for the holidays, I found myself on the unemployment line, signing up for a cycle of checks that I would not receive until after the New Year. I racked my brain for a way to catch up on bills and provide my 10-year-old son and myself with Christmas dinner. Recently divorced, I sold my wedding rings to pay for food, car insurance, and an overdue phone bill. Now I had nothing left to sell and there were no job prospects on the horizon.
Spiraling into a deep depression, my very soul ached with despair. I felt empty from the loss of my job and the failure of my marriage. My son, Shawn, was the only reason I had for living. The love that I felt for my child surpassed everything else.
One day, after a long wait at the employment office, I decided to go to a nearby nature trail where I could walk in the brisk winter air and receive inspiration. During my walk it became clear to me that I needed divine intervention. I desperately needed a miracle and it had to happen very soon.
That night, as I was getting ready for bed, I thought about how I had done everything possible to remedy the situation and I knew that my worries would have to rest in God’s hands. I fell down on my knees beside the bed and sobbed. Suddenly, I heard a small voice speak to me.
“You have not because you ask not,” the voice said.
I sat down on my bed, shaken by the intensity of this message.
“Okay God,” I said. “I’m asking you to help me. Please just help me," I said, again breaking down in tears.
“Be specific.” The voice replied firmly.
I closed my eyes for a moment. My electric bill was $58 dollars and my rent was $150. I needed at least $208 to get caught up on my bills, but I also needed to buy groceries.
“Please send $250,” I whispered, knowing the additional $42 dollars would put food on the table until my first check arrived after the holidays.
For a fleeting moment there seemed to be a perfect stillness in the air and the world seemed totally quiet, as though some divine entity had caught my prayer and flung it higher into the heavens for consideration. I felt a warm and wonderful peace descend upon my heart and the worry lifted. Exhausted, I placed my head on the pillow and immediately fell sleep.
The following morning, Shawn and I decorated the Christmas tree and I placed brightly wrapped gifts under the branches. One of the presents was a wrist watch with a second-hand timer while another present was a lovely volume of "The Chronicles of Narnia." I had purchased these things in late July, tucking them away for Christmas.
Although Shawn was only 10 years old, he was very wise and understood the true meaning of Christmas. There had never been any selfishness in his heart and he was always grateful for whatever we had, making him a true and wonderful blessing in my life. For the remainder of the day we sang Christmas carols and baked cookies, and I felt a total sense of peace and expectation. The atmosphere itself seemed to hum and sparkle as though we stood in the center of an invigorating celestial storm.
“Do you feel that sparkle in the air?” I asked.
Shawn smiled happily.
“It’s the spirit of Christmas,” he said. “God sends sparkle dust to us during the holidays. You know, the Ghost of Christmas Present,” he added, loosely quoting from Charles Dickens’ "Christmas Carol." Then he jokingly picked up one of the presents and shook it, saying, “Are you in there Mr. Ghost of the Christmas present?”
We both laughed hysterically and then, after clearing away the supper dishes, I sank into the over-stuffed chair in the living room and put my feet up. Suddenly, I had the overwhelming urge to check my mail at the post office. I immediately shrugged it off because I had already been to the post office to find lots of bills waiting for me. After a few minutes though I gave in to the urge and decided to make the 10-mile drive to the post office. Shawn was watching a Christmas program on television and I knew he would be all right until I returned.
The streets were dark, and there were no signs of life on that cold winter evening. A few snowflakes fell against my windshield as I turned into the post office parking lot. Getting out of the car, I wrapped my coat against the howling wind and hurried into the brightly lit building. As I grew closer to my box a thrill of excitement surged through my veins and my hand trembled as I unlocked the little metal door.
A white business-sized envelope waited for me. I pulled it out carefully, my eyes quickly scanning the return address. It was from a bank in a neighboring town and I fleetingly wondered why I was receiving mail from an establishment with which I had never done business. My hands were shaking as I tore open the envelope and pulled out an official bank check for the amount of $300. I looked at the check closely beneath the fluorescent lights of the post office. Yes, the check was clearly made out in my name and signed by a bank official. Trembling at my good fortune I carefully tucked the check back into its envelope and fled to the car with my heart racing madly.
“God has answered my prayer,” I said, over and over. It was my mantra as I drove back home that night. But who was the check from? It was all I could do to keep the news from Shawn, but I wanted to be certain that the money was truly ours before making an announcement.
The following day was Christmas Eve and on that morning, as the clock struck nine, I called the bank. The manager reassured me that the check was authentic and could be immediately cashed. Overwhelmed by joy and curiosity I asked for the name of my benefactor. “The sender wishes to remain anonymous,” she said.
I thanked her with a quivering voice and quickly hung up the phone. Then, I told Shawn about the check and showed it to him. His eyes grew as big as saucers. We both praised God and jumped up and down with joy. Grabbing our coats, we hurried out the door to cash the check and pay for the overdue bills. On our way back home we stopped at the grocery store to buy a turkey and other goodies for Christmas.
“You have not because you ask not,” the voice had said.
I had asked God for $250 and he sent $300 to tide us over until my first check arrived. Although this happened more than 20 years ago, even now a shiver runs down my spine as I remember that the voice was not my imagination. I was clearly instructed to ask for what I needed and to be specific!
The benefactor of the check was never revealed to me and I did not pursue the matter. I knew then, as I know now, that our special Christmas gift was from God’s own hand and that is ultimately all that matters.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/227/story_22749.html
Unemployed during the holidays, I struggled to make ends meet. Praying one night, I heard a voice of encouragement....
By Patricia Gaddis
It was the holiday season of 1984 and I was unemployed as a practical nurse. Instead of shopping and getting ready for the holidays, I found myself on the unemployment line, signing up for a cycle of checks that I would not receive until after the New Year. I racked my brain for a way to catch up on bills and provide my 10-year-old son and myself with Christmas dinner. Recently divorced, I sold my wedding rings to pay for food, car insurance, and an overdue phone bill. Now I had nothing left to sell and there were no job prospects on the horizon.
Spiraling into a deep depression, my very soul ached with despair. I felt empty from the loss of my job and the failure of my marriage. My son, Shawn, was the only reason I had for living. The love that I felt for my child surpassed everything else.
One day, after a long wait at the employment office, I decided to go to a nearby nature trail where I could walk in the brisk winter air and receive inspiration. During my walk it became clear to me that I needed divine intervention. I desperately needed a miracle and it had to happen very soon.
That night, as I was getting ready for bed, I thought about how I had done everything possible to remedy the situation and I knew that my worries would have to rest in God’s hands. I fell down on my knees beside the bed and sobbed. Suddenly, I heard a small voice speak to me.
“You have not because you ask not,” the voice said.
I sat down on my bed, shaken by the intensity of this message.
“Okay God,” I said. “I’m asking you to help me. Please just help me," I said, again breaking down in tears.
“Be specific.” The voice replied firmly.
I closed my eyes for a moment. My electric bill was $58 dollars and my rent was $150. I needed at least $208 to get caught up on my bills, but I also needed to buy groceries.
“Please send $250,” I whispered, knowing the additional $42 dollars would put food on the table until my first check arrived after the holidays.
For a fleeting moment there seemed to be a perfect stillness in the air and the world seemed totally quiet, as though some divine entity had caught my prayer and flung it higher into the heavens for consideration. I felt a warm and wonderful peace descend upon my heart and the worry lifted. Exhausted, I placed my head on the pillow and immediately fell sleep.
The following morning, Shawn and I decorated the Christmas tree and I placed brightly wrapped gifts under the branches. One of the presents was a wrist watch with a second-hand timer while another present was a lovely volume of "The Chronicles of Narnia." I had purchased these things in late July, tucking them away for Christmas.
Although Shawn was only 10 years old, he was very wise and understood the true meaning of Christmas. There had never been any selfishness in his heart and he was always grateful for whatever we had, making him a true and wonderful blessing in my life. For the remainder of the day we sang Christmas carols and baked cookies, and I felt a total sense of peace and expectation. The atmosphere itself seemed to hum and sparkle as though we stood in the center of an invigorating celestial storm.
“Do you feel that sparkle in the air?” I asked.
Shawn smiled happily.
“It’s the spirit of Christmas,” he said. “God sends sparkle dust to us during the holidays. You know, the Ghost of Christmas Present,” he added, loosely quoting from Charles Dickens’ "Christmas Carol." Then he jokingly picked up one of the presents and shook it, saying, “Are you in there Mr. Ghost of the Christmas present?”
We both laughed hysterically and then, after clearing away the supper dishes, I sank into the over-stuffed chair in the living room and put my feet up. Suddenly, I had the overwhelming urge to check my mail at the post office. I immediately shrugged it off because I had already been to the post office to find lots of bills waiting for me. After a few minutes though I gave in to the urge and decided to make the 10-mile drive to the post office. Shawn was watching a Christmas program on television and I knew he would be all right until I returned.
The streets were dark, and there were no signs of life on that cold winter evening. A few snowflakes fell against my windshield as I turned into the post office parking lot. Getting out of the car, I wrapped my coat against the howling wind and hurried into the brightly lit building. As I grew closer to my box a thrill of excitement surged through my veins and my hand trembled as I unlocked the little metal door.
A white business-sized envelope waited for me. I pulled it out carefully, my eyes quickly scanning the return address. It was from a bank in a neighboring town and I fleetingly wondered why I was receiving mail from an establishment with which I had never done business. My hands were shaking as I tore open the envelope and pulled out an official bank check for the amount of $300. I looked at the check closely beneath the fluorescent lights of the post office. Yes, the check was clearly made out in my name and signed by a bank official. Trembling at my good fortune I carefully tucked the check back into its envelope and fled to the car with my heart racing madly.
“God has answered my prayer,” I said, over and over. It was my mantra as I drove back home that night. But who was the check from? It was all I could do to keep the news from Shawn, but I wanted to be certain that the money was truly ours before making an announcement.
The following day was Christmas Eve and on that morning, as the clock struck nine, I called the bank. The manager reassured me that the check was authentic and could be immediately cashed. Overwhelmed by joy and curiosity I asked for the name of my benefactor. “The sender wishes to remain anonymous,” she said.
I thanked her with a quivering voice and quickly hung up the phone. Then, I told Shawn about the check and showed it to him. His eyes grew as big as saucers. We both praised God and jumped up and down with joy. Grabbing our coats, we hurried out the door to cash the check and pay for the overdue bills. On our way back home we stopped at the grocery store to buy a turkey and other goodies for Christmas.
“You have not because you ask not,” the voice had said.
I had asked God for $250 and he sent $300 to tide us over until my first check arrived. Although this happened more than 20 years ago, even now a shiver runs down my spine as I remember that the voice was not my imagination. I was clearly instructed to ask for what I needed and to be specific!
The benefactor of the check was never revealed to me and I did not pursue the matter. I knew then, as I know now, that our special Christmas gift was from God’s own hand and that is ultimately all that matters.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/227/story_22749.html
Rosa's Solo
Losing someone during the holidays was hard. I knew that firsthand.
By Rosa G. Sanchez
from ANGELS
Early on a cold and rainy Christmas morning a few years back, I was busy wrapping presents and making tamales for our traditional family dinner at my mother’s. The telephone rang. “Merry Christmas,” I said, picking up.
“Good morning, Rosa. It’s Angelita.” Angelita was the secretary at our church. “Sorry to bring sad news, especially on Christmas Day,” she said, “but Mr. Jaramillo passed away. Could you sing at the wake tonight?”
My heart went out to the Jaramillo family. I knew what it was like to lose someone during the holidays. My own brother Alfredo had died at Christmastime 18 years ago. He was only 39. The sudden loss left a hole in my life. I hadn’t spent a Christmas since without feeling an underlying sadness. “Of course I’ll sing, Angelita. And I’ll try to find someone to sing with me.” I didn’t like singing alone. How in the world can I find someone on Christmas Day? I wondered.
I opened the church directory to make some calls. I started with my friend Carmen, but her entire family was visiting. I called Rosa, but she was out of town. Angie was already singing with the community choir. Ezequiel was ill, and Alejandra was giving a party. There was no one to help me.
As a last resort, I asked my husband. “Honey, will you sing with me at Mr. Jaramillo’s wake tonight?”
“I can’t carry a tune,” Bernie said. I’d knock you off-key.” He was right and I knew it. And so it was settled. I would be singing all alone, without even an organ to accompany me.
That afternoon Bernie, our two kids and I went to my mother’s house for a traditional Mexican Christmas feast. After dinner we opened presents. As evening grew near, my stomach did somersaults. Dear Lord, I want to praise you properly on this holy day. Let me sing my best to help ease the pain of Mr. Jaramillo’s family and friends. I left my mother’s house, and made my way to the funeral home.
The building was full of people who had gathered to pay their last respects. Not everyone could fit into the small chapel, and some people had to stand in the hallway. This large turnout would be a comfort to the Jaramillo family, I hoped. Yet I remembered how seeing the many people who attended my brother’s wake had not brought me peace. Not when he had died so young. I hadn’t been able to sing songs of praise in his honor. I hoped that I would be able to do it for Mr. Jaramillo.
The crowd fell silent as I stepped up to the podium. “We are gathered here to pray,” I said, “for the soul of José Jaramillo, our brother, and for his family and friends, who mourn his loss.” After the first prayers I began to sing “Ave Maria.” No one joined in. All I could hear was my own too-strident voice. I tried to soften my tone, to sing as perfectly as I possibly could. The Jara-millo family was counting on me. Lord, inspire me.
The words coming out of my mouth became quieter, yet they filled the chapel and echoed into the hallway. My voice took on a tender pitch. I was surprised by its lovely sound. In all my life I’d never sung so well!
I took a deep breath before launching into the next verse. Then . . . wait . . . did I hear other voices singing along with mine? “Ave Maria” filled the room. A choir of angels could not have done better. I thought I heard instruments—a harp, a flute, a trumpet—but where were they coming from?
I looked about the chapel. No one was singing. My voice alone created the music. No instruments played. After each group of prayers I sang another hymn—and a glorious chorus joined me. With every song, my confidence grew. I found my voice. I sang with all my heart, for Mr. Jaramillo and for me. And as I sang, the sadness I always felt this time of year started to fade. There was no longer any room in my heart for it. I was filled with joy.
And I was filled with praise for the loving God who held me in his arms, and held my brother just a little closer.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/227/stor ... mc_id=NL24
Losing someone during the holidays was hard. I knew that firsthand.
By Rosa G. Sanchez
from ANGELS
Early on a cold and rainy Christmas morning a few years back, I was busy wrapping presents and making tamales for our traditional family dinner at my mother’s. The telephone rang. “Merry Christmas,” I said, picking up.
“Good morning, Rosa. It’s Angelita.” Angelita was the secretary at our church. “Sorry to bring sad news, especially on Christmas Day,” she said, “but Mr. Jaramillo passed away. Could you sing at the wake tonight?”
My heart went out to the Jaramillo family. I knew what it was like to lose someone during the holidays. My own brother Alfredo had died at Christmastime 18 years ago. He was only 39. The sudden loss left a hole in my life. I hadn’t spent a Christmas since without feeling an underlying sadness. “Of course I’ll sing, Angelita. And I’ll try to find someone to sing with me.” I didn’t like singing alone. How in the world can I find someone on Christmas Day? I wondered.
I opened the church directory to make some calls. I started with my friend Carmen, but her entire family was visiting. I called Rosa, but she was out of town. Angie was already singing with the community choir. Ezequiel was ill, and Alejandra was giving a party. There was no one to help me.
As a last resort, I asked my husband. “Honey, will you sing with me at Mr. Jaramillo’s wake tonight?”
“I can’t carry a tune,” Bernie said. I’d knock you off-key.” He was right and I knew it. And so it was settled. I would be singing all alone, without even an organ to accompany me.
That afternoon Bernie, our two kids and I went to my mother’s house for a traditional Mexican Christmas feast. After dinner we opened presents. As evening grew near, my stomach did somersaults. Dear Lord, I want to praise you properly on this holy day. Let me sing my best to help ease the pain of Mr. Jaramillo’s family and friends. I left my mother’s house, and made my way to the funeral home.
The building was full of people who had gathered to pay their last respects. Not everyone could fit into the small chapel, and some people had to stand in the hallway. This large turnout would be a comfort to the Jaramillo family, I hoped. Yet I remembered how seeing the many people who attended my brother’s wake had not brought me peace. Not when he had died so young. I hadn’t been able to sing songs of praise in his honor. I hoped that I would be able to do it for Mr. Jaramillo.
The crowd fell silent as I stepped up to the podium. “We are gathered here to pray,” I said, “for the soul of José Jaramillo, our brother, and for his family and friends, who mourn his loss.” After the first prayers I began to sing “Ave Maria.” No one joined in. All I could hear was my own too-strident voice. I tried to soften my tone, to sing as perfectly as I possibly could. The Jara-millo family was counting on me. Lord, inspire me.
The words coming out of my mouth became quieter, yet they filled the chapel and echoed into the hallway. My voice took on a tender pitch. I was surprised by its lovely sound. In all my life I’d never sung so well!
I took a deep breath before launching into the next verse. Then . . . wait . . . did I hear other voices singing along with mine? “Ave Maria” filled the room. A choir of angels could not have done better. I thought I heard instruments—a harp, a flute, a trumpet—but where were they coming from?
I looked about the chapel. No one was singing. My voice alone created the music. No instruments played. After each group of prayers I sang another hymn—and a glorious chorus joined me. With every song, my confidence grew. I found my voice. I sang with all my heart, for Mr. Jaramillo and for me. And as I sang, the sadness I always felt this time of year started to fade. There was no longer any room in my heart for it. I was filled with joy.
And I was filled with praise for the loving God who held me in his arms, and held my brother just a little closer.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/227/stor ... mc_id=NL24
Finding My Way
I was directionless in my life until a young girl's friendship showed me the way.
By Zan Gaudioso
I started college when I was sixteen years old. It was a big, scary place, and I was young. I remember standing in line for registration with the hordes of other people. I felt so insecure and inadequate next to those who were my supposed peers. How would I ever measure up to these people who seemed so confident and sure of what they wanted?
I didn't have any specific direction. I didn't have a clue as to what I wanted to do or be. College was just the next logical step. I felt very much out of place. To me, these people around me embodied my picture of the consummate college student. They stood there laughing with their friends, a cup of coffee in one hand, the schedule of classes in the other, discussing their options for the upcoming semester. Me, I had a list of classes on a piece of paper that I had painstakingly worked out with my big brother the night before. If I didn't get those particular classes, I was sunk. The idea of having a backup plan never even occurred to me. What would I do? I would just die. I knew that crying wasn't an option - I was in college for heaven's sake! Maybe throwing up would be a more socially acceptable reaction. I was alone, nervous and feeling like a cartoon in a museum of priceless paintings.
When the first week of classes started, I had the daunting task of trying to figure out where my classes were in this city they called a school. I was already exhausted by the overwhelming task of trying to park my car. Feeling awkward, out of place and in a world of logistical nightmares, studying and getting an education were the last things on my mind. But I put one foot in front of the other and prayed I would find some solace somewhere. And I did.
He walked into my life and into the huge auditorium that looked more like a movie theater than a classroom. But instead of taking a seat in the large lecture hall, he continued toward the front of the room to teach the class. He was smart and funny. I started to find any excuse to visit his office. This strange new world started to hold new meaning for me, and I began to explore it with more bravado. That was the good news. The bad news was that I had a crush on a man who was twice my age, married and had a family. But I felt helpless among all these new feelings and experiences I was having. Was this what becoming an adult meant? It all seemed too confusing.
I excelled in his class. One day he asked me if I wanted to help him grade papers, file and do some office work - a teacher's aide of sorts. There was no need to ask me twice. As the weeks passed, we shared lots of time together. I learned how to drink coffee over long philosophical conversations. We became friends.
Much to my surprise, out of the blue, he asked me if I would consider doing some baby-sitting for him. I was getting an invitation to become part of his private world. I was given directions to his house and told to come by that Thursday.
I arrived at his house promptly at six. He greeted me at the door. "Thank you so much for doing this. It's very important to me." He explained that his wife was taking care of her ailing mother and had taken their eight-month-old baby with her. Lily, their six-year-old, needed special care, and he was hoping to find someone who would click with her.
"Lily has cystic fibrosis and spends too much of her little life in bed." My heart just broke as I saw the love he had in his eyes for his little girl.
He took me into her room and, in the middle of a princess bed, sat this fair-haired little angel. She had some sort of breathing apparatus next to her bed that looked strangely out of place. What happened next was something I wasn't prepared for.
"This is the girl I told you about, Sweetie," he signed to his daughter. It turned out that Lily was deaf as well. I panicked. How would I communicate with her? What if there was an emergency?
"Her oral skills are good enough that you will be able to understand her, and you'll probably pick up some sign language. I'll only be gone a couple of hours." He left me with emergency numbers and pertinent information, and then he was gone.
I sat down on the bed with Lily, and her little fingers started flying. I shrugged my shoulders to let her know that I was lost. She smiled sweetly and then started to use her voice. She explained how it was easier to breathe when she let her fingers do her talking. That night I had my first lesson in sign language.
Over the next couple of months, I spent a lot of time with Lily. As I got to know Lily's dad as a father and as a husband, the crush changed. Now I was falling in love with his daughter. She taught me so much: not only how to sign, but also how to appreciate each moment in my life and how worrying over needless things was just stupid. We laughed together when she taught me the sign for stupid, where you take the closed fist of your right hand and knock on the side of your forehead - as if you're knocking to try to get in. She laughed as I made believe that I was hurting myself by knocking on my head too hard. And she would sign, "You hurt yourself just as much when you really do worry." She was wise beyond her years. Besides giving me her love, Lily also gave me direction. I went on to get a bachelor's degree in special education with an emphasis in deaf education.
I remained friends with Lily and her whole family throughout my college years and beyond. The crush I had on my college professor served me very well. I learned a great deal about life at the hands of a young child.
Some years later, I was asked to sign the Lord's Prayer at Lily's funeral. Everyone there told stories about how this one small life made such a big difference to so many. And, as Lily taught me when she showed me the sign for I love you, "Make sure when you use this sign that you really mean it."
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/227/story_22708.html
I was directionless in my life until a young girl's friendship showed me the way.
By Zan Gaudioso
I started college when I was sixteen years old. It was a big, scary place, and I was young. I remember standing in line for registration with the hordes of other people. I felt so insecure and inadequate next to those who were my supposed peers. How would I ever measure up to these people who seemed so confident and sure of what they wanted?
I didn't have any specific direction. I didn't have a clue as to what I wanted to do or be. College was just the next logical step. I felt very much out of place. To me, these people around me embodied my picture of the consummate college student. They stood there laughing with their friends, a cup of coffee in one hand, the schedule of classes in the other, discussing their options for the upcoming semester. Me, I had a list of classes on a piece of paper that I had painstakingly worked out with my big brother the night before. If I didn't get those particular classes, I was sunk. The idea of having a backup plan never even occurred to me. What would I do? I would just die. I knew that crying wasn't an option - I was in college for heaven's sake! Maybe throwing up would be a more socially acceptable reaction. I was alone, nervous and feeling like a cartoon in a museum of priceless paintings.
When the first week of classes started, I had the daunting task of trying to figure out where my classes were in this city they called a school. I was already exhausted by the overwhelming task of trying to park my car. Feeling awkward, out of place and in a world of logistical nightmares, studying and getting an education were the last things on my mind. But I put one foot in front of the other and prayed I would find some solace somewhere. And I did.
He walked into my life and into the huge auditorium that looked more like a movie theater than a classroom. But instead of taking a seat in the large lecture hall, he continued toward the front of the room to teach the class. He was smart and funny. I started to find any excuse to visit his office. This strange new world started to hold new meaning for me, and I began to explore it with more bravado. That was the good news. The bad news was that I had a crush on a man who was twice my age, married and had a family. But I felt helpless among all these new feelings and experiences I was having. Was this what becoming an adult meant? It all seemed too confusing.
I excelled in his class. One day he asked me if I wanted to help him grade papers, file and do some office work - a teacher's aide of sorts. There was no need to ask me twice. As the weeks passed, we shared lots of time together. I learned how to drink coffee over long philosophical conversations. We became friends.
Much to my surprise, out of the blue, he asked me if I would consider doing some baby-sitting for him. I was getting an invitation to become part of his private world. I was given directions to his house and told to come by that Thursday.
I arrived at his house promptly at six. He greeted me at the door. "Thank you so much for doing this. It's very important to me." He explained that his wife was taking care of her ailing mother and had taken their eight-month-old baby with her. Lily, their six-year-old, needed special care, and he was hoping to find someone who would click with her.
"Lily has cystic fibrosis and spends too much of her little life in bed." My heart just broke as I saw the love he had in his eyes for his little girl.
He took me into her room and, in the middle of a princess bed, sat this fair-haired little angel. She had some sort of breathing apparatus next to her bed that looked strangely out of place. What happened next was something I wasn't prepared for.
"This is the girl I told you about, Sweetie," he signed to his daughter. It turned out that Lily was deaf as well. I panicked. How would I communicate with her? What if there was an emergency?
"Her oral skills are good enough that you will be able to understand her, and you'll probably pick up some sign language. I'll only be gone a couple of hours." He left me with emergency numbers and pertinent information, and then he was gone.
I sat down on the bed with Lily, and her little fingers started flying. I shrugged my shoulders to let her know that I was lost. She smiled sweetly and then started to use her voice. She explained how it was easier to breathe when she let her fingers do her talking. That night I had my first lesson in sign language.
Over the next couple of months, I spent a lot of time with Lily. As I got to know Lily's dad as a father and as a husband, the crush changed. Now I was falling in love with his daughter. She taught me so much: not only how to sign, but also how to appreciate each moment in my life and how worrying over needless things was just stupid. We laughed together when she taught me the sign for stupid, where you take the closed fist of your right hand and knock on the side of your forehead - as if you're knocking to try to get in. She laughed as I made believe that I was hurting myself by knocking on my head too hard. And she would sign, "You hurt yourself just as much when you really do worry." She was wise beyond her years. Besides giving me her love, Lily also gave me direction. I went on to get a bachelor's degree in special education with an emphasis in deaf education.
I remained friends with Lily and her whole family throughout my college years and beyond. The crush I had on my college professor served me very well. I learned a great deal about life at the hands of a young child.
Some years later, I was asked to sign the Lord's Prayer at Lily's funeral. Everyone there told stories about how this one small life made such a big difference to so many. And, as Lily taught me when she showed me the sign for I love you, "Make sure when you use this sign that you really mean it."
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/227/story_22708.html
http://blog.beliefnet.com/beyondblue/20 ... do-yo.html
Friday December 21, 2007
Category: Inspiration and Prayer
Joan Wester Anderson: How Do You Move Beyond Blue?
In my previous post, “Beliefnet’s Interview with Joan Wester Anderson,” I mentioned that I would be interviewing Joan Wester Anderson the Friday before Christmas to get my Beyond Blue readers in the mood for the nativity story.
Joan is one of my very favorite people because she’s so real and generous and loving—always trying to spread hope of God’s love to anyone she meets. As I mentioned earlier, she is like the Dalai Lama of the angel world—with 15 books out, two of which stayed on the New York Times bestseller list for over a year, and all the radio and TV shows she’s been on. All of her accolades warrant a big head. But she’s not that way at all. She’s sweet and down to earth.
Joan and I connected awhile back, when I was thinking of compiling “St. Therese” stories, much like her angel tales. The editors of Loyola thought we would make a great team. Ultimately we never did the project, which was best given that I had a major breakdown a few months later. And Joan needed to focus on her family. I’ll never forget what she said: “I’m trying to concentrate on my grandkids now, because I’m trying to make up for all those times I fed my kids cookies to keep them quiet as I was on the phone doing a radio interview.” Whenever I get frustrated by these two miniature people keeping me from work, I remember her response.
Because we are only three days away from Christmas Eve, my favorite night of the year, when I light all the candles in our house and think about miracles and angels and holy stuff, in general, I thought Joan would be a fitting interview for today.
1) Joan, I posted the interview you did with Wendy Schuman of Beliefnet back in 2002, and the responses were interesting. I hate to throw Beyond Blue reader Larry Parker at you, but I think he asks a good question when he wrote this:
Her answer to "how do you get in touch with your guardian angel" smacks a bit too much of the Prosperity Gospel. I mean, really. Why should God intervene to let you get a parking space ahead of someone else who misses it? Frankly, why should God care?
How would you respond to such a question?
Why should God care, Larry? I don’t know. But He does, because He told us so in countless comments in His Bible. Nothing is too small for Him to notice or care about. And remember that He wants us to approach Him as little children would---joyful, confident and innocent---so obviously He concerns himself with the little things in our lives. In other words, he gets down to our level, like a Daddy would. (When Jesus taught the people how to pray the Our Father, the Aramaic word he used for “Father” was “Daddy.” This is apparently the relationship he wants us to have with him.)
Now this relationship is hard for many people to believe or sustain. Harder still is the idea that each of us possibly has his/her own guardian angel, or at least has access to help from the angels. So one way I suggest that people “test the spirits” is to ask God or his angels to give us something---a little sign, a comment from a stranger, yes, even a parking place (especially if we’re running late!). This builds our faith, opens our closed emotional doors, if only for a moment, and shows us some possibilities. The parking place isn’t what’s important; it’s the personal “hug from heaven” that hopefully reassures us that’s there’s more going on around us than meets the eye.
As far as the Prosperity Gospel is concerned, I’ve never really understood it that well. Yes, I think we are meant to be joyful here on earth no matter the circumstances, but bad things do happen to good people, and a closeness to God is not an exemption from trouble. I’m not real sure where the P.G. fits in the question above.
2) Other responses of your interview were testimonies of angel experiences, such as Barbara’s, which I’ll feature as separate post coming up. Do these angel stories in some way comfort you, especially in times of doubt or confusion, when you can’t see God’s hand in anything?
The only thing I know for sure about life is that it is constantly changing. So when I go through a period of doubt or confusion, I know I just have to hang around for awhile, keep busy and eventually things will look a little better. During times like these, I sometimes do go back and read some of the stories that I published a long time ago (my first angel book is fifteen years old!) and have half-forgotten.
Sometimes just remembering the circumstances of how that story reached me, or something in my notes triggers a good memory, and I am reminded again that God was there then, and He is here now. This is handy when I can’t summon His presence via my feelings and I have to walk by faith instead.
3) When you were asked where the angels were on September 11, you said this:
Right where they always are, with us. There are stories already circulating about strangers guiding people down the stairs of the WTC buildings, then disappearing. The question really is: Why didn't the angels step in and save those victims? I don’t know why--people have free will, it's out greatest gift, and God will not thwart it. But He can also bring good out of any kind of evil, and although we may not see anything good yet, I am sure it will come.
Is that how you would answer the person who is severely depressed and wants more than anything to end his life? When he cries out to God and can’t hear anything in response, how does he go on believing in miracles?
Truthfully, I would be scared to death to answer or attempt to influence anyone who was contemplating suicide; the responsibility, given that I’m an untrained non-professional, would be enormous. Nor do I think that stories of miracles, no matter how moving, would/could reach someone so deeply in pain.
When my five children went through the teen years, I worried that one or more of them might one day become depressed and think about suicide. I put all my fears on the table with all of them, and I made them promise two things to me: one, that if they ever thought about suicide, they would wait just one day before taking any harmful actions. Just one day. I always kid that I raised my children using “guilt therapy” so they OWED me that one day. The second thing they would do would be to tell a trustworthy adult how and what they were feeling. They all promised, and none of them ever experienced more than the normal emotional ups and downs.
So if I were dealing with someone who was deeply depressed, I think I would acknowledge that this situation is beyond me, and take that person for help. If I were talking with him, I would simply ask him to hold on for another day, and ask if, in the meantime, there is anything I could do to relieve his suffering. Lame, I know, but the truth.
4) In an e-mail to me you asked me a question that I’ve been stewing over for a few weeks now:
When you contemplated taking your life, how did you rationalize what would happen afterwards, i.e. condemned to hell? I'm talking about your spiritual life, not the impact it would have on your kids.
This is what I wrote to you in response:
I guess I was in so much pain that I figured God would understand why I wanted to be dead. And I felt pretty abandoned by him, so burning in hell seemed like it would hurt less than going on with life. Boy, I guess I was really low.
My therapist at the time tried to play up the whole “damnation to hell” with suicide, partly because she knew I was so Catholic, and if anything would keep me from doing it, that would. But I guess that just tells you how sick someone is when they are severely depressed … I didn’t really care if I was going to hell, because I was convinced hell was better than what I was feeling. For those who do commit suicide, what do you, as a good but compassionate Catholic, believe happens to their souls?
Years ago, the Catholic Church changed its official stance that people who commit suicide are committing a mortal sin and are thereby lost forever in hell. Now the belief is that, although taking a life is a serious sin, people committing suicide are not behaving rationally and thus cannot give full consent to this sin. To me, this is much more humane—and probably much closer to the truth---than the former stance.
This question comes up from time to time from my readers, and I’m always interested in their experiences. One young man had been mourning his sister who had taken her own life; not only did he grieve her loss, he also worried that she might not be in heaven. He told me that one night he had a strikingly-clear dream that his sister was on her way to a banquet and invited him to go along. He was struck by how beautiful and happy she was, but when they got to where the banquet was being held, she told him that she had to wait awhile until it was her turn to go in. She was not concerned about this at all, and looked forward to great happiness inside the banquet hall, but it just wasn’t her turn yet.
Now, people can argue that dreams are just meaningless fragments, but if we consider that God used dreams again and again to communicate with His people in the Scriptures---and God does nothing by chance---dreams may be a very accurate way of perceiving the truth. This young man recognized that the banquet was most certainly a symbol of heaven and that his sister, for whatever reason, had to wait awhile to enter, but was calmed and comforted by her obvious peacefulness. I have come across other very similar stories, and I do believe that this take is more in line with the compassion of Jesus.
5) Christmas Eve is the anniversary of the miracle that inspired your work with angels. How do you celebrate it? Any special rituals or traditions to remember that fateful night?
It was my son’s “adventure” with an angel on Christmas Eve in 1983 that actually opened my eyes to their presence in our lives. Of course I believed in angels because I was taught about them, and they are mentioned in Scripture over 300 times. But angels inserting themselves and their help into the ordinary problems of human beings? It had never occurred to me.
But that event started me on my path of researching and writing about angels, and brought me into a new career just when I had decided to give up journalism. Looking back with the clear view of hindsight, I realize now just how specifically God had prepared me for the work I started in the 80’s, work I still do today. So of course Christmas is a special time for our whole family, because it is the anniversary of when my new work for God began, and it’s also the anniversary of the best Christmas we ever had.
Actually, Christmas vacation itself was difficult that year. It was so cold that our cars wouldn’t start, parties were cancelled and we all got rather sick of each other and were relieved when it was time to go back to college or work. But later, when I heard the story of Tim’s rescue and realized how close I had come to losing my son, I realized that there was a diamond buried in all that mess, and that Christmas of ’83 was by far the most beautiful ever.
Comments (24)
Filed Under: angels, Beyond Blue, guardian angels, How Do You Move Beyond Blue, inspiration, interview, Joan Wester Anderson, miracles, prayer, snow angel, Therese Borchard, Where Angels Walk
Friday December 21, 2007
Category: Inspiration and Prayer
Joan Wester Anderson: How Do You Move Beyond Blue?
In my previous post, “Beliefnet’s Interview with Joan Wester Anderson,” I mentioned that I would be interviewing Joan Wester Anderson the Friday before Christmas to get my Beyond Blue readers in the mood for the nativity story.
Joan is one of my very favorite people because she’s so real and generous and loving—always trying to spread hope of God’s love to anyone she meets. As I mentioned earlier, she is like the Dalai Lama of the angel world—with 15 books out, two of which stayed on the New York Times bestseller list for over a year, and all the radio and TV shows she’s been on. All of her accolades warrant a big head. But she’s not that way at all. She’s sweet and down to earth.
Joan and I connected awhile back, when I was thinking of compiling “St. Therese” stories, much like her angel tales. The editors of Loyola thought we would make a great team. Ultimately we never did the project, which was best given that I had a major breakdown a few months later. And Joan needed to focus on her family. I’ll never forget what she said: “I’m trying to concentrate on my grandkids now, because I’m trying to make up for all those times I fed my kids cookies to keep them quiet as I was on the phone doing a radio interview.” Whenever I get frustrated by these two miniature people keeping me from work, I remember her response.
Because we are only three days away from Christmas Eve, my favorite night of the year, when I light all the candles in our house and think about miracles and angels and holy stuff, in general, I thought Joan would be a fitting interview for today.
1) Joan, I posted the interview you did with Wendy Schuman of Beliefnet back in 2002, and the responses were interesting. I hate to throw Beyond Blue reader Larry Parker at you, but I think he asks a good question when he wrote this:
Her answer to "how do you get in touch with your guardian angel" smacks a bit too much of the Prosperity Gospel. I mean, really. Why should God intervene to let you get a parking space ahead of someone else who misses it? Frankly, why should God care?
How would you respond to such a question?
Why should God care, Larry? I don’t know. But He does, because He told us so in countless comments in His Bible. Nothing is too small for Him to notice or care about. And remember that He wants us to approach Him as little children would---joyful, confident and innocent---so obviously He concerns himself with the little things in our lives. In other words, he gets down to our level, like a Daddy would. (When Jesus taught the people how to pray the Our Father, the Aramaic word he used for “Father” was “Daddy.” This is apparently the relationship he wants us to have with him.)
Now this relationship is hard for many people to believe or sustain. Harder still is the idea that each of us possibly has his/her own guardian angel, or at least has access to help from the angels. So one way I suggest that people “test the spirits” is to ask God or his angels to give us something---a little sign, a comment from a stranger, yes, even a parking place (especially if we’re running late!). This builds our faith, opens our closed emotional doors, if only for a moment, and shows us some possibilities. The parking place isn’t what’s important; it’s the personal “hug from heaven” that hopefully reassures us that’s there’s more going on around us than meets the eye.
As far as the Prosperity Gospel is concerned, I’ve never really understood it that well. Yes, I think we are meant to be joyful here on earth no matter the circumstances, but bad things do happen to good people, and a closeness to God is not an exemption from trouble. I’m not real sure where the P.G. fits in the question above.
2) Other responses of your interview were testimonies of angel experiences, such as Barbara’s, which I’ll feature as separate post coming up. Do these angel stories in some way comfort you, especially in times of doubt or confusion, when you can’t see God’s hand in anything?
The only thing I know for sure about life is that it is constantly changing. So when I go through a period of doubt or confusion, I know I just have to hang around for awhile, keep busy and eventually things will look a little better. During times like these, I sometimes do go back and read some of the stories that I published a long time ago (my first angel book is fifteen years old!) and have half-forgotten.
Sometimes just remembering the circumstances of how that story reached me, or something in my notes triggers a good memory, and I am reminded again that God was there then, and He is here now. This is handy when I can’t summon His presence via my feelings and I have to walk by faith instead.
3) When you were asked where the angels were on September 11, you said this:
Right where they always are, with us. There are stories already circulating about strangers guiding people down the stairs of the WTC buildings, then disappearing. The question really is: Why didn't the angels step in and save those victims? I don’t know why--people have free will, it's out greatest gift, and God will not thwart it. But He can also bring good out of any kind of evil, and although we may not see anything good yet, I am sure it will come.
Is that how you would answer the person who is severely depressed and wants more than anything to end his life? When he cries out to God and can’t hear anything in response, how does he go on believing in miracles?
Truthfully, I would be scared to death to answer or attempt to influence anyone who was contemplating suicide; the responsibility, given that I’m an untrained non-professional, would be enormous. Nor do I think that stories of miracles, no matter how moving, would/could reach someone so deeply in pain.
When my five children went through the teen years, I worried that one or more of them might one day become depressed and think about suicide. I put all my fears on the table with all of them, and I made them promise two things to me: one, that if they ever thought about suicide, they would wait just one day before taking any harmful actions. Just one day. I always kid that I raised my children using “guilt therapy” so they OWED me that one day. The second thing they would do would be to tell a trustworthy adult how and what they were feeling. They all promised, and none of them ever experienced more than the normal emotional ups and downs.
So if I were dealing with someone who was deeply depressed, I think I would acknowledge that this situation is beyond me, and take that person for help. If I were talking with him, I would simply ask him to hold on for another day, and ask if, in the meantime, there is anything I could do to relieve his suffering. Lame, I know, but the truth.
4) In an e-mail to me you asked me a question that I’ve been stewing over for a few weeks now:
When you contemplated taking your life, how did you rationalize what would happen afterwards, i.e. condemned to hell? I'm talking about your spiritual life, not the impact it would have on your kids.
This is what I wrote to you in response:
I guess I was in so much pain that I figured God would understand why I wanted to be dead. And I felt pretty abandoned by him, so burning in hell seemed like it would hurt less than going on with life. Boy, I guess I was really low.
My therapist at the time tried to play up the whole “damnation to hell” with suicide, partly because she knew I was so Catholic, and if anything would keep me from doing it, that would. But I guess that just tells you how sick someone is when they are severely depressed … I didn’t really care if I was going to hell, because I was convinced hell was better than what I was feeling. For those who do commit suicide, what do you, as a good but compassionate Catholic, believe happens to their souls?
Years ago, the Catholic Church changed its official stance that people who commit suicide are committing a mortal sin and are thereby lost forever in hell. Now the belief is that, although taking a life is a serious sin, people committing suicide are not behaving rationally and thus cannot give full consent to this sin. To me, this is much more humane—and probably much closer to the truth---than the former stance.
This question comes up from time to time from my readers, and I’m always interested in their experiences. One young man had been mourning his sister who had taken her own life; not only did he grieve her loss, he also worried that she might not be in heaven. He told me that one night he had a strikingly-clear dream that his sister was on her way to a banquet and invited him to go along. He was struck by how beautiful and happy she was, but when they got to where the banquet was being held, she told him that she had to wait awhile until it was her turn to go in. She was not concerned about this at all, and looked forward to great happiness inside the banquet hall, but it just wasn’t her turn yet.
Now, people can argue that dreams are just meaningless fragments, but if we consider that God used dreams again and again to communicate with His people in the Scriptures---and God does nothing by chance---dreams may be a very accurate way of perceiving the truth. This young man recognized that the banquet was most certainly a symbol of heaven and that his sister, for whatever reason, had to wait awhile to enter, but was calmed and comforted by her obvious peacefulness. I have come across other very similar stories, and I do believe that this take is more in line with the compassion of Jesus.
5) Christmas Eve is the anniversary of the miracle that inspired your work with angels. How do you celebrate it? Any special rituals or traditions to remember that fateful night?
It was my son’s “adventure” with an angel on Christmas Eve in 1983 that actually opened my eyes to their presence in our lives. Of course I believed in angels because I was taught about them, and they are mentioned in Scripture over 300 times. But angels inserting themselves and their help into the ordinary problems of human beings? It had never occurred to me.
But that event started me on my path of researching and writing about angels, and brought me into a new career just when I had decided to give up journalism. Looking back with the clear view of hindsight, I realize now just how specifically God had prepared me for the work I started in the 80’s, work I still do today. So of course Christmas is a special time for our whole family, because it is the anniversary of when my new work for God began, and it’s also the anniversary of the best Christmas we ever had.
Actually, Christmas vacation itself was difficult that year. It was so cold that our cars wouldn’t start, parties were cancelled and we all got rather sick of each other and were relieved when it was time to go back to college or work. But later, when I heard the story of Tim’s rescue and realized how close I had come to losing my son, I realized that there was a diamond buried in all that mess, and that Christmas of ’83 was by far the most beautiful ever.
Comments (24)
Filed Under: angels, Beyond Blue, guardian angels, How Do You Move Beyond Blue, inspiration, interview, Joan Wester Anderson, miracles, prayer, snow angel, Therese Borchard, Where Angels Walk
January Roses
One woman's grief is lightened by a special delivery.
By Cathy Lee Phillips
Excerpted from Angels on Earth: A Guideposts publication, Jan/Feb 1997.
When I lost my husband early in 1992, I lost my companion, my lover, my best friend. Jerry died of complications from a heart transplant, and after only six years of marriage, I became a widow at the age of 35. We should have been laughing and looking forward to a long, happy life together. Instead the years ahead loomed like an endless, deserted highway.
As the initial numbness faded, sadness overwhelmed me and I sank into a depression that deepened with each passing month. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but for me it was an enemy that carried Jerry farther away.
I had a strong faith. Jerry had been a minister, and I was a director of Christian education. Nevertheless, grief and loneliness overshadowed my faith, and the solace I had once found in God was gone.
Occasionally I was able to lose myself in my work or enjoy an evening out with friends, but as soon as I walked through my front door, the silent house reminded me of the emptiness of life without Jerry. I'd look at the piano and think of how he loved to hear me play and sing. The couch in the living room made me remember our evenings snuggled in front of the TV. Some nights I lay awake for hours, missing the warmth of Jerry's body beside me.
Special occasions--Valentine's Day, Jerry's birthday, our anniversary--were the most difficult. Even Thanksgiving and Christmas, with family dinners to distract me, were devoid of joy.
As the first anniversary of Jerry's death grew nearer I didn't want to think about what I was going to do. Should I pretend it was just another day? Should I spend the day looking through our photo albums, reliving happier times?
Finally I decided the only place I might find peace was the beach. It had always been a place of rest and serenity for me. I wanted to hear and feel the power of God's sea, to inhale the sharp, briny air. Maybe that would make me feel alive again, close to God again.
I made reservations at a hotel on Amelia Island, Fla., where I had stayed once. It seemed an ideal place for solitary reflection and renewal.
'You Can't See the Water, But You Know It Is Near.'
On the morning of January 12th I awoke early in my hotel room, my mind flooded with memories of that day one year before. The brown warm-up suit Jerry wore in the hospital--a Christmas gift from me. The afternoon we spent together, sitting side by side on the starchy sheets of his bed, looking through the classifieds for a new puppy to keep me company while he recovered. Later, the emergency call from the hospital. The short drive there, which seemed to take an eternity. The stark words, "We couldn't bring him back."
I knew a walk along the Amelia Island shore would clear my head, so I forced myself to get out of bed. I looked through the window. A wall of thick gray fog had rolled in. The mist obscured everything--the water, the sand, the seagulls, even the hotel courtyard. A walk was out of the question.
Sliding open the glass door, I stepped out onto the balcony and slumped into a deck chair. All I wanted to do was walk on the beach.
I sat there glaring resentfully into the dense fog. Then, in the rhythmic rush of the waves against the shore, I thought I heard a whisper. Or was it the surf?
You can't see the water, but you know it is near.
What? Then I heard the words a second time. You can't see the water, but you know it is near.
The words receded, and in that moment of quiet, I understood. I couldn't see the ocean through the fog, but I could smell its saltiness in the air. I could hear the sound of the surf and the cry of the seagulls. Wasn't it the same with God?
A Maid With a Surprise Bouquet
A soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. I was puzzled; I didn't know anyone on the island. A hotel maid walked in, holding a glass vase with a beautiful bouquet of pale pink roses.
"I thought you might like these," she said, setting the vase on a side table and rearranging the flowers.
I was stunned, and it must have shown on my face because she apologized. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"It's not that," I said, unable to stop my tears.
"I found the roses in another part of the hotel," she said. "I can't explain it, but something told me to bring them to this room."
I looked at the bouquet more closely. That's odd, I thought. Not a dozen. Not a half dozen...
Then I told her about Jerry, about my loneliness. As I poured my heart out to this stranger, the fog of pain lifted. "Jerry used to give me pink roses on special occasions," I said. "We would have celebrated our seventh anniversary this year."
The maid hugged me tight. "I know you're still grieving, but life is more than grief," she promised as she slipped out the door.
Standing in the middle of my room, I stared at the bouquet. Seven pink roses. I heard the whisper once more: You can't see the water, but you know it is near.
Thank you, God, for telling me Jerry is safe with you, and I must go on. Thank you for the seven pink roses--and for the angel who delivered them.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/81/story_8183.html
One woman's grief is lightened by a special delivery.
By Cathy Lee Phillips
Excerpted from Angels on Earth: A Guideposts publication, Jan/Feb 1997.
When I lost my husband early in 1992, I lost my companion, my lover, my best friend. Jerry died of complications from a heart transplant, and after only six years of marriage, I became a widow at the age of 35. We should have been laughing and looking forward to a long, happy life together. Instead the years ahead loomed like an endless, deserted highway.
As the initial numbness faded, sadness overwhelmed me and I sank into a depression that deepened with each passing month. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but for me it was an enemy that carried Jerry farther away.
I had a strong faith. Jerry had been a minister, and I was a director of Christian education. Nevertheless, grief and loneliness overshadowed my faith, and the solace I had once found in God was gone.
Occasionally I was able to lose myself in my work or enjoy an evening out with friends, but as soon as I walked through my front door, the silent house reminded me of the emptiness of life without Jerry. I'd look at the piano and think of how he loved to hear me play and sing. The couch in the living room made me remember our evenings snuggled in front of the TV. Some nights I lay awake for hours, missing the warmth of Jerry's body beside me.
Special occasions--Valentine's Day, Jerry's birthday, our anniversary--were the most difficult. Even Thanksgiving and Christmas, with family dinners to distract me, were devoid of joy.
As the first anniversary of Jerry's death grew nearer I didn't want to think about what I was going to do. Should I pretend it was just another day? Should I spend the day looking through our photo albums, reliving happier times?
Finally I decided the only place I might find peace was the beach. It had always been a place of rest and serenity for me. I wanted to hear and feel the power of God's sea, to inhale the sharp, briny air. Maybe that would make me feel alive again, close to God again.
I made reservations at a hotel on Amelia Island, Fla., where I had stayed once. It seemed an ideal place for solitary reflection and renewal.
'You Can't See the Water, But You Know It Is Near.'
On the morning of January 12th I awoke early in my hotel room, my mind flooded with memories of that day one year before. The brown warm-up suit Jerry wore in the hospital--a Christmas gift from me. The afternoon we spent together, sitting side by side on the starchy sheets of his bed, looking through the classifieds for a new puppy to keep me company while he recovered. Later, the emergency call from the hospital. The short drive there, which seemed to take an eternity. The stark words, "We couldn't bring him back."
I knew a walk along the Amelia Island shore would clear my head, so I forced myself to get out of bed. I looked through the window. A wall of thick gray fog had rolled in. The mist obscured everything--the water, the sand, the seagulls, even the hotel courtyard. A walk was out of the question.
Sliding open the glass door, I stepped out onto the balcony and slumped into a deck chair. All I wanted to do was walk on the beach.
I sat there glaring resentfully into the dense fog. Then, in the rhythmic rush of the waves against the shore, I thought I heard a whisper. Or was it the surf?
You can't see the water, but you know it is near.
What? Then I heard the words a second time. You can't see the water, but you know it is near.
The words receded, and in that moment of quiet, I understood. I couldn't see the ocean through the fog, but I could smell its saltiness in the air. I could hear the sound of the surf and the cry of the seagulls. Wasn't it the same with God?
A Maid With a Surprise Bouquet
A soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. I was puzzled; I didn't know anyone on the island. A hotel maid walked in, holding a glass vase with a beautiful bouquet of pale pink roses.
"I thought you might like these," she said, setting the vase on a side table and rearranging the flowers.
I was stunned, and it must have shown on my face because she apologized. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"It's not that," I said, unable to stop my tears.
"I found the roses in another part of the hotel," she said. "I can't explain it, but something told me to bring them to this room."
I looked at the bouquet more closely. That's odd, I thought. Not a dozen. Not a half dozen...
Then I told her about Jerry, about my loneliness. As I poured my heart out to this stranger, the fog of pain lifted. "Jerry used to give me pink roses on special occasions," I said. "We would have celebrated our seventh anniversary this year."
The maid hugged me tight. "I know you're still grieving, but life is more than grief," she promised as she slipped out the door.
Standing in the middle of my room, I stared at the bouquet. Seven pink roses. I heard the whisper once more: You can't see the water, but you know it is near.
Thank you, God, for telling me Jerry is safe with you, and I must go on. Thank you for the seven pink roses--and for the angel who delivered them.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/81/story_8183.html
Meeting the Midnight Trucker
Who was the man that stopped to fix our flat tire? And why did he remind my sister and me of our late father?
By Patricia Gaddis
It was late August 1969. My sister and I had been out to dinner with friends in a nearby town. It was late and we were on our way home in my sister's red Mustang. Only a few days earlier we had returned from a nice long vacation at the beach, two children of the sixties—blonde and tan, with stars in our eyes and hearts that spilled over with dreams as we listened to the music of John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix. About halfway home we heard a loud popping sound and the car began to wobble. One of the Mustang's back tires had blown out and we quickly pulled off the road. Of course this was long before cell phones and we knew we'd have to walk at least ten miles to call for help. The highway was practically deserted as we got out of the car to assess the situation.
"Maybe I could change it," I cautiously said to my sister as we looked at the back tire, flatter than a pancake. "Do we have a spare?"
My sister looked at me doubtfully.
"Do you really think you could change a tire?" she asked.
"Maybe," I said with some reservation.
Then I told her about dad showing me how to change a tire on his car. Our father had passed away a couple of years earlier and about a year or so before he died he had made a point of showing me how to change a tire.
"Every young lady needs to know how to change a tire," he had said. "So I want you to watch and help me to do this."
I had watched Dad carefully and helped him so that by the time we finished I had felt that I could change a tire in an emergency.
"Okay then," my sister said. "Let's take a look in the trunk and see what we can do. I'm sure a spare tire came with the car."
As she opened up the trunk I immediately recognized the tools that dad had used when changing the tire on his own car. Everything we needed seemed to be there and although I knew we'd have to jack the car up first, I pulled the heavy lug wrench out of the trunk to see if I could loosen the screws that held the tire in place. I vaguely remembered that dad had pushed down on the lug wrench with his foot when removing those stubborn nuts and bolts that held his tire in place. I hooked the lug wrench onto the bolt that held the tire on the rim of the Mustang and the lug fit perfectly. So far, so good, I thought with delight. But then, when I tried turning the wrench, it wouldn't budge. Together my sister and I heaved and pushed and stomped down on the wrench but it wouldn't give--not even one fraction of an inch! Finally, after struggling for 15 or 20 minutes got back into the car exhausted and disheartened. We kept the emergency blinkers going in hope that someone would stop and help.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Midnight," she said, looking at her watch.
"The bewitching hour," I said.
"Yes," she smiled. "I really miss dad, don't you?"
"I sure do," I replied. "I wish he hadn't died and I wish he were here to help us," I added.
No sooner were those words out of my mouth when we heard the loud reverberation of a huge 18-wheeler approaching. We watched, almost in a trance, as it slowed down and pulled directly behind us on the deserted interstate highway. For a moment we sat there, quite relieved that help had arrived and yet somewhat frightened since we didn't have a clue whether the driver was planning to help or harm us.
We got out of our vehicle and, to our delight, the driver looked kind and fatherly–he looked like our very own father. My sister and I exchanged a surprised glance but said nothing.
"Looks like you girls are in need of help," he said.
"Flat tire," my sister replied. "We tried our best to change it!"
"We couldn't get the lug wrench to move the nuts and bolts that are holding it to the rim," I added.
"That's always the hardest part about changing a tire," he said as I reached into the trunk and handed him the jack. "I tried to teach one of my daughters to change a flat tire one time and the hardest part was loosening the screws," he said, looking at me. "But, it seems that loosening the tire wouldn't have done you any good after all," he added. "That jack won't fit your model car."
Our hearts fell. What now? we wondered.
"There's a truck stop about five miles back," he said. "I'll go and see if they have the kind of jack that'll fit this little Mustang. Meanwhile, you girls get back into the car and lock your doors. I'll be back as soon as I can," he added.
So my sister and I did as he advised, getting back into our car and locking the doors. We watched in awe as he drove the big 18-wheeler across the median to turn around.
"He looks an awful lot like dad," I whispered.
"Yes, I noticed," my sister replied. "Almost scary," she added in a hushed tone.
"I know—even his voice sounds the same. Did you notice that?" I asked.
"I did," she replied. "And how many times over the years did dad tell us to lock our doors when we went out somewhere?
"Too many to count," I said. "In fact, he was almost obsessive about it!"
My sister nodded in agreement.
After about 20 minutes the trucker returned with the right equipment, quickly changed the tire, and left us the new jack. We offered to pay him for the jack and for his help, but he refused.
"No," he said firmly. "You girls just be safe. In the future, try to get home earlier," he smiled. "And, always remember to keep your car doors locked," he added as he jumped back into his truck.
Again, my sister and I exchanged a glance at one another. Of course it was a very dark night and there were only headlights reflecting light on the man who looked so much like our very own dear father. Perhaps if it had been daylight we would have seen no resemblance at all. Yet his voice was so similar to our dad's that we almost told him how much we missed him. But, of course, we didn't do that. Instead, we thanked him profusely and got back into our car, allowing him to lead us through the dark moonless night.
We followed him for about ten minutes until he rounded a steep curve in front of us, but when we rounded that same curve he was suddenly nowhere in sight! Where had he gone? There were no immediate exits that he could have taken and no side roads that he could have wandered upon—nothing! We looked along the side of the highway to see if he had pulled off somewhere, but the truck was nowhere to be seen. It would be an understatement to say that we were astonished.
"He's gone," I said.
My sister glanced quickly at me, a look of shock on her face as she attempted to keep her eyes on the road.
Within another twenty minutes we were safe in our home, our beds, dreaming away the remainder of the night. The next morning, as we prepared for work and school, we spoke of the incident in whispers as though it might have been a dream. But the flat tire, along with the new jack that lay in the Mustang's trunk, were evidence that the midnight messenger had in fact changed the tire and then disappeared into the night. Still, the following question remained: Was he our dad, coming to help us, perhaps even steer us away from further danger?
Although this incident occurred 38 years ago, even now my sister and I discuss it from time to time, only between ourselves, in reverence. We have a deep knowing that this midnight angel was indeed our dad, looking out for us from far beyond, shifting into our lives for a moment to let us know that we were still protected and loved.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/225/story_22543.html
Who was the man that stopped to fix our flat tire? And why did he remind my sister and me of our late father?
By Patricia Gaddis
It was late August 1969. My sister and I had been out to dinner with friends in a nearby town. It was late and we were on our way home in my sister's red Mustang. Only a few days earlier we had returned from a nice long vacation at the beach, two children of the sixties—blonde and tan, with stars in our eyes and hearts that spilled over with dreams as we listened to the music of John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix. About halfway home we heard a loud popping sound and the car began to wobble. One of the Mustang's back tires had blown out and we quickly pulled off the road. Of course this was long before cell phones and we knew we'd have to walk at least ten miles to call for help. The highway was practically deserted as we got out of the car to assess the situation.
"Maybe I could change it," I cautiously said to my sister as we looked at the back tire, flatter than a pancake. "Do we have a spare?"
My sister looked at me doubtfully.
"Do you really think you could change a tire?" she asked.
"Maybe," I said with some reservation.
Then I told her about dad showing me how to change a tire on his car. Our father had passed away a couple of years earlier and about a year or so before he died he had made a point of showing me how to change a tire.
"Every young lady needs to know how to change a tire," he had said. "So I want you to watch and help me to do this."
I had watched Dad carefully and helped him so that by the time we finished I had felt that I could change a tire in an emergency.
"Okay then," my sister said. "Let's take a look in the trunk and see what we can do. I'm sure a spare tire came with the car."
As she opened up the trunk I immediately recognized the tools that dad had used when changing the tire on his own car. Everything we needed seemed to be there and although I knew we'd have to jack the car up first, I pulled the heavy lug wrench out of the trunk to see if I could loosen the screws that held the tire in place. I vaguely remembered that dad had pushed down on the lug wrench with his foot when removing those stubborn nuts and bolts that held his tire in place. I hooked the lug wrench onto the bolt that held the tire on the rim of the Mustang and the lug fit perfectly. So far, so good, I thought with delight. But then, when I tried turning the wrench, it wouldn't budge. Together my sister and I heaved and pushed and stomped down on the wrench but it wouldn't give--not even one fraction of an inch! Finally, after struggling for 15 or 20 minutes got back into the car exhausted and disheartened. We kept the emergency blinkers going in hope that someone would stop and help.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Midnight," she said, looking at her watch.
"The bewitching hour," I said.
"Yes," she smiled. "I really miss dad, don't you?"
"I sure do," I replied. "I wish he hadn't died and I wish he were here to help us," I added.
No sooner were those words out of my mouth when we heard the loud reverberation of a huge 18-wheeler approaching. We watched, almost in a trance, as it slowed down and pulled directly behind us on the deserted interstate highway. For a moment we sat there, quite relieved that help had arrived and yet somewhat frightened since we didn't have a clue whether the driver was planning to help or harm us.
We got out of our vehicle and, to our delight, the driver looked kind and fatherly–he looked like our very own father. My sister and I exchanged a surprised glance but said nothing.
"Looks like you girls are in need of help," he said.
"Flat tire," my sister replied. "We tried our best to change it!"
"We couldn't get the lug wrench to move the nuts and bolts that are holding it to the rim," I added.
"That's always the hardest part about changing a tire," he said as I reached into the trunk and handed him the jack. "I tried to teach one of my daughters to change a flat tire one time and the hardest part was loosening the screws," he said, looking at me. "But, it seems that loosening the tire wouldn't have done you any good after all," he added. "That jack won't fit your model car."
Our hearts fell. What now? we wondered.
"There's a truck stop about five miles back," he said. "I'll go and see if they have the kind of jack that'll fit this little Mustang. Meanwhile, you girls get back into the car and lock your doors. I'll be back as soon as I can," he added.
So my sister and I did as he advised, getting back into our car and locking the doors. We watched in awe as he drove the big 18-wheeler across the median to turn around.
"He looks an awful lot like dad," I whispered.
"Yes, I noticed," my sister replied. "Almost scary," she added in a hushed tone.
"I know—even his voice sounds the same. Did you notice that?" I asked.
"I did," she replied. "And how many times over the years did dad tell us to lock our doors when we went out somewhere?
"Too many to count," I said. "In fact, he was almost obsessive about it!"
My sister nodded in agreement.
After about 20 minutes the trucker returned with the right equipment, quickly changed the tire, and left us the new jack. We offered to pay him for the jack and for his help, but he refused.
"No," he said firmly. "You girls just be safe. In the future, try to get home earlier," he smiled. "And, always remember to keep your car doors locked," he added as he jumped back into his truck.
Again, my sister and I exchanged a glance at one another. Of course it was a very dark night and there were only headlights reflecting light on the man who looked so much like our very own dear father. Perhaps if it had been daylight we would have seen no resemblance at all. Yet his voice was so similar to our dad's that we almost told him how much we missed him. But, of course, we didn't do that. Instead, we thanked him profusely and got back into our car, allowing him to lead us through the dark moonless night.
We followed him for about ten minutes until he rounded a steep curve in front of us, but when we rounded that same curve he was suddenly nowhere in sight! Where had he gone? There were no immediate exits that he could have taken and no side roads that he could have wandered upon—nothing! We looked along the side of the highway to see if he had pulled off somewhere, but the truck was nowhere to be seen. It would be an understatement to say that we were astonished.
"He's gone," I said.
My sister glanced quickly at me, a look of shock on her face as she attempted to keep her eyes on the road.
Within another twenty minutes we were safe in our home, our beds, dreaming away the remainder of the night. The next morning, as we prepared for work and school, we spoke of the incident in whispers as though it might have been a dream. But the flat tire, along with the new jack that lay in the Mustang's trunk, were evidence that the midnight messenger had in fact changed the tire and then disappeared into the night. Still, the following question remained: Was he our dad, coming to help us, perhaps even steer us away from further danger?
Although this incident occurred 38 years ago, even now my sister and I discuss it from time to time, only between ourselves, in reverence. We have a deep knowing that this midnight angel was indeed our dad, looking out for us from far beyond, shifting into our lives for a moment to let us know that we were still protected and loved.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/225/story_22543.html
'All That You Ask Is Given'
Scared about pregnancy complications, a woman is comforted by a billboard message.
By Suzanne Remeny
Although this happened 12 years ago, [the experience] was so profound that it lives inside me as if it happened yesterday.
I was almost eight months pregnant with my first child. I went to my doctor for a final ultrasound check up. After the ultrasound, the doctor paused with much concern on his face. He then told me that there was conclusive evidence on the ultrasound that my daughter had a defect. She would most likely to be born with cerebral palsy or mental retardation. I was overwhelmed with shock and disbelief.
How could this happen at this stage? Everything had [been] just fine until then. He showed me the spots on the ultrasound that supported his claims. He then said he needed me to meet with him and a specialist the next day for another ultrasound. I left the office in despair. I immediately began to pray and begged my angels for help. Before I went in for the next day's appointment, I decided I would stop by a grotto reported to have granted miracles for those who had prayed there.
When I left the house, I sat in my car with tears streaming down my face, crying, "Please angels, give me a sign that my prayers will be heard and my daughter will come out of this okay!"
I started the car and went toward the grotto. As I approached the main intersection of my town, I saw a billboard. The billboard had a beautiful angel with outstretched arms. On the left side of the angel were the words, "All that you ask is given!" I began crying uncontrollably with joy. I knew this was my sign!
I went to the grotto and gave thanks for the sign. When I had the ultrasound with the two doctors an hour later, they had that troubled look on their faces again. My doctor then said, "I know what I saw yesterday because I have the film right here! I don't know how to explain it, but what I saw yesterday is gone!" He couldn't believe it, but I did.
Suzanne's daughter
On my way back home, I was back at the intersection, but the angel on the billboard was gone! The billboard was now showing a lottery ad from the day before. I felt even more joy.
My doctor had me go back [to his office] once a week for three weeks to confirm the findings. The defects never came back. I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl who is strong and healthy to this day. For that and so many things, I give thanks everyday to my angels and to my maker. I always talk to them and I feel their guidance with me. I can't see it any other way!
Update
My daughter is a very healthy and happy 12-year-old who spends most days practicing competitive cheerleading, singing, and reading. She is a great friend to others, she loves animals, and she believes in her angels!
The photoraph of the daughter is given at:
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/226/story_22614.html
Scared about pregnancy complications, a woman is comforted by a billboard message.
By Suzanne Remeny
Although this happened 12 years ago, [the experience] was so profound that it lives inside me as if it happened yesterday.
I was almost eight months pregnant with my first child. I went to my doctor for a final ultrasound check up. After the ultrasound, the doctor paused with much concern on his face. He then told me that there was conclusive evidence on the ultrasound that my daughter had a defect. She would most likely to be born with cerebral palsy or mental retardation. I was overwhelmed with shock and disbelief.
How could this happen at this stage? Everything had [been] just fine until then. He showed me the spots on the ultrasound that supported his claims. He then said he needed me to meet with him and a specialist the next day for another ultrasound. I left the office in despair. I immediately began to pray and begged my angels for help. Before I went in for the next day's appointment, I decided I would stop by a grotto reported to have granted miracles for those who had prayed there.
When I left the house, I sat in my car with tears streaming down my face, crying, "Please angels, give me a sign that my prayers will be heard and my daughter will come out of this okay!"
I started the car and went toward the grotto. As I approached the main intersection of my town, I saw a billboard. The billboard had a beautiful angel with outstretched arms. On the left side of the angel were the words, "All that you ask is given!" I began crying uncontrollably with joy. I knew this was my sign!
I went to the grotto and gave thanks for the sign. When I had the ultrasound with the two doctors an hour later, they had that troubled look on their faces again. My doctor then said, "I know what I saw yesterday because I have the film right here! I don't know how to explain it, but what I saw yesterday is gone!" He couldn't believe it, but I did.
Suzanne's daughter
On my way back home, I was back at the intersection, but the angel on the billboard was gone! The billboard was now showing a lottery ad from the day before. I felt even more joy.
My doctor had me go back [to his office] once a week for three weeks to confirm the findings. The defects never came back. I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl who is strong and healthy to this day. For that and so many things, I give thanks everyday to my angels and to my maker. I always talk to them and I feel their guidance with me. I can't see it any other way!
Update
My daughter is a very healthy and happy 12-year-old who spends most days practicing competitive cheerleading, singing, and reading. She is a great friend to others, she loves animals, and she believes in her angels!
The photoraph of the daughter is given at:
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/226/story_22614.html
Was the Spider a Warning?
And, if angels can appear in dreams and visions, can they also appear in more than one place?Have a question about angels? Email Bill Webber at [email protected].*
Find Out:
Did the Alzheimer's patient really seen angels?
Who was considered the first Angel of Mercy?
Was the spider in my dreams an angel's warning?
Can angels be in more than one place at a time?
Are the angels giving me a sign during meditation?
My mother died in December in a nursing home after a long struggle with Alzheimer's.
The director of the nursing home told my oldest brother that one of the residents, who had deteriorated to the point of hardly speaking, had said to an aide:
"Those people gotta get out of that room. There's angels in there."
At the time the resident said this, my family had been called into the room with my mother. This was also the time my mother passed away.
I want to believe the story, but is it something that nursing homes say to the family of the deceased as comfort?
--Jennie
No, this is not something that nursing home staff members routinely tell grieving families who have lost loved ones. If a staff person had wanted to make up a comforting message, he or she would have said something like, “Angels were with your mother when she died.”
Were angels in the room? Angels often do appear at the time of death, bringing peace and comfort. It is possible, especially since the resident had Alzheimer’s, that the “angels” were only a result of his dementia. However, I believe that there were angels present in the room and that the resident did see them. The experience was enough to rouse him from his dementia and move him to speak.
Which angel was considered the first Angel of Mercy, and what is he/she like?
--Sandra Newbauer
There are many legends and traditions about Angels of Mercy so it's difficult to say which angel was the first. In some Jewish traditions Uzziel, Rahmiel, Gabriel, and Michael are considered Angels of Mercy. According to the Kabbalah, Zadkiel, the leader of the nine angels who make up the choir of Dominions, is known as the Angel of Mercy.
In the Islamic tradition Munka and Nakir are the Angels of Mercy, although they are not mentioned in the Qur'an. It is believed that when a person dies these angels come to examine the deceased's faithfulness. The Angels of Mercy then escort the soul of believers from their graves to become birds in the trees of paradise. There they will be until the souls are united with their bodies in the resurrection.
Although no one angel is called the Angel of Mercy in the Bible, every good angel is merciful.
Do angels use scary images to wake us up to extreme danger? Many years ago I was married to an alcoholic who was becoming more abusive. I had two small boys, ages two and four. Even though I was afraid my husband would harm me, my fear of being unable to raise my children alone kept me in the marriage. At night when I laid down to sleep, a large spider would suddenly drop down onto me from the ceiling. I would jump up and frantically look for the spider. There never was one.
At first I thought I was dreaming this, but as time went on I knew I was still awake when this happened. I thought I was going crazy. But, in a strange way, this recurring image made me realize how precarious my situation was and I found the courage to get help and get out. I never saw the spider dropping on me again after I left the marriage.
Was my unconscious producing the image at night to warn me of danger? Or were the angels helping me?
--Mary Anne Lide
According to biblical scripture, angels are active in our world influencing individuals and nations. Usually the presence of angels is unseen, and we are unaware of their activities unless they take a form that can be seen. We have little understanding of how an angel influences our thoughts except that an angel always respects our free will. Angels never coerce us.
Dreams do come to us when we are asleep and when we are awake. Most dreams come from our subconscious minds. What you recounted is a typical dream based on your fears. Did God cause your dreams directly or through angels? We do not know. What we do know is that God can cause all things to work together for good (Romans 8:28) and I can say with assurance that God did that for you through your dreams.
How can angels only be in one place at a time? They are spirits, so wouldn't "place" be irrelevant? Can God be in only one place?
--Ttatum445
There is one infinite spirit (God) and many finite spirits including angels. God is an infinite spirit and one of his attributes is his omnipresence. There is no place that God is not; God is the only spirit that is everywhere at once.
An angel is like God in many ways but, as a finite spirit, is always less than God. “Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?” (Hebrews 1:14). The Bible makes it clear that angels can be only in one place at one time. Here are two examples:
The angel in Daniel 10:12-14 said, “I have come in answer to your prayer. But for 21 days the Spirit Prince of the Kingdom of Persia blocked my way. Then Michael, one of the archangels, came to help me.”
Job 1:6-8 says, “One day the angels came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan, the accuser, came with them. ‘Where have you came from?’ the Lord asked Satan. And Satan answered the Lord, ‘I have been going back and forth across the earth watching everything that is going on.’”
These verses and more give clear evidence from the Bible that an angel—even Michael and Satan--is only in one place at a time.
I am a South African interested in knowing more about angels. Sometimes when I meditate and I call upon my angels and the Holy Spirit for guidance, my hands become very hot and heavy. Is this a sign that my angels are with me?
- Zamangwe Sibisi
Angels may well be with you during meditation, but it is unlikely they are making your hands hot and heavy as a sign they are with you. This symptom might be a physiological reaction to your meditating. Many studies have shown that when a person meditates the body responds. Meditation can produce specific physiological response patterns that involve various biological systems. In my opinion, this is a more likely explanation for why your hands become hot and heavy during meditation.
And, if angels can appear in dreams and visions, can they also appear in more than one place?Have a question about angels? Email Bill Webber at [email protected].*
Find Out:
Did the Alzheimer's patient really seen angels?
Who was considered the first Angel of Mercy?
Was the spider in my dreams an angel's warning?
Can angels be in more than one place at a time?
Are the angels giving me a sign during meditation?
My mother died in December in a nursing home after a long struggle with Alzheimer's.
The director of the nursing home told my oldest brother that one of the residents, who had deteriorated to the point of hardly speaking, had said to an aide:
"Those people gotta get out of that room. There's angels in there."
At the time the resident said this, my family had been called into the room with my mother. This was also the time my mother passed away.
I want to believe the story, but is it something that nursing homes say to the family of the deceased as comfort?
--Jennie
No, this is not something that nursing home staff members routinely tell grieving families who have lost loved ones. If a staff person had wanted to make up a comforting message, he or she would have said something like, “Angels were with your mother when she died.”
Were angels in the room? Angels often do appear at the time of death, bringing peace and comfort. It is possible, especially since the resident had Alzheimer’s, that the “angels” were only a result of his dementia. However, I believe that there were angels present in the room and that the resident did see them. The experience was enough to rouse him from his dementia and move him to speak.
Which angel was considered the first Angel of Mercy, and what is he/she like?
--Sandra Newbauer
There are many legends and traditions about Angels of Mercy so it's difficult to say which angel was the first. In some Jewish traditions Uzziel, Rahmiel, Gabriel, and Michael are considered Angels of Mercy. According to the Kabbalah, Zadkiel, the leader of the nine angels who make up the choir of Dominions, is known as the Angel of Mercy.
In the Islamic tradition Munka and Nakir are the Angels of Mercy, although they are not mentioned in the Qur'an. It is believed that when a person dies these angels come to examine the deceased's faithfulness. The Angels of Mercy then escort the soul of believers from their graves to become birds in the trees of paradise. There they will be until the souls are united with their bodies in the resurrection.
Although no one angel is called the Angel of Mercy in the Bible, every good angel is merciful.
Do angels use scary images to wake us up to extreme danger? Many years ago I was married to an alcoholic who was becoming more abusive. I had two small boys, ages two and four. Even though I was afraid my husband would harm me, my fear of being unable to raise my children alone kept me in the marriage. At night when I laid down to sleep, a large spider would suddenly drop down onto me from the ceiling. I would jump up and frantically look for the spider. There never was one.
At first I thought I was dreaming this, but as time went on I knew I was still awake when this happened. I thought I was going crazy. But, in a strange way, this recurring image made me realize how precarious my situation was and I found the courage to get help and get out. I never saw the spider dropping on me again after I left the marriage.
Was my unconscious producing the image at night to warn me of danger? Or were the angels helping me?
--Mary Anne Lide
According to biblical scripture, angels are active in our world influencing individuals and nations. Usually the presence of angels is unseen, and we are unaware of their activities unless they take a form that can be seen. We have little understanding of how an angel influences our thoughts except that an angel always respects our free will. Angels never coerce us.
Dreams do come to us when we are asleep and when we are awake. Most dreams come from our subconscious minds. What you recounted is a typical dream based on your fears. Did God cause your dreams directly or through angels? We do not know. What we do know is that God can cause all things to work together for good (Romans 8:28) and I can say with assurance that God did that for you through your dreams.
How can angels only be in one place at a time? They are spirits, so wouldn't "place" be irrelevant? Can God be in only one place?
--Ttatum445
There is one infinite spirit (God) and many finite spirits including angels. God is an infinite spirit and one of his attributes is his omnipresence. There is no place that God is not; God is the only spirit that is everywhere at once.
An angel is like God in many ways but, as a finite spirit, is always less than God. “Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?” (Hebrews 1:14). The Bible makes it clear that angels can be only in one place at one time. Here are two examples:
The angel in Daniel 10:12-14 said, “I have come in answer to your prayer. But for 21 days the Spirit Prince of the Kingdom of Persia blocked my way. Then Michael, one of the archangels, came to help me.”
Job 1:6-8 says, “One day the angels came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan, the accuser, came with them. ‘Where have you came from?’ the Lord asked Satan. And Satan answered the Lord, ‘I have been going back and forth across the earth watching everything that is going on.’”
These verses and more give clear evidence from the Bible that an angel—even Michael and Satan--is only in one place at a time.
I am a South African interested in knowing more about angels. Sometimes when I meditate and I call upon my angels and the Holy Spirit for guidance, my hands become very hot and heavy. Is this a sign that my angels are with me?
- Zamangwe Sibisi
Angels may well be with you during meditation, but it is unlikely they are making your hands hot and heavy as a sign they are with you. This symptom might be a physiological reaction to your meditating. Many studies have shown that when a person meditates the body responds. Meditation can produce specific physiological response patterns that involve various biological systems. In my opinion, this is a more likely explanation for why your hands become hot and heavy during meditation.
The Dream
'Use your head, Zsa-Ree,' my dad said to me in a dream. His warning helped me in a moment of great danger.
By Jeanne Frois
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/230/story_23070_2.html
from
For the hundredth time I glanced over my shoulder on my way to work. The business quarter was full of men in suits carrying briefcases, women in tailored skirts and sensible shoes. It was the same crowd I moved among Monday through Friday, but this particular morning I sensed danger lurking at every turn. The night before I’d had a horrible dream, and I couldn’t seem to shrug it off.
It wasn’t like me to be so fearful. I was in my 20s, doing administrative work in downtown New Orleans. The city had been experiencing a rise in violent crime, but I used my common sense and didn’t take risks. The building where I worked was secure. At least that’s what I told myself as I walked inside. A man held the door for me and flashed a smile. I looked at his eyes. No, those weren’t the eyes from my dream.
Before I’d seen anything in the dream, I’d heard my father’s voice: “Zsa-Ree!” He always shortened my French name, Jeanne Marie. No one had called me that since he died.
“Daddy?” I said in my dream. “Is that you?” But instead I came face-to-face with a pair of dark, menacing eyes. Criminal eyes, I thought to myself. Cold and deadly. I froze in fear.
“Watch out for these eyes, Zsa-Ree,” Daddy warned. I wanted to run. But I stared at those eyes so I’d remember them like Daddy said. I jerked awake and couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. How would I make it through the day?
I stepped into the elevator and pressed three. That was just like Daddy, telling me to use my head, to think before I acted. He used the same advice on the petty criminals and troubled youth he met on his beat. Daddy was a police detective in New Orleans—not an easy job. Daddy got knocked out in a Mardi Gras riot, shot point blank in the chest, and once caught a bank robber making a getaway. Daddy knew all about keeping people safe. Me, most of all. He tucked me into bed before going out on patrol. He always made the sign of the cross over me. “Dream about pretty things,” he’d said before turning out the light. “God’s angels will protect you while I’m gone.” I lay back on my pillows. Of course I was protected. Daddy would never go out without leaving angels behind.
I missed Daddy terribly when he died, missed his jokes and his songs. I missed hunting for frogs and acorns together. But I still felt safe, as if Daddy had left his protection behind. Just like those nights when he made the cross over me before he went out on duty.
I walked off the elevator, still puzzling over why I’d heard Daddy’s voice in such a frightening dream. “Use your head, Zsa-Ree,” he’d said, just like when I was little. But use my head about what? Was I in danger? My heels clicked on the linoleum floor. I took a deep breath and opened our office door. I waved good-morning on the way to my desk. “It was just a dream,” I muttered as I dropped my purse in a drawer. “Concentrate on your work.”
That wasn’t easy. The feeling of unease hung over me. At my desk, at the coffee station, even down the long hallway the led to the ladies’ room. It was almost noon and I’d got almost nothing done. My eyes were puffy from not sleeping the night before. “I need to splash some cold water on my face,” I told the woman at the next desk.
I wove my way around my coworkers and walked down the hallway. The sounds of typing, telephones and conversation faded behind me as I approached the ladies’ room door.
I pushed it open. I was alone. I splashed some water on my face and held my fingers over my tired eyes. The door opened behind me, and I let my hands fall from my face. In the mirror was a man. He came up behind me—right behind me. So close I could feel warm breath on my neck. I turned around. The man towered over me. Tall as a basketball player and wide as a fullback. I looked up into his face, praying there was some reasonable explanation for this intrusion. Holy God, what does this man want with me?
I know those eyes. Cold, dark and criminal, just like in my dream. This was the danger I was warned about. Daddy’s words came back to me. “Use your head, Zsa-Ree.”
The man and I looked at each other. I would not panic. Time seemed to slow. The man leaned over me. His chest pushed out aggressively. His head thrust forward. His hands hung in loose fists at his side. Use your head, I told myself.
Attackers feed on their victims’ fear. I would not show fear.
I forced a smile. “You made a mistake,” I said confidently. “This isn’t the men’s room.”
The man hesitated. Not much, but I saw it. His shoulders drooped. His chest sunk just a bit. He was surprised. I pushed past him, talking all the while. “I’ll show you where the men’s room is. Come on.” I kept my voice bright, like a schoolteacher talking to a lost child. “Right through here.”
I threw open the bathroom door and bolted. Without looking back I ran straight to my desk. Other employees spun around in surprise. “There’s a man in the ladies’ room!” I shouted. A group ran to check the hallway. I dialed building security. “There’s an intruder on the third floor. Please hurry!”
Minutes later I was giving a description of the man to a policeman. “We know who he is. You were very lucky,” the officer said. “We’ll catch him.”
Yes, I’d been lucky. I’d also been forewarned. My dream had put me on my guard.
I left work early and went home for some much-needed rest. I crawled into bed and remembered how Daddy used to make the sign of the cross over me, trusting God to protect me when he couldn’t. God had protected me. He’d also reminded me I could help protect myself if I used my head, just like Daddy always said.
I turned off the light and settled down to sleep. To sleep and to dream pretty dreams.
'The Dream' by Jeanne Frois, reprinted with permission from Angels on Earth Magazine. Copyright 2008 by Guideposts, Carmel, New York 10512. All rights reserved.
To subscribe to Angels on Earth Magazine click here.
'Use your head, Zsa-Ree,' my dad said to me in a dream. His warning helped me in a moment of great danger.
By Jeanne Frois
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/230/story_23070_2.html
from
For the hundredth time I glanced over my shoulder on my way to work. The business quarter was full of men in suits carrying briefcases, women in tailored skirts and sensible shoes. It was the same crowd I moved among Monday through Friday, but this particular morning I sensed danger lurking at every turn. The night before I’d had a horrible dream, and I couldn’t seem to shrug it off.
It wasn’t like me to be so fearful. I was in my 20s, doing administrative work in downtown New Orleans. The city had been experiencing a rise in violent crime, but I used my common sense and didn’t take risks. The building where I worked was secure. At least that’s what I told myself as I walked inside. A man held the door for me and flashed a smile. I looked at his eyes. No, those weren’t the eyes from my dream.
Before I’d seen anything in the dream, I’d heard my father’s voice: “Zsa-Ree!” He always shortened my French name, Jeanne Marie. No one had called me that since he died.
“Daddy?” I said in my dream. “Is that you?” But instead I came face-to-face with a pair of dark, menacing eyes. Criminal eyes, I thought to myself. Cold and deadly. I froze in fear.
“Watch out for these eyes, Zsa-Ree,” Daddy warned. I wanted to run. But I stared at those eyes so I’d remember them like Daddy said. I jerked awake and couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. How would I make it through the day?
I stepped into the elevator and pressed three. That was just like Daddy, telling me to use my head, to think before I acted. He used the same advice on the petty criminals and troubled youth he met on his beat. Daddy was a police detective in New Orleans—not an easy job. Daddy got knocked out in a Mardi Gras riot, shot point blank in the chest, and once caught a bank robber making a getaway. Daddy knew all about keeping people safe. Me, most of all. He tucked me into bed before going out on patrol. He always made the sign of the cross over me. “Dream about pretty things,” he’d said before turning out the light. “God’s angels will protect you while I’m gone.” I lay back on my pillows. Of course I was protected. Daddy would never go out without leaving angels behind.
I missed Daddy terribly when he died, missed his jokes and his songs. I missed hunting for frogs and acorns together. But I still felt safe, as if Daddy had left his protection behind. Just like those nights when he made the cross over me before he went out on duty.
I walked off the elevator, still puzzling over why I’d heard Daddy’s voice in such a frightening dream. “Use your head, Zsa-Ree,” he’d said, just like when I was little. But use my head about what? Was I in danger? My heels clicked on the linoleum floor. I took a deep breath and opened our office door. I waved good-morning on the way to my desk. “It was just a dream,” I muttered as I dropped my purse in a drawer. “Concentrate on your work.”
That wasn’t easy. The feeling of unease hung over me. At my desk, at the coffee station, even down the long hallway the led to the ladies’ room. It was almost noon and I’d got almost nothing done. My eyes were puffy from not sleeping the night before. “I need to splash some cold water on my face,” I told the woman at the next desk.
I wove my way around my coworkers and walked down the hallway. The sounds of typing, telephones and conversation faded behind me as I approached the ladies’ room door.
I pushed it open. I was alone. I splashed some water on my face and held my fingers over my tired eyes. The door opened behind me, and I let my hands fall from my face. In the mirror was a man. He came up behind me—right behind me. So close I could feel warm breath on my neck. I turned around. The man towered over me. Tall as a basketball player and wide as a fullback. I looked up into his face, praying there was some reasonable explanation for this intrusion. Holy God, what does this man want with me?
I know those eyes. Cold, dark and criminal, just like in my dream. This was the danger I was warned about. Daddy’s words came back to me. “Use your head, Zsa-Ree.”
The man and I looked at each other. I would not panic. Time seemed to slow. The man leaned over me. His chest pushed out aggressively. His head thrust forward. His hands hung in loose fists at his side. Use your head, I told myself.
Attackers feed on their victims’ fear. I would not show fear.
I forced a smile. “You made a mistake,” I said confidently. “This isn’t the men’s room.”
The man hesitated. Not much, but I saw it. His shoulders drooped. His chest sunk just a bit. He was surprised. I pushed past him, talking all the while. “I’ll show you where the men’s room is. Come on.” I kept my voice bright, like a schoolteacher talking to a lost child. “Right through here.”
I threw open the bathroom door and bolted. Without looking back I ran straight to my desk. Other employees spun around in surprise. “There’s a man in the ladies’ room!” I shouted. A group ran to check the hallway. I dialed building security. “There’s an intruder on the third floor. Please hurry!”
Minutes later I was giving a description of the man to a policeman. “We know who he is. You were very lucky,” the officer said. “We’ll catch him.”
Yes, I’d been lucky. I’d also been forewarned. My dream had put me on my guard.
I left work early and went home for some much-needed rest. I crawled into bed and remembered how Daddy used to make the sign of the cross over me, trusting God to protect me when he couldn’t. God had protected me. He’d also reminded me I could help protect myself if I used my head, just like Daddy always said.
I turned off the light and settled down to sleep. To sleep and to dream pretty dreams.
'The Dream' by Jeanne Frois, reprinted with permission from Angels on Earth Magazine. Copyright 2008 by Guideposts, Carmel, New York 10512. All rights reserved.
To subscribe to Angels on Earth Magazine click here.
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/193/story_19335_1.html
If God is all-powerful, why do we need angels?
Have a question about angels? Email Bill Webber at [email protected].*
Find Out:
Is God Offended When We Contact Angels?
Why Do We Need to Contact Angels?
Is it OK to ask God to send an angel to help us, or should we ask God to help us directly? Is God offended when we ask him to send an angel?
--Ruby F.
You ask two good questions. The first is, should we pray only to God, or is it also right to pray to his angels? Although Protestants and Catholics agree on most things about angels, they do differ on this question about praying to angels.
Protestant theologians point out that in the entire Bible, no one is ever told to pray to an angel, and there are no instructions on how to pray to one. In Matthew 6, however, Jesus instructs Christians to pray to God and even how to pray to him. Hence, most Protestants do not pray to angels, but only pray directly to God. A key text is 1 Timothy 2:5, "For there is one God and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus..."
Catholic doctrine holds that it is necessary to pray to God, but it is also helpful to pray to saints (not just those who have been canonized by the Church, but any Christian who has died). James Cardinal Gibbons in his book Faith of Our Fathers explained,
We can ask any person in heaven to join us in prayer. This includes our relatives who have gone before us. We do not pray to the saints in the sense that they have any power of their own. We ask them to pray with us to God, just as I can ask you to pray with me to God. ...However, we do not think it is necessary or essential to pray to saints. Our one mediator is Jesus who is the bridge between us and God. He is really the essential conduit.
The Catholic Church teaches that angels are deeply concerned with our well-being. God gives them charge over us to be our guardians (Psalm 91:11-12; Daniel 12:1; Matthew 18:10; Acts 12:5-11, 5; Hebrews 1:14); so surely they must pray for their charges! We also have fellowship with them as fellow citizens of the heavenly Jerusalem (Hebrews 12:22). We should not and do not worship them as we worship God, but we can still love and talk to them, even as we love and talk to fellow Christians on earth.
Catholics make the case for why Christians can and should pray to angels. They point out that Jesus himself warned us not to offend small children, because their guardian angels have guaranteed intercessory access to the Father: "See that you do not despise one of these little ones; for I tell you that in heaven their angels always see the face of my Father who is in heaven" (Matt. 18:10).
They also point out that in the book of Revelation, angels are shown bringing the prayers of God’s people. "[An] angel came and stood at the altar [in heaven] with a golden censer; and he was given much incense to mingle with the prayers of all the saints upon the golden altar before the throne; and the smoke of the incense rose with the prayers of the saints from the hand of the angel before God" (Rev. 8:3–4).
Catholic children are taught early to pray to God and their guardian angel. The first prayer many Catholic children learn to pray every night is:
Angel of God, my guardian dear, To whom his love commits me here. Ever this day be at my side, To light and guard, to rule and guide. Amen.
Many adults, who believe God has sent a guardian angel to be with them forever, find it helpful in their Christian lives to converse with their angels through the day.
As for your second question (Is God offended when we ask him to send an angel?) the answer is: No! First, it is important to have a correct view of God. People may be easily offended if we ask the wrong question, or don’t use the correct words. But, you can count on God’s love and His understanding of your thoughts and feelings. God is pleased when we pray to him. He is not offended if we ask him to send his angels. Even though Protestants do not pray directly to angels, both Protestants and Catholics thank God for his angels, for their help.
You can use this prayer to talk to God: "Lord, I claim your promise in Psalm 91:11 to send your angels to help in time of need. I need your help. Please send your angels now." Using this prayer, don’t hesitate to ask God to send his angels.
I find the idea of calling upon angels for help confusing. I was brought up Lutheran and was never directed to rely on angels, only the triune God. Why would we need angels if there is God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit?
--Kari A.
The question you seem to be asking is: "If I can pray directly to God, why pray to angels, who are lesser beings?" Actually, there is no need to pray directly to angels. No advantage is gained in praying to an angel versus praying directly to God. God’s holy angels delight to do his will, and will never disobey his commands.
The bigger questions you raise are: Do we need angels? Does God need angels? The answer to both questions is no. God is all-powerful, and he can do everything without help. But, in his great love, God created the angels to help all who believe in him. Hebrews 1:14 says, "Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?" You do not need to pray to angels, but you also need to be aware that they are a part of the wonderful provision God has prepared for you. Martin Luther wrote, "An angel is a spiritual creature created by God for the service of Christendom and the church." Do not ignore God’s gift of angels; instead, be aware of their presence and thank God for them. Even though you will always find what you need in the triune God, God will also send his angels if you pray to him for help. Just like God, the angels will always be there for you.
Have a question about angels? Email Bill Webber at [email protected].
William Webber is an American Baptist pastor and writer, coauthor of 'A Rustle of Angels.' He answers questions about angels from a biblical perspective.
****
'My pastor says angels are symbolic. Is he right or wrong?'
Find Out:
Are there Lent angels, like Advent angels?
Do angels really exist, or are they symbolic?
Why have I never seen an angel in my life?
Do angels have different scents?
During Advent we pray to our Advent angels. One of my students asked me if there were Lent Angels. I am showing them [my students] the Bridge of Angels in Rome, but I have not found anything about Lent Angels. I have also found many pictures of Christ’s Passion in which there are always angels assisting him. Do you have any information on Lent Angels?
--Julie C.
In the Bible, angels play a prominent role in the life of Christ, from his birth to his resurrection and ascenscion into heaven. Even though the Gospel writers record the events of the Passion, angels are never mentioned. This is not by accident; rather, it is a part of the sacred mystery of salvation. As Jesus faced his death, he retreated to the Garden of Gethsemane where he prayed, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will but yours be done.” Then, “an angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him” (Luke 22:43).
When Jesus went through the agony in the garden and committed himself to following his Father’s will, the heavenly Father sent an angel to Jesus to strengthen him! That was the end of the ministry of angels during the Passion. The angels did not intervene afterwards when Jesus was betrayed, humiliated, scourged, and crucified. The angels could have protected Jesus from harm and Jesus himself said that he could call on twelve legions of angels (Matthew 26:53)--far more angels then would be necessary to protect him. During the Passion, the angels must have watched [Jesus' suffering] in amazement, wishing they could be allowed to intervene and rescue Jesus. The angels cound not comprehend the mystery.
On Easter Sunday, in his sermon, my pastor said that angels in the Bible are only symbolic and that angels do not exist. He said that the Easter story in John’s Gospel, about the angel rolling away the huge stone from the tomb, was only meant to emphasize God’s might and power. Are there really angels? Do they exist?
--Helen R.
Yes, angels are real. They appear hundreds of time throughout the Bible. Many Bible verses, such as Hebrews 1:14 and 13:2, are among the many verses that make it clear angels are actual beings, not just symbolic ideas. Chapter 21 in the Gospel of John records the historical facts of the first Easter. It is a fact that Roman soldiers guarded the tomb. It is a fact that the angel of the Lord descended from heaven and rolled away the stone from the tomb. It is a fact that Jesus rose from the dead. Erna Anderson expressed it beautifully in the following poem:
No angels? Would you hush their song?
Call them a myth? A belief that’s wrong?
Alas! For shame! No tongue can quell
The message that the angels tell.
To Mary: of the Christ Child’s birth;
To shepherds: Good will, peace on earth.
To God: Their voices sang of glory
As they proclaimed the Christmas story.
To you: tidings of joy they bring.
A multitude of angels sing.
No matter what the world would do,
Thank God, the Scriptures still are true.
So even though the world may try,
The angel’s song will never die.
How come I have never experienced or never heard any angel in my life? This really bothers me because I have never felt or had an inkling of an angel being around.
--Racecartrain
Many people have seen angels but, in the Bible and in life today, the great majority of people have never seen an angel. This majority includes many Christian leaders. For example, in his book "Angels, God’s Secret Agents," Billy Graham wrote that he had never seen an angel. The Bible does not explain why God has his angels appear to some and not to others. A person does not lack faith or lack God’s favor if he or she has never seen an angel. Be assured that God’s angels are with you, even if they remain unseen and you are not aware of their presence.
Can angels have a certain scent?
--Jerri W.
In the Bible, there is no record of angels having a scent or leaving a scent behind them. Your question is, “Can an angel have a scent?” It is possible, of course. Some people have told me of times when they felt an angel present with a distinct scent of roses. I have no strong opinion about this.
If God is all-powerful, why do we need angels?
Have a question about angels? Email Bill Webber at [email protected].*
Find Out:
Is God Offended When We Contact Angels?
Why Do We Need to Contact Angels?
Is it OK to ask God to send an angel to help us, or should we ask God to help us directly? Is God offended when we ask him to send an angel?
--Ruby F.
You ask two good questions. The first is, should we pray only to God, or is it also right to pray to his angels? Although Protestants and Catholics agree on most things about angels, they do differ on this question about praying to angels.
Protestant theologians point out that in the entire Bible, no one is ever told to pray to an angel, and there are no instructions on how to pray to one. In Matthew 6, however, Jesus instructs Christians to pray to God and even how to pray to him. Hence, most Protestants do not pray to angels, but only pray directly to God. A key text is 1 Timothy 2:5, "For there is one God and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus..."
Catholic doctrine holds that it is necessary to pray to God, but it is also helpful to pray to saints (not just those who have been canonized by the Church, but any Christian who has died). James Cardinal Gibbons in his book Faith of Our Fathers explained,
We can ask any person in heaven to join us in prayer. This includes our relatives who have gone before us. We do not pray to the saints in the sense that they have any power of their own. We ask them to pray with us to God, just as I can ask you to pray with me to God. ...However, we do not think it is necessary or essential to pray to saints. Our one mediator is Jesus who is the bridge between us and God. He is really the essential conduit.
The Catholic Church teaches that angels are deeply concerned with our well-being. God gives them charge over us to be our guardians (Psalm 91:11-12; Daniel 12:1; Matthew 18:10; Acts 12:5-11, 5; Hebrews 1:14); so surely they must pray for their charges! We also have fellowship with them as fellow citizens of the heavenly Jerusalem (Hebrews 12:22). We should not and do not worship them as we worship God, but we can still love and talk to them, even as we love and talk to fellow Christians on earth.
Catholics make the case for why Christians can and should pray to angels. They point out that Jesus himself warned us not to offend small children, because their guardian angels have guaranteed intercessory access to the Father: "See that you do not despise one of these little ones; for I tell you that in heaven their angels always see the face of my Father who is in heaven" (Matt. 18:10).
They also point out that in the book of Revelation, angels are shown bringing the prayers of God’s people. "[An] angel came and stood at the altar [in heaven] with a golden censer; and he was given much incense to mingle with the prayers of all the saints upon the golden altar before the throne; and the smoke of the incense rose with the prayers of the saints from the hand of the angel before God" (Rev. 8:3–4).
Catholic children are taught early to pray to God and their guardian angel. The first prayer many Catholic children learn to pray every night is:
Angel of God, my guardian dear, To whom his love commits me here. Ever this day be at my side, To light and guard, to rule and guide. Amen.
Many adults, who believe God has sent a guardian angel to be with them forever, find it helpful in their Christian lives to converse with their angels through the day.
As for your second question (Is God offended when we ask him to send an angel?) the answer is: No! First, it is important to have a correct view of God. People may be easily offended if we ask the wrong question, or don’t use the correct words. But, you can count on God’s love and His understanding of your thoughts and feelings. God is pleased when we pray to him. He is not offended if we ask him to send his angels. Even though Protestants do not pray directly to angels, both Protestants and Catholics thank God for his angels, for their help.
You can use this prayer to talk to God: "Lord, I claim your promise in Psalm 91:11 to send your angels to help in time of need. I need your help. Please send your angels now." Using this prayer, don’t hesitate to ask God to send his angels.
I find the idea of calling upon angels for help confusing. I was brought up Lutheran and was never directed to rely on angels, only the triune God. Why would we need angels if there is God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit?
--Kari A.
The question you seem to be asking is: "If I can pray directly to God, why pray to angels, who are lesser beings?" Actually, there is no need to pray directly to angels. No advantage is gained in praying to an angel versus praying directly to God. God’s holy angels delight to do his will, and will never disobey his commands.
The bigger questions you raise are: Do we need angels? Does God need angels? The answer to both questions is no. God is all-powerful, and he can do everything without help. But, in his great love, God created the angels to help all who believe in him. Hebrews 1:14 says, "Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?" You do not need to pray to angels, but you also need to be aware that they are a part of the wonderful provision God has prepared for you. Martin Luther wrote, "An angel is a spiritual creature created by God for the service of Christendom and the church." Do not ignore God’s gift of angels; instead, be aware of their presence and thank God for them. Even though you will always find what you need in the triune God, God will also send his angels if you pray to him for help. Just like God, the angels will always be there for you.
Have a question about angels? Email Bill Webber at [email protected].
William Webber is an American Baptist pastor and writer, coauthor of 'A Rustle of Angels.' He answers questions about angels from a biblical perspective.
****
'My pastor says angels are symbolic. Is he right or wrong?'
Find Out:
Are there Lent angels, like Advent angels?
Do angels really exist, or are they symbolic?
Why have I never seen an angel in my life?
Do angels have different scents?
During Advent we pray to our Advent angels. One of my students asked me if there were Lent Angels. I am showing them [my students] the Bridge of Angels in Rome, but I have not found anything about Lent Angels. I have also found many pictures of Christ’s Passion in which there are always angels assisting him. Do you have any information on Lent Angels?
--Julie C.
In the Bible, angels play a prominent role in the life of Christ, from his birth to his resurrection and ascenscion into heaven. Even though the Gospel writers record the events of the Passion, angels are never mentioned. This is not by accident; rather, it is a part of the sacred mystery of salvation. As Jesus faced his death, he retreated to the Garden of Gethsemane where he prayed, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will but yours be done.” Then, “an angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him” (Luke 22:43).
When Jesus went through the agony in the garden and committed himself to following his Father’s will, the heavenly Father sent an angel to Jesus to strengthen him! That was the end of the ministry of angels during the Passion. The angels did not intervene afterwards when Jesus was betrayed, humiliated, scourged, and crucified. The angels could have protected Jesus from harm and Jesus himself said that he could call on twelve legions of angels (Matthew 26:53)--far more angels then would be necessary to protect him. During the Passion, the angels must have watched [Jesus' suffering] in amazement, wishing they could be allowed to intervene and rescue Jesus. The angels cound not comprehend the mystery.
On Easter Sunday, in his sermon, my pastor said that angels in the Bible are only symbolic and that angels do not exist. He said that the Easter story in John’s Gospel, about the angel rolling away the huge stone from the tomb, was only meant to emphasize God’s might and power. Are there really angels? Do they exist?
--Helen R.
Yes, angels are real. They appear hundreds of time throughout the Bible. Many Bible verses, such as Hebrews 1:14 and 13:2, are among the many verses that make it clear angels are actual beings, not just symbolic ideas. Chapter 21 in the Gospel of John records the historical facts of the first Easter. It is a fact that Roman soldiers guarded the tomb. It is a fact that the angel of the Lord descended from heaven and rolled away the stone from the tomb. It is a fact that Jesus rose from the dead. Erna Anderson expressed it beautifully in the following poem:
No angels? Would you hush their song?
Call them a myth? A belief that’s wrong?
Alas! For shame! No tongue can quell
The message that the angels tell.
To Mary: of the Christ Child’s birth;
To shepherds: Good will, peace on earth.
To God: Their voices sang of glory
As they proclaimed the Christmas story.
To you: tidings of joy they bring.
A multitude of angels sing.
No matter what the world would do,
Thank God, the Scriptures still are true.
So even though the world may try,
The angel’s song will never die.
How come I have never experienced or never heard any angel in my life? This really bothers me because I have never felt or had an inkling of an angel being around.
--Racecartrain
Many people have seen angels but, in the Bible and in life today, the great majority of people have never seen an angel. This majority includes many Christian leaders. For example, in his book "Angels, God’s Secret Agents," Billy Graham wrote that he had never seen an angel. The Bible does not explain why God has his angels appear to some and not to others. A person does not lack faith or lack God’s favor if he or she has never seen an angel. Be assured that God’s angels are with you, even if they remain unseen and you are not aware of their presence.
Can angels have a certain scent?
--Jerri W.
In the Bible, there is no record of angels having a scent or leaving a scent behind them. Your question is, “Can an angel have a scent?” It is possible, of course. Some people have told me of times when they felt an angel present with a distinct scent of roses. I have no strong opinion about this.
Miracle in a Mexican Restaurant
I obeyed God that day...and I really didn't want to.
By Martha Williamson
I don't pretend to understand everything I read in the Bible but I do try to read the Bible and to understand everything I can and try to live by it. It's not always so easy....
Watch the Video
http://blog.beliefnet.com/MarthaWilliam ... auran.html
I obeyed God that day...and I really didn't want to.
By Martha Williamson
I don't pretend to understand everything I read in the Bible but I do try to read the Bible and to understand everything I can and try to live by it. It's not always so easy....
Watch the Video
http://blog.beliefnet.com/MarthaWilliam ... auran.html
William D. Webber
Would an Angel-Human Relationship Ever Work?
If angels and humans did fall in love, would they be able to have a 'normal' marriage?
Is it possible for humans to marry angels?
Why haven't I had any angel encounters?
Would it be wrong to call someone an 'angel'?
What does the word 'angel' mean to you?
Is it possible for a human to have an intimate, romantic relationship with an angel? I understand angels cannot transform into human beings, and this relationship would not be physical in any way. It would basically be the equivalent of everything that makes up a normal relationship (talking, laughing, sharing things, being affectionate, looking after each other, etc.), excluding the physical aspect.
Normally, this would not satisfy humans because we were created as sexual beings, and in a marriage a man and a woman experience the physical and non-physical aspects of a relationship. That being said, not all human beings have sex, and that is not morally wrong (look at Priests, Nuns, or simply chaste people who are single). I also don't mean to say that the angel would love the human more than God. God would always be the number one priority in the angel's life, and He would receive the greatest amount of love from the angel. That is not so different from a normal marriage. A husband and wife are supposed to love God more than each other (otherwise the husband's God would actually be his wife, and the wife's God her husband).
This angel-human relationship would not bring forth new life, but that is understandable, seeing as an angel and a human have no way to reproduce. In that respect, it would be the same as a normal marriage where one or both people are infertile. Perhaps the angel and the human could adopt a child into their family to love and raise? I think being in love with an angel and having a relationship with an angel would be very out of the ordinary. [The relationship] would have a unique set of challenges to overcome, but it would also be rewarding and beautiful in its own way. What do you think? - Dave R.
Well, they say men are from Mars and women are from Venus, but the difference between a human and an angel is SO extreme, it would be hard for such a couple to truly commune. Angels have lived through millennia, have seen the face of God, and they understand far more than the human ever could. They have a much clearer idea of the Big Picture and wouldn't take time "hanging out" with a human when they understand the cosmic significance. For some reason, God doesn't think humans need to know the ins and outs of eternity and the complete, true nature of God (we "see through a glass darkly"). One angel isn't going to get permission to spill the beans because of "romantic" love with a human. That basic lack of understanding would make such a huge stumbling block.
Romantic relationships also depend on mortality. You can love someone or something for all time, but for true romantic love to enter the picture, we need the potential for loss.
The Bible says angels do not marry in heaven. Needless to say, love in heaven has a different focus. To love everyone with pure agape love will be transformational. While we humans think romantic love is the ultimate, beings who regularly "stand before the Father" are already playing in a whole different ballpark.
I am looking for guided meditation CDs or songs to reach and talk to my angels and spirit guides. I am actually looking for a way to reach, communicate, or feel my angels. I have tried sleeping with crystals thinking about angels or talking to them as I fall asleep. So far, I have not experienced anything. I am not just asking for me, but I want to talk to angels about helping others.
- Sharon D.
Bless you, Sharon. It is a fine thing for you to have a desire to help others. In the Bible and in mainstream Christianity, there are no instructions on how to reach angels or spirit guides, but the Bible does tell us to pray to God. You do not need crystals or candles to get God’s attention. Just talk to him with faith. When you meditate, lift these concerns to God. Ask God also to show you ways that you can be a part of the answer.
In the Bible, angels are God’s special creation. No human is called an 'angel' in the Bible. Isn’t it sacrilegious to talk about somebody being an 'angel'?
- Mariska
Yes, Mariska, God’s holy angels are magnificent supernatural beings and are so completely different from humans. But, in the original Greek and Hebrew that the Bible was written in, the word 'angel' is the same as the word for 'messenger.' When reading the scripture in the original languages, a person has to find clues in the context to discover if someone is being referred to as a human or an angel. So, we can deduce that God is comfortable with the term 'angel' being used for humans as well as for heavenly hosts.
It’s a lovely compliment to say to someone, “You are an angel!” The usual meaning is you are like an angel because you are loving, kind, helpful, an encourager or maybe even a life saver.
What do you think when you hear the word 'angel'?
Most Beliefnet members who read this column immediately think of the heavenly spirits described in the Bible. But the word 'angel' has several other meanings in the English language.
Here are a few other dictionary definitions:
a kind or helpful person, one who acts like an angel
a guardian
a spirit guide or counselor
an inspiration from God (especially in Christian Science)
After my wife and I received the Print Media Award from the Excellence in Media Foundation for our book "A Rustle of Angels" at Sardi’s restaurant in New York City, Vincent Sardi invited us to his office to talk about books. He suggested we trade books. The title of his book is "Off the Wall at Sardi’s" and is filled with 275 reproductions of the caricatures of famous people that fill the walls of his landmark restaurant. Sardi autographed the book he gave us with the words, “I am happy to learn that there are other angels than the Broadway angels who 'back' shows.”
One definition of angel is somebody who provides financial support for an enterprise, especially Broadway shows. For Sardi, it is easy to understand how that type of angel would be the first to come to his mind.
William Webber is an American Baptist pastor and writer, coauthor of 'A Rustle of Angels.' He answers questions about angels from a biblical perspective.
*Because Dr. Webber receives a large volume of emails each week, he will be unable to answer each question personally. However, Beliefnet will do our best to select frequently asked and broadly relevant questions for him to answer in his future columns.
Would an Angel-Human Relationship Ever Work?
If angels and humans did fall in love, would they be able to have a 'normal' marriage?
Is it possible for humans to marry angels?
Why haven't I had any angel encounters?
Would it be wrong to call someone an 'angel'?
What does the word 'angel' mean to you?
Is it possible for a human to have an intimate, romantic relationship with an angel? I understand angels cannot transform into human beings, and this relationship would not be physical in any way. It would basically be the equivalent of everything that makes up a normal relationship (talking, laughing, sharing things, being affectionate, looking after each other, etc.), excluding the physical aspect.
Normally, this would not satisfy humans because we were created as sexual beings, and in a marriage a man and a woman experience the physical and non-physical aspects of a relationship. That being said, not all human beings have sex, and that is not morally wrong (look at Priests, Nuns, or simply chaste people who are single). I also don't mean to say that the angel would love the human more than God. God would always be the number one priority in the angel's life, and He would receive the greatest amount of love from the angel. That is not so different from a normal marriage. A husband and wife are supposed to love God more than each other (otherwise the husband's God would actually be his wife, and the wife's God her husband).
This angel-human relationship would not bring forth new life, but that is understandable, seeing as an angel and a human have no way to reproduce. In that respect, it would be the same as a normal marriage where one or both people are infertile. Perhaps the angel and the human could adopt a child into their family to love and raise? I think being in love with an angel and having a relationship with an angel would be very out of the ordinary. [The relationship] would have a unique set of challenges to overcome, but it would also be rewarding and beautiful in its own way. What do you think? - Dave R.
Well, they say men are from Mars and women are from Venus, but the difference between a human and an angel is SO extreme, it would be hard for such a couple to truly commune. Angels have lived through millennia, have seen the face of God, and they understand far more than the human ever could. They have a much clearer idea of the Big Picture and wouldn't take time "hanging out" with a human when they understand the cosmic significance. For some reason, God doesn't think humans need to know the ins and outs of eternity and the complete, true nature of God (we "see through a glass darkly"). One angel isn't going to get permission to spill the beans because of "romantic" love with a human. That basic lack of understanding would make such a huge stumbling block.
Romantic relationships also depend on mortality. You can love someone or something for all time, but for true romantic love to enter the picture, we need the potential for loss.
The Bible says angels do not marry in heaven. Needless to say, love in heaven has a different focus. To love everyone with pure agape love will be transformational. While we humans think romantic love is the ultimate, beings who regularly "stand before the Father" are already playing in a whole different ballpark.
I am looking for guided meditation CDs or songs to reach and talk to my angels and spirit guides. I am actually looking for a way to reach, communicate, or feel my angels. I have tried sleeping with crystals thinking about angels or talking to them as I fall asleep. So far, I have not experienced anything. I am not just asking for me, but I want to talk to angels about helping others.
- Sharon D.
Bless you, Sharon. It is a fine thing for you to have a desire to help others. In the Bible and in mainstream Christianity, there are no instructions on how to reach angels or spirit guides, but the Bible does tell us to pray to God. You do not need crystals or candles to get God’s attention. Just talk to him with faith. When you meditate, lift these concerns to God. Ask God also to show you ways that you can be a part of the answer.
In the Bible, angels are God’s special creation. No human is called an 'angel' in the Bible. Isn’t it sacrilegious to talk about somebody being an 'angel'?
- Mariska
Yes, Mariska, God’s holy angels are magnificent supernatural beings and are so completely different from humans. But, in the original Greek and Hebrew that the Bible was written in, the word 'angel' is the same as the word for 'messenger.' When reading the scripture in the original languages, a person has to find clues in the context to discover if someone is being referred to as a human or an angel. So, we can deduce that God is comfortable with the term 'angel' being used for humans as well as for heavenly hosts.
It’s a lovely compliment to say to someone, “You are an angel!” The usual meaning is you are like an angel because you are loving, kind, helpful, an encourager or maybe even a life saver.
What do you think when you hear the word 'angel'?
Most Beliefnet members who read this column immediately think of the heavenly spirits described in the Bible. But the word 'angel' has several other meanings in the English language.
Here are a few other dictionary definitions:
a kind or helpful person, one who acts like an angel
a guardian
a spirit guide or counselor
an inspiration from God (especially in Christian Science)
After my wife and I received the Print Media Award from the Excellence in Media Foundation for our book "A Rustle of Angels" at Sardi’s restaurant in New York City, Vincent Sardi invited us to his office to talk about books. He suggested we trade books. The title of his book is "Off the Wall at Sardi’s" and is filled with 275 reproductions of the caricatures of famous people that fill the walls of his landmark restaurant. Sardi autographed the book he gave us with the words, “I am happy to learn that there are other angels than the Broadway angels who 'back' shows.”
One definition of angel is somebody who provides financial support for an enterprise, especially Broadway shows. For Sardi, it is easy to understand how that type of angel would be the first to come to his mind.
William Webber is an American Baptist pastor and writer, coauthor of 'A Rustle of Angels.' He answers questions about angels from a biblical perspective.
*Because Dr. Webber receives a large volume of emails each week, he will be unable to answer each question personally. However, Beliefnet will do our best to select frequently asked and broadly relevant questions for him to answer in his future columns.
The Most Beautiful Word
Twenty years ago, an accident left my son in a near-vegetative state. Everyone else gave up on him...
By Angilee Wallis
"Please God, let my son live," I pleaded during the hour-long drive to the hospital. All I knew was that Terry and his friend, Lowell "Chubs," had been in a terrible car accident early that Saturday morning in July of 1984. My son was eighteen with a wife and beautiful six-week-old baby girl, Amber.
Since we had no phone at that time, a neighbor had come over to tell me the hospital was trying to contact us. There had been a bad accident. My husband Jerry was out on errands with our other two sons, Perry and George, ages seventeen and ten. Terry's place was about a mile away, so I drove over to break the news to his wife, Sandy. Chubs's wife was there also. With a car full of various family members, we sped off to the hospital in a panic.
A cloud of fear and disbelief hung over us all. We prayed unceasingly, pleading for the lives of Terry and Chubs. My shock prevented any tears.
I could not believe this was happening to us. We lived a simple but happy life in a modest, two-bedroom house in Marshall, Arkansas. The two youngest boys lived at home while my daughter, Tammy, and Terry both lived close by with their spouses. At the time, my husband Jerry worked as a mechanic. I had been employed at a shirt factory for eight years.
When we reached the hospital, we were told the boys had both been taken by helicopter to Springfield Hospital, a trauma center that was three hours away. We got back into the car for the longest drive of our lives.
At the trauma center, we were taken aside so medical personnel could prepare us. Terry had a brain stem injury. This meant paralysis was a possibility. He had been given medication to reduce his brain swelling, but the swelling still continued.
"There will be machines and a lot of tubes," the nurse explained. "Terry has been given medication for pain and is not awake. It is possible he might be able to hear you, so it important that you remain calm. We do not want to upset him further in any way."
As I walked into the room and saw all the tubes and machines, my emotions spilled out. I quickly turned around and stepped back out. Shaking, crying, and gasping for air, I tried hard to get myself under control so I could go back in.
Taking deep breaths to calm myself, I walked over to Terry's bedside. Love and fear overwhelmed me as I looked at my son lying unconscious. Yet, seeing him gave me hope. The only physical sign of the accident was a cut over his eye that required three stitches. Terry's arms were twisting back forth. "Isn't that good?" I asked the nurse when I saw his arms moving. "He can't be paralyzed if his arms are moving."
The nurse explained to me that twitching arms were a reaction to his brain swelling and it was not a good sign. I swallowed hard but could not stop my tears from flowing. I touched his hand and struggled to keep my voice steady. "Terry, hang in there. I love you and I'm going to be here for you," I whispered.
His wife also touched his hand and talked to him reassuringly. I looked at my boy who had always been so healthy and energetic, lying there with tubes going into him. This can't be, I thought. But I could not change reality. I could only pray that Terry would recover.
Chubs did not make it. It was still possible that Terry could die also. For several days the doctors tried in vain to stop his brain from swelling. And day after day the only word was: "We don't know what the extent of his injuries will be."
But whatever kind of life Terry would have, as his mother—the one who gave him life—I would be there for him. For weeks I slept on a couch in a waiting room. Jerry came often with the other kids. Together, we kept praying and reassuring Terry to hang in there.
After a few weeks, Sandy and I worked out a routine where we took turns being with Terry. Although visiting hours were over at 8 p.m., the nurses let us stay much later. After a couple of months, they also let us sleep in the nurses' dorm next to the hospital.
Toward the end of October, the doctor told us that there was no longer any reason to keep Terry in the hospital. He was still in a coma, so he needed to be moved to a nursing home. I had not given up hope, but the doctors could do no more for him.
Terry was placed in a nursing home two hours away from our house. At this point, people started losing hope. Some questioned if perhaps it would have been better for Terry to have died in the accident. If he never came out of the coma, was my desire to keep him alive selfish? I did not want to let him go, and yet, what did Terry want?
I began asking God what He wanted. "Lord, I love Terry and I want You to heal him, but Your will be done," I started praying. "I trust in you, God." In the midst of my pain, I began to feel some peace. If Terry continued to live, it would be because God wanted Him to.
I returned to work, where I had been given a leave of absence, but I spent every other weekend at the nursing home. My mother and sister lived nearby, so I often stayed with them or simply slept in a recliner in Terry's room.
As Christmas neared that first year after the accident, I could not imagine a family celebration without Terry. I wanted him home. Since he was still in a coma, there was great concern that this would be too difficult. I was scared but I was also determined; Terry needed to be home during Christmas.
Terry's feeding tube was removed shortly after Thanksgiving. I had watched the nurses feed him with a syringe and decided I could manage. Staff from the nursing home helped us carry Terry into the car. Family and friends helped us carry him into the house once we got him home.
In the familiar setting of home and surrounded by family and friends, loved ones came by to wish Terry a Merry Christmas. Everyone talked to him as if he were the old Terry. He was still in a coma, but I believed he had to know the difference between being in the nursing home and being at home. I could not prove it, but I felt it with my whole heart.
From that time on, we started bringing Terry home every other weekend. By the end of the next year, Terry was moved into a nursing home in Mountain View, which is the town where I work. I frequently stopped by to see him after work and we brought him home every weekend.
The months turned into years—five, ten, fifteen—and people saw no improvement. Terry's young wife had gotten on with her life. His daughter, Amber, only occasionally saw her father as she grew up. A few people questioned the wisdom of bringing him home every weekend, but most of our family and friends supported us. It was a strain, but Jerry and I were united in our unwavering love for Terry.
Like a bud that blooms so slowly that its movement is imperceptible, Jerry and I felt that our son was opening up. It was so gradual, it escaped others. There were little things or a wink. One day, Terry laughed. And once Terry did something, he could continue to do it.
Driving with Terry in the car one morning, his head bobbed up and down after I asked him a question. I paid no attention, thinking it was the bouncing of the car that caused it. But Jerry cried out: "Look, he's answering you. He's shaking his head yes!" From that moment on, Terry was able to shake his head when asked a question. Later on, he started making the sound: "uh-huh."
Nineteen years after the accident, on Wednesday, June 11, 2003, I walked into Terry's room and said "Hi, Terry," as I always did. One of the nursing home aides asked him, "Who is that, Terry?"
"Mom," he answered clearly. I almost fell over I was so shocked. The aide and I looked at each other with the same astonished expressions on our faces. Tears of joy rolled down our cheeks as we ran over and hugged Terry.
"Did you hear that?" I cried. "He said 'Mom!' Terry, say that again!"
Terry laughed and again said the most beautiful word I had ever heard: "Mom."
Terry did not say another word that day, but after nineteen years, he had spoken! His one word was music to my ears, more incredible than his first "mamma" so many years before. We brought him home for a weekend visit that Friday. I kept asking him questions that he could answer with "Mom." Later that day, I got him to say "Pepsi."
On Saturday morning, I awoke to turn him over at 4 a.m., which was a necessary task. This was always a time when I would talk with him. Terry was mumbling.
"I know you are trying to tell me something," I said. "Just keep trying and I'll catch it," I told him. He kept struggling until "Mom and Dad" tumbled out.
"Say it again," I pleaded excitedly through my tears.
Terry repeated: "Mom and Dad."
"Terry, tomorrow is Father's Day," I cried. "When Dad gets up, we'll tell him what you can say. It will be his Father's Day present from you."
When Jerry got up, I could not contain my excitement. "Jerry, Terry has a Father's Day present for you," I said, escorting him to Terry's bedside. Then, very clearly, Terry spoke: "Mom and Dad."
Jerry is not one given to emotions, but tears glistened in his eyes. "That's the best Father's Day present I could have," he said.
For breakfast, I expected Terry to ask for Pepsi—his new word—when I asked him what he wanted to drink. Instead, he said: "Milk."
When a nurse at the nursing home learned of all Terry's words, she arranged for a speech therapist to visit Terry. "Angilee, I believe he will be speaking in full sentences within a week," she announced.
The next week, when I walked into his room, he was telling the people around him that his birthday was April 7, 1964. I laughed and hugged him then asked: "Terry, what you else can you say?"
"Anything I want," he answered, laughing.
By the end of August we brought Terry home to stay. I quit my job to care for him full-time. His daughter Amber is nineteen now. She comes every day to spend time with her dad. She loves Terry just because he is her dad.
Terry is a quadriplegic as a result of the accident. Yet, many times he has told me, "I'm so happy." God wanted him to live, and now I know Terry also wanted to survive. My family is still the center of my life, but God is also there with us.
My son's life is a miracle. I keep praying and trusting that God will continue to see us all through.
Reprinted from 'Amazing Grace for Mothers' edited by Emily Cavins & Patti Armstrong with Jeff Cavins & Matthew Pinto, with permission of Ascension Press. Copyright 2004. All rights reserved.
Angilee Wallis is home full-time to care for Terry and Jerry ranches to support the family.
Twenty years ago, an accident left my son in a near-vegetative state. Everyone else gave up on him...
By Angilee Wallis
"Please God, let my son live," I pleaded during the hour-long drive to the hospital. All I knew was that Terry and his friend, Lowell "Chubs," had been in a terrible car accident early that Saturday morning in July of 1984. My son was eighteen with a wife and beautiful six-week-old baby girl, Amber.
Since we had no phone at that time, a neighbor had come over to tell me the hospital was trying to contact us. There had been a bad accident. My husband Jerry was out on errands with our other two sons, Perry and George, ages seventeen and ten. Terry's place was about a mile away, so I drove over to break the news to his wife, Sandy. Chubs's wife was there also. With a car full of various family members, we sped off to the hospital in a panic.
A cloud of fear and disbelief hung over us all. We prayed unceasingly, pleading for the lives of Terry and Chubs. My shock prevented any tears.
I could not believe this was happening to us. We lived a simple but happy life in a modest, two-bedroom house in Marshall, Arkansas. The two youngest boys lived at home while my daughter, Tammy, and Terry both lived close by with their spouses. At the time, my husband Jerry worked as a mechanic. I had been employed at a shirt factory for eight years.
When we reached the hospital, we were told the boys had both been taken by helicopter to Springfield Hospital, a trauma center that was three hours away. We got back into the car for the longest drive of our lives.
At the trauma center, we were taken aside so medical personnel could prepare us. Terry had a brain stem injury. This meant paralysis was a possibility. He had been given medication to reduce his brain swelling, but the swelling still continued.
"There will be machines and a lot of tubes," the nurse explained. "Terry has been given medication for pain and is not awake. It is possible he might be able to hear you, so it important that you remain calm. We do not want to upset him further in any way."
As I walked into the room and saw all the tubes and machines, my emotions spilled out. I quickly turned around and stepped back out. Shaking, crying, and gasping for air, I tried hard to get myself under control so I could go back in.
Taking deep breaths to calm myself, I walked over to Terry's bedside. Love and fear overwhelmed me as I looked at my son lying unconscious. Yet, seeing him gave me hope. The only physical sign of the accident was a cut over his eye that required three stitches. Terry's arms were twisting back forth. "Isn't that good?" I asked the nurse when I saw his arms moving. "He can't be paralyzed if his arms are moving."
The nurse explained to me that twitching arms were a reaction to his brain swelling and it was not a good sign. I swallowed hard but could not stop my tears from flowing. I touched his hand and struggled to keep my voice steady. "Terry, hang in there. I love you and I'm going to be here for you," I whispered.
His wife also touched his hand and talked to him reassuringly. I looked at my boy who had always been so healthy and energetic, lying there with tubes going into him. This can't be, I thought. But I could not change reality. I could only pray that Terry would recover.
Chubs did not make it. It was still possible that Terry could die also. For several days the doctors tried in vain to stop his brain from swelling. And day after day the only word was: "We don't know what the extent of his injuries will be."
But whatever kind of life Terry would have, as his mother—the one who gave him life—I would be there for him. For weeks I slept on a couch in a waiting room. Jerry came often with the other kids. Together, we kept praying and reassuring Terry to hang in there.
After a few weeks, Sandy and I worked out a routine where we took turns being with Terry. Although visiting hours were over at 8 p.m., the nurses let us stay much later. After a couple of months, they also let us sleep in the nurses' dorm next to the hospital.
Toward the end of October, the doctor told us that there was no longer any reason to keep Terry in the hospital. He was still in a coma, so he needed to be moved to a nursing home. I had not given up hope, but the doctors could do no more for him.
Terry was placed in a nursing home two hours away from our house. At this point, people started losing hope. Some questioned if perhaps it would have been better for Terry to have died in the accident. If he never came out of the coma, was my desire to keep him alive selfish? I did not want to let him go, and yet, what did Terry want?
I began asking God what He wanted. "Lord, I love Terry and I want You to heal him, but Your will be done," I started praying. "I trust in you, God." In the midst of my pain, I began to feel some peace. If Terry continued to live, it would be because God wanted Him to.
I returned to work, where I had been given a leave of absence, but I spent every other weekend at the nursing home. My mother and sister lived nearby, so I often stayed with them or simply slept in a recliner in Terry's room.
As Christmas neared that first year after the accident, I could not imagine a family celebration without Terry. I wanted him home. Since he was still in a coma, there was great concern that this would be too difficult. I was scared but I was also determined; Terry needed to be home during Christmas.
Terry's feeding tube was removed shortly after Thanksgiving. I had watched the nurses feed him with a syringe and decided I could manage. Staff from the nursing home helped us carry Terry into the car. Family and friends helped us carry him into the house once we got him home.
In the familiar setting of home and surrounded by family and friends, loved ones came by to wish Terry a Merry Christmas. Everyone talked to him as if he were the old Terry. He was still in a coma, but I believed he had to know the difference between being in the nursing home and being at home. I could not prove it, but I felt it with my whole heart.
From that time on, we started bringing Terry home every other weekend. By the end of the next year, Terry was moved into a nursing home in Mountain View, which is the town where I work. I frequently stopped by to see him after work and we brought him home every weekend.
The months turned into years—five, ten, fifteen—and people saw no improvement. Terry's young wife had gotten on with her life. His daughter, Amber, only occasionally saw her father as she grew up. A few people questioned the wisdom of bringing him home every weekend, but most of our family and friends supported us. It was a strain, but Jerry and I were united in our unwavering love for Terry.
Like a bud that blooms so slowly that its movement is imperceptible, Jerry and I felt that our son was opening up. It was so gradual, it escaped others. There were little things or a wink. One day, Terry laughed. And once Terry did something, he could continue to do it.
Driving with Terry in the car one morning, his head bobbed up and down after I asked him a question. I paid no attention, thinking it was the bouncing of the car that caused it. But Jerry cried out: "Look, he's answering you. He's shaking his head yes!" From that moment on, Terry was able to shake his head when asked a question. Later on, he started making the sound: "uh-huh."
Nineteen years after the accident, on Wednesday, June 11, 2003, I walked into Terry's room and said "Hi, Terry," as I always did. One of the nursing home aides asked him, "Who is that, Terry?"
"Mom," he answered clearly. I almost fell over I was so shocked. The aide and I looked at each other with the same astonished expressions on our faces. Tears of joy rolled down our cheeks as we ran over and hugged Terry.
"Did you hear that?" I cried. "He said 'Mom!' Terry, say that again!"
Terry laughed and again said the most beautiful word I had ever heard: "Mom."
Terry did not say another word that day, but after nineteen years, he had spoken! His one word was music to my ears, more incredible than his first "mamma" so many years before. We brought him home for a weekend visit that Friday. I kept asking him questions that he could answer with "Mom." Later that day, I got him to say "Pepsi."
On Saturday morning, I awoke to turn him over at 4 a.m., which was a necessary task. This was always a time when I would talk with him. Terry was mumbling.
"I know you are trying to tell me something," I said. "Just keep trying and I'll catch it," I told him. He kept struggling until "Mom and Dad" tumbled out.
"Say it again," I pleaded excitedly through my tears.
Terry repeated: "Mom and Dad."
"Terry, tomorrow is Father's Day," I cried. "When Dad gets up, we'll tell him what you can say. It will be his Father's Day present from you."
When Jerry got up, I could not contain my excitement. "Jerry, Terry has a Father's Day present for you," I said, escorting him to Terry's bedside. Then, very clearly, Terry spoke: "Mom and Dad."
Jerry is not one given to emotions, but tears glistened in his eyes. "That's the best Father's Day present I could have," he said.
For breakfast, I expected Terry to ask for Pepsi—his new word—when I asked him what he wanted to drink. Instead, he said: "Milk."
When a nurse at the nursing home learned of all Terry's words, she arranged for a speech therapist to visit Terry. "Angilee, I believe he will be speaking in full sentences within a week," she announced.
The next week, when I walked into his room, he was telling the people around him that his birthday was April 7, 1964. I laughed and hugged him then asked: "Terry, what you else can you say?"
"Anything I want," he answered, laughing.
By the end of August we brought Terry home to stay. I quit my job to care for him full-time. His daughter Amber is nineteen now. She comes every day to spend time with her dad. She loves Terry just because he is her dad.
Terry is a quadriplegic as a result of the accident. Yet, many times he has told me, "I'm so happy." God wanted him to live, and now I know Terry also wanted to survive. My family is still the center of my life, but God is also there with us.
My son's life is a miracle. I keep praying and trusting that God will continue to see us all through.
Reprinted from 'Amazing Grace for Mothers' edited by Emily Cavins & Patti Armstrong with Jeff Cavins & Matthew Pinto, with permission of Ascension Press. Copyright 2004. All rights reserved.
Angilee Wallis is home full-time to care for Terry and Jerry ranches to support the family.
Do Children Always See Angels?
Most adults struggle to have angel experiences. Are children more open to them because of youth and innocence?
Can children really see angels?
Are children more likely to see angels than adults?
Should we believe children who say they've seen angels?
Do all children have angel experiences?
Do you have a favorite children's book about angels?
Many Beliefnet members have sent questions about children and angels. I have compiled the ones I am commonly asked and I have outlined them here with my answers.
1. Can children really see angels?
Yes, the evidence is overwhelming. Here is an account from a person I know. (The names have been changed as requested.) The only explanation for this amazing, true story is that an angel did give a message to a child.
My friend June was broken-hearted. She had done her best to raise her daughter Ericka, but in her teen age years Ericka became addicted on drugs and left home. While on drugs, Ericka became pregnant and had a baby boy. Ericka realized that she could not care for her baby and she asked her mother to take care of the baby boy until she became clean. Instead of kicking the habit, Ericka became more addicted and gave birth to a second baby, a girl. Once again, she implored her mother to care for her second child, with promises that this time she would become drug free and become a good mother. Despite her promises, Ericka disappeared and June lost all contact with Ericka. Taking care of two grandchildren was not the way June had planned to spend her midlife years, but she loved them dearly and never complained.
One morning four-year old David said, “Grandma, we have to find my baby brother.”
June replied, “David, you don’t have a brother.”
“Yes, I do,” the child insisted. “An angel came and told me we have to find my baby brother.”
June thought David would soon forget his imaginary brother, but throughout the day David persisted. "It’s not my imagination,” he insisted. “The angel told me. We have to go find my brother.”
“Could it be possible?” June wondered. “Did David see an angel? Does he have a baby brother? Is it possible that Ericka had given birth to another child?”
Because her grandson was so insistent, June decided to begin a search. Ericka had broken off all contacts with her and June knew of no way to find her daughter. In desperation, she decided to call the maternity wards at local hospitals. There was no record of her daughter in any of the hospitals in the city where June lived, but David would not relent. “We have to find my baby brother,” he insisted. “Keep trying,” he pleaded.
Next, June tried the maternity ward of the hospital in the next town. Her daughter Ericka was there and had just given birth to a baby boy! Within an hour June was by her side. The daughter was hostile. “Mom, how did you find me?” Ericka demanded. “How did you know I had given birth?”
She listened in amazement to the story: how an angel had come to her preschool son with the message that he had a baby brother and that he had to find him. Erica broke into tears. “Mom,” she said, “After leaving you with two of my children, I was so embarrassed and ashamed when I became pregnant. That’s why I didn’t tell you about this baby.”
Since she was still addicted to drugs, Ericka realized she could not care for the new baby. The last I have heard, June was caring for her three grandchildren, Ericka was in rehab determined to become a good mother. David, now a big brother, was so proud he had found his little brother-- just like the angel had told him to do.
2. Are children more likely to see angels than adults?
Perhaps. There is no way to collect statistics. It may be that children are more innocent and open to spiritual experiences. Many adults become so immersed in the material world that they become unaware of God’s presence.
3. Should we believe everything children tell us about seeing angels?
Of course not! Some children are convinced there are monsters under their bed, that fairies are real (especially when they find evidence that the Tooth Fairy visited them), and many other things. Some of the things children describe as angels are clearly not God’s magnificent spirit beings such as dancing little lights, tiny fairy-like creatures, and imaginary playmates.
Mimi Doe, who has talked to hundreds of children about angels they had seen, received many untraditional answers like these:
It's a see through color pink--there is no paint or markers like that. (Whit, Age 6)
My angel is a comfortable feeling. (Newlin, Age 6)
My angels are many. Sometimes they are small, 7 to 100 of them fit with me inside my seat belt when I drive places. They sparkle all the time. (Samantha, Age 4)
We must be very careful to test “messages” that children report angels have given them. It is important to keep an open mind and realize that it is possible God can send messages to a child through an angel. But we must use discernment when we evaluate the message. It may reflect a child’s hopes, dreams, fears, or an inability to understand life. In some cases, it can be a symptom of mental or emotional problems. God will never give a child (or anyone) a message that contradicts the teachings of Bible scripture.
4. Do all children have angel experiences?
Jesus taught that angels are always present with children (Matthew 18:10). Most of the timie angels are unseen and children are unaware of their ministry. While many children do share that an angel has been with them, the majority of children do not. It is interesting to note that children who do have angel experiences think it is normal to have one, and they take it for granted that it happens to every child.
5. Do you have a favorite book about children and angels?
"What Children Tell Me About Angels" by Charlie W. Shedd is a delightful read. It is inspiring and well-balanced.
Have a question about angels? Email Bill Webber at [email protected].*
William Webber is an American Baptist pastor and writer, coauthor of 'A Rustle of Angels.' He answers questions about angels from a biblical perspective.
*Because Dr. Webber receives a large volume of emails each week, he will be unable to answer each question personally. However, Beliefnet will do our best to select frequently asked and broadly relevant questions for him to answer in his future columns.
Most adults struggle to have angel experiences. Are children more open to them because of youth and innocence?
Can children really see angels?
Are children more likely to see angels than adults?
Should we believe children who say they've seen angels?
Do all children have angel experiences?
Do you have a favorite children's book about angels?
Many Beliefnet members have sent questions about children and angels. I have compiled the ones I am commonly asked and I have outlined them here with my answers.
1. Can children really see angels?
Yes, the evidence is overwhelming. Here is an account from a person I know. (The names have been changed as requested.) The only explanation for this amazing, true story is that an angel did give a message to a child.
My friend June was broken-hearted. She had done her best to raise her daughter Ericka, but in her teen age years Ericka became addicted on drugs and left home. While on drugs, Ericka became pregnant and had a baby boy. Ericka realized that she could not care for her baby and she asked her mother to take care of the baby boy until she became clean. Instead of kicking the habit, Ericka became more addicted and gave birth to a second baby, a girl. Once again, she implored her mother to care for her second child, with promises that this time she would become drug free and become a good mother. Despite her promises, Ericka disappeared and June lost all contact with Ericka. Taking care of two grandchildren was not the way June had planned to spend her midlife years, but she loved them dearly and never complained.
One morning four-year old David said, “Grandma, we have to find my baby brother.”
June replied, “David, you don’t have a brother.”
“Yes, I do,” the child insisted. “An angel came and told me we have to find my baby brother.”
June thought David would soon forget his imaginary brother, but throughout the day David persisted. "It’s not my imagination,” he insisted. “The angel told me. We have to go find my brother.”
“Could it be possible?” June wondered. “Did David see an angel? Does he have a baby brother? Is it possible that Ericka had given birth to another child?”
Because her grandson was so insistent, June decided to begin a search. Ericka had broken off all contacts with her and June knew of no way to find her daughter. In desperation, she decided to call the maternity wards at local hospitals. There was no record of her daughter in any of the hospitals in the city where June lived, but David would not relent. “We have to find my baby brother,” he insisted. “Keep trying,” he pleaded.
Next, June tried the maternity ward of the hospital in the next town. Her daughter Ericka was there and had just given birth to a baby boy! Within an hour June was by her side. The daughter was hostile. “Mom, how did you find me?” Ericka demanded. “How did you know I had given birth?”
She listened in amazement to the story: how an angel had come to her preschool son with the message that he had a baby brother and that he had to find him. Erica broke into tears. “Mom,” she said, “After leaving you with two of my children, I was so embarrassed and ashamed when I became pregnant. That’s why I didn’t tell you about this baby.”
Since she was still addicted to drugs, Ericka realized she could not care for the new baby. The last I have heard, June was caring for her three grandchildren, Ericka was in rehab determined to become a good mother. David, now a big brother, was so proud he had found his little brother-- just like the angel had told him to do.
2. Are children more likely to see angels than adults?
Perhaps. There is no way to collect statistics. It may be that children are more innocent and open to spiritual experiences. Many adults become so immersed in the material world that they become unaware of God’s presence.
3. Should we believe everything children tell us about seeing angels?
Of course not! Some children are convinced there are monsters under their bed, that fairies are real (especially when they find evidence that the Tooth Fairy visited them), and many other things. Some of the things children describe as angels are clearly not God’s magnificent spirit beings such as dancing little lights, tiny fairy-like creatures, and imaginary playmates.
Mimi Doe, who has talked to hundreds of children about angels they had seen, received many untraditional answers like these:
It's a see through color pink--there is no paint or markers like that. (Whit, Age 6)
My angel is a comfortable feeling. (Newlin, Age 6)
My angels are many. Sometimes they are small, 7 to 100 of them fit with me inside my seat belt when I drive places. They sparkle all the time. (Samantha, Age 4)
We must be very careful to test “messages” that children report angels have given them. It is important to keep an open mind and realize that it is possible God can send messages to a child through an angel. But we must use discernment when we evaluate the message. It may reflect a child’s hopes, dreams, fears, or an inability to understand life. In some cases, it can be a symptom of mental or emotional problems. God will never give a child (or anyone) a message that contradicts the teachings of Bible scripture.
4. Do all children have angel experiences?
Jesus taught that angels are always present with children (Matthew 18:10). Most of the timie angels are unseen and children are unaware of their ministry. While many children do share that an angel has been with them, the majority of children do not. It is interesting to note that children who do have angel experiences think it is normal to have one, and they take it for granted that it happens to every child.
5. Do you have a favorite book about children and angels?
"What Children Tell Me About Angels" by Charlie W. Shedd is a delightful read. It is inspiring and well-balanced.
Have a question about angels? Email Bill Webber at [email protected].*
William Webber is an American Baptist pastor and writer, coauthor of 'A Rustle of Angels.' He answers questions about angels from a biblical perspective.
*Because Dr. Webber receives a large volume of emails each week, he will be unable to answer each question personally. However, Beliefnet will do our best to select frequently asked and broadly relevant questions for him to answer in his future columns.