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In 1978, author Loren Eiseley published an essay called “The Star Thrower.” It recounts a beach walk by a narrator...

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This Heaven-Sent Rainbow Became a Symbol of Divine Protection

Posted on by Debbie Miller Gonzales

Lake Havasu City, Arizona, where my grandparents lived, was a different world from what we were familiar with in our California neighborhood. Their house on the outskirts of town felt like the very edge of civilization when we visited that summer I was 13 and my brother Scott was 10. We didn’t have a boring moment, exploring all we could.

We hiked and climbed across desert, canyons and washes, despite the August heat. We went “skiing” down the low hills close to my grandparents’ house, scampering to the top and sliding all the way down on our feet through the sand, stones and loose shale.

As fun as it was, we knew the desert could be dangerous too, especially during the month the locals called monsoon season. Nearly every August afternoon, starting around 2 or 3 P.M., heavy storm clouds moved in over Lake Havasu. Some days we got a light rain for 15 minutes or so; other days a downpour lasted for hours. In this thirsty land, flash floods were common and deserts became violent rivers in an instant.

“The washes can be exceptionally dangerous,” my grandfather warned Scott and me one afternoon on our way to get ice cream. He pointed toward a dry creek bed up ahead. “Not long ago a family of tourists tried to cross there in their car during a downpour,” he said. “The current was so strong it washed the whole car away, and the family couldn’t be saved.”

Scott and I looked at each other in alarm. We had come to expect the afternoon thunderstorms, had learned to recognize the unique puffs of air that meant one was coming. But we had not imagined the event could be deadly. Granddad’s story reminded me of the story of Noah’s ark—without the ark.

When we got back home, Scott and I decided to go hiking. We took our explorations a little farther afield and set out for the wash behind Junior Cupcake, a rock formation on a steep hill. “It really does look like a cupcake!” Scott said when we got there.

The wash behind Junior Cupcake was deep, 8 or 10 feet in some places. It was also quite wide for a wash, I realized when we made it to the middle. I shuddered to think of the heavy floods that would come through when it rained hard. But the coolness at the bottom of the wash was a relief from the August heat on the desert floor. Amid the few palo verde trees growing in the center, along with sage and scrub brush, Scott and I kept our eyes peeled for any wild animals we could spot, like cactus mice and dogface butterflies.

“Look!” I said. “I found a lizard hole.” The wash was home to a variety of lizards—earless, side-blotched, zebra-tailed—we’d seen them all.

Scott and I had been wandering around the wash for a while when I felt it. A tiny puff of air on my neck, as if someone had come up behind me and softly blown on my skin. Scott must have felt it too, because we both looked up. Dark clouds had moved in without us even noticing. As we gazed skyward, we heard the ominous rumble of thunder.

I looked around at our position and saw it with new eyes. We were at the bottom of a deep, wide wash. So deep we couldn’t just climb up the sides. Somehow we had to make it all the way back to Junior Cupcake and the entrance to the wash. We’d never make it in time.

I thought about the story Granddad had told us just a few hours before. No doubt Scott was thinking of that story too. “What do we do?” he asked, his eyes full of fear.

What did Noah do? “Pray!” I said. I grabbed Scott’s hands. “God, please hold back the rain until we get home.” I looked at Scott. “Now run!”

We raced back the way we came, right down the center of the wash. I was surprised how quickly the rock came into sight up ahead. Is it really possible we got here this fast?

There was no time for questions. The black clouds filled the whole sky above us, covering us in shadow. Any second, I thought, the rain’s going to hammer us.

Instead, the air brightened, and Scott and I looked up. The clouds directly above us had opened. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the circular gap. Around the hole a rainbow formed. Hadn’t God sent a rainbow to Noah when the flood was over? As a sign of his protection?

Rain began to fall. The drops pounded the ground at our feet—but not one drop was hitting us. Scott and I remained completely dry under our rainbow.

Without a word between us, we kept running. The rainbow kept pace. Past the palo verde trees, past the wash entrance, past Junior Cupcake, backtracking on our hike from our grandparents’ house. Not only had we gotten to safe ground far more quickly than I could have guessed, but we’d also run hard and I wasn’t even winded. The clouds were still churning beyond the space above us. The rain was still falling on all sides. But our circular rainbow stayed right above us all the way.

When we hit Grandmother and Granddad’s yard, the hole in the clouds began to close and the rainbow faded away. I felt the first drops on my head just as we reached the door. “We made it!” Scott said. We were home, safe and sound, nearly untouched by the downpour.

It was a story Scott and I would keep to ourselves for a long time, a hard-won lesson for two eager kids who gained a healthy respect for prudence in future explorations. I have seen many rainbows since that day in the desert, and I always send a prayer for whoever is in need of divine protection.

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This Glimpse of Heaven Strengthened Her Faith

Posted on by Charlotte Canion

Our temporary chapel was nothing fancy, just a plain room with a makeshift altar and candles, but kneeling in it late that Friday night, I felt myself in a very holy place.

I was at my church’s annual women’s retreat. This year, for the first time, I’d been assigned to the prayer team. In some ways the job was perfect for me. I’d been praying my whole life. When I was a little girl getting ready for bed, my mother and I always said the same prayer together:

Angel of God, my guardian dear,

to whom God’s love commits

me here,

ever this day be at my side

to light and guard, to rule

and guide.

Amen.

I spent so many evenings gazing out at the golden rays of the sunset reaching into the new azure evening sky, trying to imagine what that angel might look like.

I had no doubt that I could handle the praying, but there was another challenge to being part of the prayer group: no talking. The 10-woman team lived in total silence for two days, isolated from the other 30 retreat attendees in an area we called the desert, praying in two-hour shifts. I’m a talker. I always had wonderful discussions and conversations at the retreat. Going 48 hours without speaking at all would require some real willpower. I’d prayed for God’s help many times in the days leading up to the retreat. Now I just had to trust his support.

I was assigned the 10 P.M. to midnight shift on Friday night. My prayer companion was a woman named Susan, whom I didn’t know. I didn’t recall seeing her at the retreat previously and hadn’t had time to chat with her before our silence commenced. Maybe it’s her first year, I thought. What I really wanted to do was ask her, but I couldn’t speak.

Everyone at the retreat had been given a pad of paper to write prayers on. Over the next two hours, Susan and I read prayer requests submitted by other women and brought to us in the desert by the organizers. I would read a prayer and pass it silently to Susan. When we had both read the prayer, we put it in a basket with other prayers we’d read. Elsewhere, outside the desert, the organizers set up a fountain for people who weren’t comfortable having anyone read their prayers. They could write them down on dissolvable paper and drop them into the water themselves. Susan and I were praying for them too.

With no other channel of communication open to me, my prayers on this night went deeper than I had ever felt them go before. I wondered if Susan was experiencing that too.

Of course, I couldn’t ask, but I glanced over at her. She had her head bowed and appeared to be deep in prayer. She couldn’t see what I saw in that moment: Susan’s guardian angel kneeling beside her on the floor. The figure’s body was transparent, with an overpowering glow. She had large wings that appeared to engulf them both.

Gazing at them, I felt as if I was in a trance, floating on a cloud. Don’t blink, I told myself. It might go away! I lifted my eyes to the ceiling and saw more angels. Angels as far as the eye could see. My heart felt as if it would burst out of my chest with joy. A glimpse of heaven, I thought. For what else could it be? I want to stay here forever!

I blinked.

The euphoric feeling was over in a flash. I closed my eyes again, hoping that when I opened them, I would see them again. But no, I’d returned to the little makeshift chapel. I turned to Susan to tell her what I had seen, but couldn’t. What a time to have taken a vow of silence!

My hand went to my own pad of paper. It was supposed to be for prayers. Would a note to Susan be cheating? I decided that in this case, God would approve. “I saw your guardian angel kneeling beside you,” I wrote. “She seemed to be hugging you.” I passed the note to Susan and returned to my own place. God, I don’t know why you gave me that vision, but I’ll never forget it!

My vow of silence ended on Sunday morning. I chatted happily with other women at breakfast. I didn’t say anything about the angel. That seemed too important for chit chat over eggs and coffee. Susan didn’t say anything either. After eating, the prayer team gathered by a fire pit outside to burn all of the handwritten prayer requests from the weekend. “For our last morning,” the prayer leader said, “I’d like to go around the circle and have everyone share something special that happened to them during the weekend.”

Of course, I knew what my special moment would be when my turn came. I couldn’t wait to share it with the group! Susan was one of the first to speak. “To be honest, I was questioning myself and my faith a lot this weekend. But while I was praying in the chapel on Friday evening with Charlotte I was blessed,” she said. She described the note I’d given her. “I’d been asking God what I was doing here. Why was I on this retreat? And on the prayer team? And then this woman I didn’t even know made it clear that I was right where God wanted me to be.”

God had found a way to answer Susan’s prayer as well as to show me that sometimes silence had its own rewards.

For more angelic stories, subscribe to Angels on Earth magazine.

This Christmas Wreath Became a Source of Divine Comfort and Love

Posted on by Charleen Haw

Fresh evergreen wreaths were piled up near the grocery store exit, taunting me with their scent. I longed to buy one for the front door of our home, the perfect way to put the finishing touch on my holiday decorating. A reminder of that warm, homey feeling I experienced as a kid from the Northwest. I wanted to bring that same feeling to our new, blended family.

I rolled my full cart into the parking lot, once again leaving the wreaths behind. My newlywed husband had suggested that we wait until closer to December 25, when they would go on sale. To him it was just another Christmas decoration. I never told him how much it would mean to me to hang a wreath, because I didn’t want to make a big deal of it.

After all, we’d been married for only a few months and things had gotten off to a bumpy start. He was a widower, with three children, ages 13, 11 and 9. At 45, I was not a young bride, and tying the knot meant leaving behind my life in Connecticut—my home, my church, my friends, my job as a nanny—to move into my new husband’s home in upstate New York. I knew I would miss my comfortable old routine, yet I intended to jump into my new life with both feet. Instead I literally hobbled in, having injured my leg playing racquetball shortly before the wedding. I even spent part of our honeymoon in the emergency room.

Though I was facing a lengthy recovery period from day one, there was little time to rest. I wanted to learn to cook for a family, run a household and adapt to being a stepmom. The children had had four different nannies in four years, ever since they’d lost their mom. Naturally they weren’t exactly overjoyed that their dad had remarried. I understood, but still I felt rejected.

I loaded the last of the grocery bags into the car. God, I could really use a reminder of your great love for me. I’d thought hanging a fresh wreath might bring me that comfort, but that would have to wait for another day.

Back at home I’d nearly finished putting the groceries away when there was a ring at the door. A delivery man stepped forward with a large box. “Merry Christmas,” he said. The return address was from Oregon, where my best friend lived. I tore open the box and found a gorgeous evergreen wreath. Its heavenly smell permeated the room. I rushed back outside to hang it. The rest of the family didn’t make much of a fuss over it, but how could I expect them to know all that was on my mind? Even my best friend had no idea of the gift she had given me.

The next day, as I pulled out of the driveway to take my stepson to school, I glanced at the front door and thanked God for sending me his comfort. “I think our wreath could use a bow,” I told my stepson. When I returned home, I scavenged through the drawers until I uncovered a wide strip of red velvet that I thought might work. I’d never been good at tying a bow, and I was going to be late to my Bible study if I didn’t hurry. The leader of the study group, actually, was quite good at crafts, so I put the ribbon in my purse, sure she could help me.

“This won’t work,” she said when I showed it to her. She demonstrated by tying a bow of the soft velvet—it had no structure. “It needs a wire to hold it in place.” I thanked her anyway, and we started our Bible study.

At the end of the meeting the leader surprised our group with Christmas gift bags. “I made these for you last week,” she said. I eased the tissue paper from mine and tears sprang to my eyes when I saw what was inside: a beautiful gold-and-red Christmas bow!

First the wreath. Now the bow. A bow, of all things! Who had ever gotten a bow as a gift before?

I left my Bible study overwhelmed with God’s love for me. I sat in my car marveling over his assurance that he would take care of me and help me in this new season of my life, as a stepmom and as a new wife. Before I set off, I checked my text messages and found a verse of encouragement from my mom: “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows” (James 1:17). I had more than enough confirmation that God loved me and cared about all aspects of my life.

When I got home I attached my new Christmas bow to the wreath. It was perfect! I emailed a picture to my study group leader so she could see her handiwork. She wrote back, “It seemed an odd idea to make bows for people, but the Holy Spirit kept nudging me to do it!” Of course, I knew why.

That evening my husband came in from work and called to me from the doorway. “The wreath looks great,” he said. “Where did you get that fantastic bow?” I told him the story, and the two of us went to the front of the house to admire it, arm in arm. “You were right,” he said. “It’s just what the house needed for our first Christmas as a family.” And just what I needed to feel God’s comforting presence in our new life.

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This Christmas Goose Kept Them Warm

Posted on by Douglas Scott Clark

This late in December, the cow path near our house in Tennessee was still covered with leaves, but I knew snow would be falling soon enough. My younger brother, Buddy Earl, and I were on an important mission: Go to Uncle Tommie’s place and get a goose. The trek over Little Mountain and back to get there would be worth it. Uncle Tommie raised the best geese around, and he’d offered to give us one for Christmas dinner.

Dark clouds were gathering in the sky above and a cold wind came in from the north. As usual, Buddy Earl lagged behind, striking every pile of leaves with the tobacco stick he carried. “Put a spring in your step,” I called back to him. “I don’t want to be caught out here if it snows.”

Buddy Earl pointed his stick at the sky. “Those aren’t snow clouds,” he declared. “They’ll be cleared out by the wind.”

At 12 years old, I knew how fast weather could change in the Appalachian Mountains of East Tennessee. I was pretty relieved when we topped the crest and saw a column of smoke from Uncle Tommie’s fireplace filtered through the trees.

Thunder rumbled suddenly. Black clouds billowed up from the valley to the west and lightning forked through the sky like a spiderweb.

Uncle Tommie met us at the door with a grim expression. “I ain’t rushing you boys off,” he said, “but the way the wind is picking up, you better get the goose and head for home.”

I didn’t argue. It didn’t take me long to scoop up a goose from the shelter in the yard and tuck him under my arm. Buddy and I said a quick thank you and goodbye. We had what we came for: the best Christmas dinner ever. Even better than a turkey. A light snow started as we began the trek up Little Mountain. The summit was shrouded in a whirling mass of dark clouds and flashes of light.

We didn’t talk for a while. The snow came down harder, blowing every which way. The wind seemed to blow straight through my coat. Halfway to the crest I turned to Buddy Earl.

“I’m as cold as ice. How about you?” he asked.

I stroked the goose’s head. “I wish we had feathers to keep us warm like you,” I said. “Or heavier coats.”

The goose tucked his head closer to his feathered body.

By the time we reached the summit both Buddy Earl and I were in dire straits. We could barely see through the snow swirling around us. Thunder crashed and flashes of lightning made the trees appear as giant monsters reaching out with gnarled fingers.

“Doug, I’m freezing,” Buddy Earl said. I could barely hear him over the wind and my own chattering teeth. “I think we should go back.”

The idea was tempting, but we were closer to home than to Uncle Tommie’s house. We had to push on. I was so cold, my legs getting so stiff, I honestly wondered if we would make it.

I knew it was time to get God involved. I kept my praying to myself so Buddy Earl wouldn’t know just how scared I was, but I prayed with all my heart. Lord, we need help. I don’t know if I can get home. The snow I can handle, but this cold is too much! Could you maybe just make things a little warmer for Buddy and me? I clutched Uncle Tommie’s goose closer to my chest. That bird was the only thing warm about me.

I stepped in front of my brother. “Buddy, open your coat!”

““Are you crazy?” he asked. “I’ll lose what little warmth I have.” When he saw I was serious he slowly unzipped his coat and opened it. “I hope you know what you are doing,” he whispered.

I placed the warm goose inside his coat and zipped it back up. “Make sure you keep the goose’s head out so he can breathe.”

Buddy Earl sighed happily. My plan was working.

On the descent down the mountain toward home I started to shiver. Buddy Earl touched my shoulder. “Doug, it is time for you to open your coat.”

He passed the goose to me. His feathered body was as warm as angel feathers inside my coat. For a long moment I just stood, warming my freezing hands on his body. We passed the goose back and forth between us all the way down. He didn’t complain about it either. Not a single honk.

At the foot of the mountain, we left the wind and whirring snow behind. We stepped up on our front porch, where my mother met us with open arms. “Don’t squeeze too hard,” I said when she gave me a hug. “I have the goose inside my coat.”

Settled in front of the warm stove, we explained how the goose had kept us from freezing. “We can’t have him for dinner,” Buddy Earl and I agreed. This goose might have saved our lives. We had to save his!

“I don’t know what we’re going to have for dinner,” Mama said. “But I couldn’t eat him either.”

I don’t remember what we ate. I just know it wasn’t goose. Charley, as we named him, lived out his life piddling around the yard and pond, bossing around the chickens we kept for eggs. Daddy even bought a couple more geese to keep Charley company. A life as the most important bird this side of Little Mountain was fitting for our hero and the answer to my prayer.

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This Christmas Angel Became a Source of Peace and Comfort

Posted on by Colette Dywasuk

On January 6, 2020, as always, I carefully lifted the Nativity angel from the nail at the peak of the wooden stable and held her in my hands. Just as my parents and grandparents had done before me, I waited for this day to take down the crèche. Today was the feast of the Three Kings, or Epiphany, which commemorates the Magi’s visit to the newborn Jesus. They came bearing gifts, and while I wrapped and boxed each Nativity piece for the next year, I thought about the many gifts given throughout the Christmas story. The angel was first. As I took special care to protect her wings for storage, I recalled the angel’s annunciation to the shepherds and the heavenly host who joined in to proclaim “peace on earth.” On an unforgettable Three Kings Day, nearly 40 years ago, I had learned that the angels’ promise held a very personal gift for me.

Those many years ago, the ringing phone jolted me from a sound sleep. Who could be calling in the middle of the night? I shook my husband, Jerry, beside me. “Honey, the phone.” He rolled over and reached for the receiver on his bedside table.

“Hello?” he mumbled.

I looked at the clock on my side: 3:56 A.M., Thursday, January 6. The feast of the Three Kings, I thought automatically. We would take down the Christmas tree in the living room, put away the crèche for next year. A busy day ahead.

I turned back to Jerry, sitting upright, his free hand switching on the light. “When?” he said into the phone.

His tone frightened me. “What’s wrong?” The children were my first thought. Our daughters, Cheryl, 19, and Janette, 13, were here at home, asleep. Jerry Jr., 21, was a senior at Michigan State University. Jeffrey, 20, was a junior at the University of Michigan. Both had gone back to school two days before. “Is it one of the boys?”

Jerry raised his hand to quiet me. “We’ll be there as fast as we can,” he said. “It will take about an hour and a half, depending on the weather.” He hung up the phone and turned to me, his face grave. “It’s Jeffrey. That was an ER nurse at the University of Michigan Hospital. He’s unconscious. Jeff was complaining of a terrible headache and then passed out. A friend called an ambulance. That’s all they know.”

I jumped out of bed and pulled on some clothes. Jerry did the same. We wrote a note for the girls, in case they woke up before we got back.

In the car, Jerry and I barely spoke. The roads from our home north of Detroit to the hospital in Ann Arbor were snow-covered and slippery, and the drive was taking longer than we thought. Jerry gripped the steering wheel so tightly I could see the white of his knuckles. His face pale, lined with worry, never turned from the road ahead. I could feel his fear and that scared me all the more. Jerry was the optimist, a voice of assurance I depended on. His silence over the last hour and a half spoke volumes. The thought of losing Jeffrey was too much for either of us to bear. A parent’s worst nightmare. How would we ever handle it if that was what was to be?

As we neared the hospital, I hugged myself, desperately seeking comfort. The drive had been agonizing in our state of unknowing, yet I dreaded the answers that might await us in the next few minutes. I prayed aloud now, “Dear Lord, let Jeffrey be all right.”

Out of nowhere, a sense of peace washed over me. A flood of warmth held me, soothed me, until my fear was completely lifted from me, and peace filled its space. I felt an incredible assurance that God was in charge, just as he was that night Jesus was born. The feeling was as wondrous as it was inexplicable. I looked at Jerry, speechless. This is what the angels meant when they proclaimed, “Peace on earth,” I thought. A peace that passes all understanding. The moment I gave myself over completely to it, I felt Jeffrey’s presence. In my mind’s eye, I was aware of the being who accompanied my son, a being surrounded by a glorious radiance of pure white light. An angel. And then a voice: “Everything is going to be all right.” I believed it with all my heart. I wanted to mark the experience in time, and checked the clock on the dash: 6:03 A.M.

The whole world seemed different now. For me. But I looked at Jerry. I knew he was still in the depths of the pain we’d been living in since we’d left the house. I had to tell him. I had to try to make him understand, to feel what I had felt.

“Honey,” I whispered, “I just had the most incredible experience.” I described it in detail, the best I could. I could see that Jerry was hanging on every word. When I finished, he slowed the car and turned to look at me for the first time since we’d started out. “I just had the exact same experience,” he said. “As if Jeffrey was right here with us.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. At least we had shared that comfort. Maybe Jerry would be able to accept what I was about to tell him next. Something I found even harder to put into words. “I think it’s possible that Jeffrey won’t make it,” I said. “But he isn’t alone. God is with him.”

“I know,” Jerry said. “That’s what I understood too.”

God’s loving comfort had embraced us both, and that was how we handled what was to be. Our son had suffered a cerebral brain hemorrhage. The doctors at the hospital hadn’t been able to save him. Jeffrey had died peacefully at 6:03 A.M.

That year, my sisters took down the tree and the crèche for us while we made funeral arrangements. But in the years since, when I wrap the angel in newspaper and return her to the storage box for another Christmas season, I hold tight to her gift of peace. I can feel peace on this earth while I await a reunion with our son in heaven. January 6 remains one of my favorite days of the Christmas calendar, a day for remembering all our many gifts as precious as those of the Magi to baby Jesus.

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This Cardinal Reminded Her That Angels Were Nearby

Posted on by Francine Billingslea

Cardinals seemed to love my backyard. I watched them cavort one sunny morning as I sat on the patio with my coffee. “Cardinals appear when angels are near,” my friend was fond of saying. She knew I believed in angels. I started each day with Psalm 91, “For he will give his angels charge over thee.” It had been a habit since grade school, and now with a daughter in law enforcement and four grandchildren in the military, the psalm was never far from my lips.

I sat quietly for a moment, meditating on my prayer, when a cardinal suddenly whizzed by my head. I’d never seen one come so close! The strange little bird flew around me again and again. “Hey!” I said, waving my hand when it got a little too close. The bird landed right by my feet and sat there staring right at me for a long moment before flying off again.

That was strange, I thought, but it was time for me to tackle some chores. First up, I was overdue for a trip to Goodwill. I’d accumulated several big plastic garbage bags of bedding and clothes I knew could be of use. While I dropped them off, my husband, Wilson, could go up to the storage attic in the garage, where we kept the decorative trees for the patio. They made my cardinal-watching this time of year all the more enjoyable.

On my way through the house to the door that led to the garage, I found Wilson fast asleep in front of the blaring TV. I decided not to wake him. His back had been troubling him and he needed his rest. I can get those trees myself, I thought, half-closing the door behind me so as not to disturb him. I’d surprise him with my can-do spirit.

I moved some of his tools out of the way to reach the metal ladder that leaned against the wall near my Goodwill bags. I had to get them out of here. “Don’t get distracted, Frannie,” I told myself. “First the trees, then the bags.” They weren’t in my way. The floor area under the attic was completely clear for me to set up the ladder. One thing at a time.

I dragged the ladder across the concrete floor and spread it open. Halfway up the rungs, I glanced back at the bags for Goodwill. None of them were anywhere near enough to interfere, but what a mess. I continued my climb, and two steps from the top I was able to push open the hatch.

As I did, I looked down. This is a lot higher up than I expected.

I stepped up to the very top of the ladder, pushing my upper body into the attic. With my hands on the attic floor, I looked around and spotted the trees I needed. I raised one leg to climb into the attic and froze. I wasn’t sure how to lift myself inside.

Maybe I should wait for Wilson after all, I thought. No surprise was worth a bad fall. I lowered my foot back down a rung—and missed the step completely. The ladder shook beneath me. I tried to steady myself with my hands flat on the attic floor, one foot on the shaky ladder, the other swinging in the air. “Wilson!” I called. Of course, he didn’t hear me, asleep in front of the blaring TV with the door half closed.

My foot found the ladder rung again. Now I just had to step down…

The ladder toppled right out from under me and clattered hard on the concrete floor. I dangled, losing my grip. Oh, God, give me wings! I thought. My hands slipped. I was going to fall! “He will give his angels charge…”

Before I could finish my prayer, I landed on something soft. The Goodwill bags had cushioned my whole body except for my left foot. “Frannie?” Wilson called from the house. “What was that?” I heard him come running.

Instead of going to Goodwill, we took a trip to the hospital. My foot was broken, and I needed surgery to fix it, but otherwise I was fine. I told Wilson the whole story. “The ladder just came out from under me,” I tried to explain.

“Did you lock it?” he wanted to know.

“I didn’t know I had to!”

“I don’t understand why you didn’t fall straight down onto the concrete floor,” he said. “It doesn’t make sense that your body found a cushion.”

“The Lord gave his angels charge over me.”

“Yes, he did,” Wilson said. “He sure did.”

I remembered that bold little cardinal who’d made itself known that morning. Angels had been nearer than I ever realized. And I would enjoy them during my recovery, on my patio with the decorative trees.

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This Businessman Followed God’s Will for His Life

Posted on by Gerald Rainey

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as the worship team played their first song. This was our pastor’s last Sunday. He was taking an exciting new position as regional director of the denomination. I was happy for him, but his move had me thinking even more about my own career. What was God’s plan for my life? For Pastor Gary, the road ahead seemed crystal clear. Why couldn’t it be like that for me?

For nine months now I’d been wrestling with making a career change. The idea was to work with my wife, Rikki, in her small company, where she served as a court-appointed fiduciary for vulnerable clients, managing their legal, financial and medical decisions. I’d even talked to Pastor Gary about my struggle. “Sounds like we’re both moving into uncharted waters,” he’d told me. “Just follow God’s direction.”

The difference was, his promotion came with a pay increase. I was most likely looking at a major pay cut, possibly to zero. I’d be giving up a job as the chief financial officer of a large credit union, which came with a good salary and health benefits, and walking away from a firmly established 25-year career. I prayed every day for direction but heard nothing in return.

Now, in church with my wife beside me, the worship team continued to play as I fought to pay attention. I put my head in my hands. Depend on me for everything. I heard the words clearly and immediately looked up. Where had that come from?

I glanced at Rikki. Her head was bowed. “Rikki,” I whispered as I nudged her. “I think God just spoke to me. He told me to depend on him.”

Rikki nodded. “Sounds as if you need to make a decision.”

We’d been all over it together. I wasn’t usually indecisive. I was a numbers guy. I made decisions based on facts—return on investment, data, trend lines. My goal was to minimize the element of risk. Maybe that meant staying where I was. I’d seen plenty of businesses fail, and God wasn’t always there to pick up the pieces. How could I be sure I wasn’t throwing away my family’s future and a successful career for nothing?

Up on the stage, Pastor Gary read from Deuteronomy: “And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart.” Do that, he said, and everything will fall into place. “If only it were that simple,” I whispered to Rikki. My heart was in this, but my feet didn’t seem to know how to take a step forward. I just couldn’t make the leap.

On the way home from church we talked about how the whole thing had started. Rikki had been telling me about a client of hers, an elderly woman named Lucille Anderson. Before Rikki took her case, Lucille had lost thousands of dollars, a situation that could have been avoided with some sound financial planning. “I could help someone like Lucille,” I said again, still trying to convince myself. “Budgeting, expense analysis, investments—that’s what I do. I could make a real difference.”

It was hard to see how the work I did at the credit union benefited specific individuals. The job was more about ensuring the financial health of the credit union. With me focused on the clients’ financial affairs, Rikki would be freed up to concentrate on their medical, housing and health issues. Lucille’s name had come up frequently in our conversations as a real-life example of how I could be effective in this proposed new business venture.

For the rest of the day I thought about what I’d heard in church. Why couldn’t I have the faith of Pastor Gary? Why was it so hard for me to believe that I could depend on God for everything? My stomach was in knots. By 8 p.m. the cramps were so severe that Rikki rushed me to the ER. Doctors couldn’t find the problem. Pain medication gave me no relief. I was in agony.

At 2 a.m. I was still in the ER, curtains drawn around my bed. Rikki was asleep in a chair, but I couldn’t even sleep. A doctor came in to review my chart. “Your symptoms point to a bowel obstruction,” he said, “but it’s not showing up in the tests.”

A nurse poked her head around the curtain. “Doctor, Lucille is ready to be discharged to West Valley if you can sign off on her chart,” she said, and mentioned the name of an assisted-living facility I’d heard Rikki talking about.

“Is that Lucille Anderson, by any chance?” I asked.

Rikki opened her eyes. “What about Lucille?” she said groggily.

The doctor looked surprised. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“If it’s Lucille Anderson, you can tell me,” Rikki said. “I’m her guardian.”

The doctor flipped through the chart. “Well, yes, I see that you are.” Then he pointed to the curtain. “Lucille is in the next bed.”

The doctor led Rikki to her. I lay back on the bed, stunned. The next bed? Only God could have arranged for the very woman who had sparked my interest in making a career change to be just feet away in my hour of need. What were the odds? I imagined a team of angels seeing to every detail and orchestrating the meeting. Now they would be dancing, clapping and laughing with the Lord. The message couldn’t have been clearer, and as soon as I embraced it, my stomach pain disappeared.

Lucille and I were both discharged that day. Rikki followed up with Lucille, and I drafted a letter of resignation to the credit union’s CEO. When I’d finished there wasn’t a twinge of fear or regret.

At first it wasn’t always easy financially, but we had savings to help and found ways to trim expenses. I focused on the warmth and satisfaction I got from working one-on-one with vulnerable clients, and from working in tandem with my wife. In time our business grew. I knew that God had me exactly where he wanted me.

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This Bayou Angel Gave Her Strength and Courage

Posted on by Sarah Kate Chapman

Spanish moss whispered in the breeze as I sat cross-legged on our dock in Sarasota, Florida. I was in the middle of an acrimonious divorce and had come outside to the bayou to find some peace of mind. I didn’t know what would come next for me. The ongoing uncertainty had sapped any hope that things would get better.

Above me, the sky turned from pale blue to gray. I tried to draw strength from the beauty around me: the rounded sea grape leaves, pointy cabbage palm fronds and Australian pines. I scanned the water for herons. The surface was still, with a murky reflection of the clouds above. My peaceful bayou, I thought. I had to enjoy it while I could. I wouldn’t be able to stay here for much longer.

I didn’t know how I would find the strength to move on. Even standing up off the dock required too much effort for me right now. Tired and hopeless, I closed my eyes, tilted my head to the sky. I raised my arms, palms up high to the heavens. Dear God, Jesus, Mary, I prayed. I’d need strength and courage to build a new life and right now, even raising my arms was difficult. Help me.

My arms lifted effortlessly higher, as if invisible cords were pulling them closer to the sky. I was a trained aerialist who spent years with the circus, and the feeling was one I recognized. Like when I stood on my trapeze bar fully confident that I wouldn’t fall. But I had no confidence now.

A fluffy cloud floated above me. It was backlit by bright yellow rays. From behind the cloud, an angel descended. Dressed in a billowy white garment, she hovered before me. She touched her fingertips lightly to mine, my hands high in the air.

“You have strength and courage,” she said clearly. With that, she disappeared again behind the cloud.

I didn’t move. The tips of my fingers, where the angel had touched me, grew warm. The heat seeped down into my hands and moved through my arms, chest, midsection, and finally to my legs folded beneath me. The angel’s healing message reached me deeply. My arms felt light, and I lowered them, wrapping them around myself to make sure they were still part of my body.

The evening breeze silently slid through the oak trees again, rippling long, curly strands of moss. I stood up from the dock and looked back once more at the sky, where the evening star sparkled. I would leave my bayou with the reassurance that I had all the strength I needed for whatever came next. I’d reached up, and God showed me he was near enough to hold onto.

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This Artist Was Inspired by Her Famous Ancestor

Posted on by Deborah Lanino

Now that I was teaching my visual arts classes remotely instead of in person, I was spending a lot more time in my studio. I missed the classroom setting, with all those budding young artists working toward their dreams right under one roof. But I also found new inspiration, surrounded by the stacks of old sketchbooks I’d kept stored in my studio. Sketchbooks going back to when I was a young art student myself. They were full of ideas for paintings I wanted to create someday—far too many to complete in one lifetime. Between classes one day, I picked up a sketchbook at random and looked at the date I’d written on its cover: 1985.

Being an artist had been my dream since I was old enough to hold a crayon. My family had always encouraged my passion. In fact, my grandfather, who was born in Bologna, Italy, proudly revealed that I was descended from a Renaissance painter named Bernardino Lanino. In some ways 1985 was the year I came into my own as an artist. As a junior studying fine art at the Pratt Institute in New York, I spent a semester abroad that year, in Florence, Italy.

Beyond art history circles, Bernardino wasn’t very well known in the United States. But he was a popular artist in Italy. So when there was a large exhibition commemorating 400 years of the painter’s death, my art history teacher asked me if there was a family connection. “The exhibit is in Vercelli, north of Florence,” she said. “You really shouldn’t miss it.”

I didn’t. I took the train to Vercelli, and even now, as I opened the trusty sketchbook I’d carried there with me, I could still picture the rice fields of the Italian countryside speeding by outside my window seat. I was 21, filled with excitement and armed with a blank sketch pad I’d devote to my ancestor’s work.

At the exhibit, I learned details of Bernardino’s life beyond any my grandfather had relayed. Bernardino Lanino (also called Lanini) was an artist in the Leonardo da Vinci tradition, and he was said to have come from a family of artists and musicians. Bernardino’s own three sons became artists as well, creating a Lanino dynasty.

My sketchbook was filled with dozens of drawings and notes I’d made that day. As I flipped through the pages, I recalled the ethereal glow that seemed to fill the room where his paintings had hung floor to ceiling.

Deborah’s “Three Musician Angels”

Like many artists of his day, Bernardino focused on religious themes. The Madonna and child. Christ on the Cross. Heaven. But in person I could look closely at his work and see his personal touches. Bernardino was fond of adding angelic “putti” on his canvases. (The singular of the word is “putto.”) A bit larger than the cherubs most people are familiar with, putti look similar to chubby toddlers with their angel wings and tousled hair. The figures turned up all over his work, kneeling in the manger, floating up in the clouds, peeking out from every corner of the canvas, often sitting with little dogs—another favorite detail. The putti played harps, cellos and lutes, much like the musicians in Bernardino’s family. I’d tried to capture the putti’s joy in the examples I’d copied into my sketchbook.

Bernardino worked in the sfumato style, a technique da Vinci favored. The word sfumato in Italian means “evaporated” or “vanished.” Fascinated by the way light fell on curved surfaces, da Vinci blended his colors to erase the borders between them. His brush strokes were so subtle that they were invisible on the canvas. Bernardino took this technique to a whole new level, blurring the shades of his brush strokes like mist. I used that very technique myself. Perhaps the style—like art itself—was in my DNA, a gift from the Lanino dynasty!

By the time I’d turned the final page of my old sketchbook, a new idea had formed in my mind. I would begin a new series, “Bernardino Reimagined.” I already knew what the first painting would be: a joyful little angel putto playing the cello, inspired by one of the frescoes I had copied that day in 1985.

I got to work right away, covering the canvas with cerulean, cobalt and ultramarine blues, then contrasted them with colored cadmium pigments of yellow and orange. The same colors I found in nature outside my California studio. My students loved the idea, and it was a teaching moment about inspiration finding us where we are. I blended the colors with misty brushwork, creating cool, ethereal textures reminiscent of the old frescoes. With a bridge to the past, my abstract shapes set my paintings firmly in the contemporary world.

Was it luck that my dreams of being an artist had put me in just the right time and place to see Bernardino’s work in person? Or that, years later, I’d be teaching from my studio where a new inspiration was unearthed? Perhaps Bernardino’s putti were watching over me, continuing to shape me into the artist I am today.

View more of Deborah’s work.

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They Took Direct Flights to Heaven

Posted on by Rick Hamlin

You probably have someone like Edgar at your church. That beloved member who always shows up, knows every hymn by heart, greets you at coffee hour with a radiant smile, always wishing you the best. When our kids were young, he’d slap their outstretched hands with a high five. “There’s my boy,” he’d say. If my wife, Carol, and I tried to explain what God’s goodness was like to our sons, we could point to Edgar, a walking example, a real angel.

His presence was especially welcome in our family because my parents, the kids’ doting grandparents, lived in California, thousands of miles away from us in New York. They were good about visiting once a year and sending presents for special occasions, but Edgar was always there in the flesh for our sons. At church every Sunday. Ready to give a hug. To applaud them in the Christmas pageant, to hear them sing in choir, to celebrate their Sunday school graduations. Their surrogate granddad.

Edgar had immigrated to New York from Barbados back in the 1950s, working first at Horn & Hardart, the legendary New York City automat, where you could put your coin in a vending machine and take out your sandwich, salad and dessert. Lunch on the go, like magic.

He showed up at St. Michael’s—named for the archangel—in the 1960s and soon made himself invaluable, serving on the board and then becoming the sexton and all-around handyman, painter and carpenter. He once described the challenge of painting our Chapel of the Angels—the place where Carol and I were wed—and how he had to work around the mosaics and Tiffany stained glass. I like to think that the prayers made in that space have soaked into the walls, Edgar’s own handiwork providing a base coat.

We grew older and Edgar did too. He must have been in his nineties when I visited him in the hospital after he’d rallied from surgery. We sang a hymn together, me at his bedside. I had to refer to the hymnal. He knew every word, even then. Of course. A couple years later, when I was struck down by some mysterious infection, who should show up at my hospital bedside? Edgar, of course.

The time was nearing when our church would celebrate his hundredth birthday, a milestone for the whole congregation. His daughter Millie came down from Upstate New York, and was joined by Edgar’s grandchildren, great-grandchildren and a few great-great-grandchildren. After the service we had a big cake for him and shared our favorite Edgar stories.

I recalled a men’s dinner a couple years earlier when we sang some rollicking spirituals, including one of my favorites, “Shall We Gather at the River.” Edgar started chuckling at the music. He said it reminded him of when he was a kid back in the Islands and a visiting evangelist urged everyone in town to give up their wine, beer or liquor.

“He took us down to the water to dump out the contents of any bottles we had,” he said, “and led us in song.” The song? “Shall We Gather at the River.” I can assure you the story added to the evening’s merriment. Edgar might have needed a walker by that time, but nothing could slow his good humor and style.

Edgar’s family planned a second, smaller celebration of his birthday with a fancy dinner at a Harlem restaurant on a Saturday night. Carol and I couldn’t wait to go. Alas, our life took a different turn.

Monday that week my 93-year-old mom in California landed in the hospital with a case of pneumonia and a rapidly beating heart. I flew out on Tuesday. She seemed in good spirits when I got there, restless and uncomfortable but quick to brag to the hospital staff: “The last time I was a patient here was when I had my last child.” Some 62 years earlier.

She’d always been so healthy and vibrant it was hard to imagine that this wouldn’t be something she’d get over. The doctors would fix her up and she’d go back home. But I couldn’t help recalling the prayer I’d been saying for her for two or three years now and had even told her about. “Mom,” I’d said, “when the time comes—and none of us hope it will come anytime soon—my prayer for you is that you get a direct flight.”

“A direct flight,” she said, thinking it over. “Yes, I like that.”

On Thursday two ministers from her church showed up at the hospital with all of us kids gathered around her bedside. One of the ministers asked her what her favorite Bible passage was. “The one about the eagle’s wings,” she said. He read the whole chapter from Isaiah, and then Mom turned to me and quietly said, “I’m going to the Lord’s house soon.” Those words took my breath away. Soon. Sooner than any of us could expect.

That night, when all of us had gone home, she died.

I called Millie in the morning, explaining why I wouldn’t be able to make Edgar’s big party. She offered her sympathy, and I told her about my prayer for Mom. That answered prayer. The direct flight.

Sunday morning, after going to church in California, I got a message from Millie, asking me to call. How sweet, I thought. She probably wants to tell me about the birthday party.

“Hi, Millie,” I said, getting her on the phone. “How’d it go?” She described the fun at the restaurant, how her dad had gotten up from the table, hardly needing his walker, and played the piano, singing and dancing, with everybody clapping, shouting, “Go, Edgar!” His church friends, his family. And then, at the evening’s end, he collapsed and couldn’t be revived.

“He died right there,” Millie said. “At the end of his party.”

I paused in disbelief. Mom, Edgar. Gone from this world. Gone in a flash. “I’m so sorry,” I said, offering all my sympathy. Millie was quick to remind me of my prayer. “It was a direct flight for both of them,” she said. “First Class tickets.” I could just imagine them on their angels’ flights, and there was much peace for us in that.

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The Wedding Planner

Posted on by Lois Tucker

Wedding guests filed into the church. I gave each bridesmaid her bouquet and reminded her to walk very slowly up the aisle. I adjusted the groomsmen’s boutonnieres. Straightened the bridal veil. Time to signal the organist. The wedding march began. Butterflies filled my stomach.

Was this my wedding? Not exactly. My husband, Terry, and I have been married for almost 40 years, but I remember our wedding like it was yesterday. These days I do my best to help make the day memorable for other young brides.

I’m a wedding-day director. I can work with a bride for a whole year–picking out fabric and color schemes, altering dresses, crafting decorations. When the big day arrives, it feels like my day, too. Sometimes I wonder how I ever could have done anything else. But I did. For years.

My first “career” was stay-at-home mom. I don’t have to tell anybody what a busy life that is. I raised three children. If I wasn’t driving a carpool, helping with homework or making arts and crafts, I was baking for the school bazaar.

Then when my youngest started school, and the older kids were getting ready to go out on their own, I realized I needed something else to do with my life. I just didn’t know what.

I filled out a job application at my bank, but I was nervous.

“What if the boss asks me a question and I answer in baby talk?” I asked Terry. “And I don’t know if I can handle the pressure.”

Terry laughed. “You’ve been juggling a packed schedule for 18 years. I’m sure you can handle what goes on in an office.”

I wasn’t so sure, but I guessed it wouldn’t hurt to try. To my surprise, I got the job–and I didn’t slip into baby talk once during the interview. In fact, I enjoyed my new position.

“It’s like discovering you can be a whole new person,” I told Terry after my first week on the job.

Like any job, it came with stress. But I knew the perfect way to unwind: crafts.

Both my mother and grandmother had been good with a needle and thread. Together they’d taught me to sew, knit, cross-stitch, and make rag rugs. I’d also learned how to embellish things with ribbons and do embroidery.

I spent a lot of time in the crafts store getting ideas. After a day at the bank I’d kick back in a chair with my sewing basket.

I loved to get a real project going. Like when someone in the family got married, I did the alterations and helped organize the wedding day. More often I just gave things away to my friends and coworkers.

“You were worried you couldn’t handle the job,” Terry said one evening as he watched me finishing up some embroidering on a handkerchief. I thought my supervisor might like it. “But you’ve really thrived in the professional world.”

“How do you do it?” my boss asked the next morning when I presented her with the handkerchief. She examined the tiny stitches. “It’s so much work!”

“Work? Not exactly,” I said. It was hard to explain to someone who didn’t understand, but this kind of sewing wasn’t like work at all. It was fun! More fun than my 9-to-5 job was feeling these days. Oh, I could handle the work. But when my 50th birthday hit it felt like a wake-up call.

Once again I needed to make a change. My son, Rob, was engaged and I wanted to enjoy that exciting time with him.

Sitting at my desk at the bank, I found myself thinking about the wedding. I had always told the kids: “Find something you love to do, and you’ll be happy.” The bank was no longer the place to make me happy. But where did I belong?

I handed in my resignation. I’d figure out my next step later. On my last day I packed up my desk, wondering about my next move. “Lord, help find a new place for me,” I said as I closed my office door for the last time.

“Maybe you could sell the things you make,” Terry suggested when I got home. “Start yourself a business.”

I didn’t know about that. I had once or twice hired myself out to do professional alterations. Everyone needed everything right away, and I’d have to rush through my work. Besides, sewing for money wasn’t anywhere near as satisfying as making something for someone I knew personally.

I concentrated on my son and his fiancée. With all the sewing and wedding plans to take my mind off things, I hoped I would figure out what I wanted to do with my life.

I did alterations on the bridal gown and helped Stacy, Rob’s fiancée, plan the big day. Stacy and I visited dress shops and poured over fabrics. We went to bridal boutiques and florists and bakeries. I got to know the bridesmaids, talking with them and laughing as I fitted them for their dresses.

“Just leave everything to me,” I told Stacy. “I’ll make sure everything is in place and get you where you need to go. Your only job is to have a good time.”

I had Stacy on track, but I still didn’t know what I should do with my life once the wedding was over. “God,” I said one night as I embroidered a jewelry pouch for Stacy to take on her honeymoon, “I need to know what you think is best for me.

“Please give me a sign–and be sure to turn on the light when you do. With all these wedding details to handle, I’m afraid I’ll miss it!”

A few days later Rob came for a visit and found me surrounded in fabric and thread. “I don’t know what we’d do without you,” Rob said, amazed at all the work. “I tell everyone–Mom quit her job to help plan my wedding!”

I took a pin out of my mouth. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “I didn’t leave the bank to–” I stopped short. A light switched on in my head. This didn’t have to be the last wedding I helped with. It could be the first, as a bride’s wedding-day planner. I’d found my new life!

I did 50 weddings last year alone, with Stacy’s help. I make alterations on all the dresses and embroider smaller items like hankies and travel pouches. My girls always look like angels. I schedule the wedding day to make it fun for the bride and handle any problems that crop up.

I don’t need to advertise. If a bride liked my work, she told her friends.

One day my favorite crafts store had a special item on sale–an embroidered angel. She was as pretty as my brides. The owner graciously showed me how to make the angel myself.

I embroider about 150 of them every year and I give an angel to every bride I work with. It’s my way of saying thank you, not just to them, but to the angel who nudged me into my next career.

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The Vacation Disaster That Renewed Her Faith

Posted on by Kathy Burgess

We were only 48 hours into our family’s three-week road trip when the car broke down.

White smoke billowed from the engine. The dashboard warning lights went on. “Where did all this come from?” my husband, Gareth, said. He pulled off at the next exit. I glanced at our sons in the back seat. Colin, seven, and Aidan, five, looked disappointed. We were in Michigan, in the middle of nowhere, on our way to Mackinaw Island. From there we planned to visit the Badlands of South Dakota and Mount Rushmore, then Yellowstone, Grand Teton, and Glacier National Parks. It would be a grand tour! But so far, the kids hadn’t seen anything but the road, and our Honda Odyssey didn’t seem up for the adventure. Maybe I wasn’t either.

Life had been rough lately. My best friend had died of breast cancer. We’d been roommates in nursing school. I knew cancer patients who survived, and I was angry at God that she wasn’t one of them. A few months later Gareth lost his job. I took on more hours at work to compensate for our loss of income. When Gareth filled in as an independent contractor, he had to travel for weeks at a time. Colin and Aidan missed him tremendously, and I was stretched thin. Then our two beloved boxers died within weeks of each other. I wasn’t sure our family could withstand more heartbreak.

“That’s it,” I announced one day. “We need some good family time. We are taking a road trip.”

Of course, I didn’t intend for our car to break down after two days. AAA towed our car to the nearest mechanic shop with all of us crammed in the tow truck’s cab. The boys jumped out and needed to run off some energy. I spotted a playground at the fast-food restaurant next door. “I’ll take them there for a diversion,” I told Gareth. “I’ll talk with the mechanic,” he said. Walking the boys to the playground, I rubbed at a twinge in my neck. It was just one of the many aggravations I’d become accustomed to. Joint pain, fatigue, difficulty concentrating, heart palpitations— physical therapy wasn’t helping me with any of it. After a steady stream of appointments, blood work, X-rays, and medications, my doctor asked to have a sit down with me. “Kathy, have you ever talked with anyone about depression?” she asked.

Depression? Me? “I’ve just been dealing with a lot right now,” I told her. “Things will get back to normal.” She handed me a sheet of paper with a checklist on it. “I want you to fill this out. Be honest with your answers and bring it back on your next appointment.” When I got home, I shoved the checklist into a drawer. I’m fine, I thought. I could fix this myself. The next day I’d announced the family trip.

I watched Colin and Aidan run around the playground, jumping and laughing. One of the employees came out. She paused to watch the boys and was amused by their antics. Her laugh was hearty and eager as if she too wanted to crawl through those tunnels and ride down the slide. “Are they twins?” she asked. “No, they’re two years apart,” I said. “But we get that question a lot.”

She came over and sat with me at the outdoor table. Her name was Angie. She got me talking about my work as a nurse and mentioned that her mother had recently died of complications from diabetes. We shared stories while the boys played. As time passed, I thought it was odd that no one else entered the playground. None of Angie’s coworkers came out to find her or take a break. It was as if we were in our own world together at that table. Then the conversation shifted.

“Kathy, can I ask you a question?” she said. “Have you ever been really mad about someone dying?”

What a question! Did she know the feeling herself? “Yes, I have,” I said.

“Me too,” she said. “After Momma died, I was so angry. I yelled at everyone. And then I got an awful pain in my neck.” She touched the exact spot on her neck where the pain was in mine. “My doctor finally gave me this checklist,” she continued, “to see if I was depressed.” Is this for real? I thought. “I didn’t want to fill it out, but I did it anyway,” Angie said. “And once my doctor knew what was wrong, I was able to get real help. Thankfully, I’m not so angry anymore.”

I cried telling Angie about my best friend. It felt good to get it all out, especially with someone who understood perfectly. Gareth interrupted our heart-to-heart to tell us the car was ready. I hugged Angie goodbye. “Thank you for being so open with me,” I said. I’d fill out that checklist the minute I got home and find the help I needed. If Angie could do it, so could I.

“You take care,” Angie said, holding me tight. Walking back to the mechanic shop, I asked Gareth what had been wrong with the car. “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “The mechanic checked everything and couldn’t find any problem whatsoever. He couldn’t explain it.” Maybe I could.

I glanced back at the playground, where I’d just received the very message I needed to hear. With renewed hope, I got back in the car, ready for a family adventure.