Excerpted from the introduction of Proof of Angels.

One of the biggest events in my years as editor of Angels on Earth magazine came in the summer of 1999, when an applicant for a position that had opened at Guideposts and Angels on Earth came in for an interview. Angels and Guideposts are in the same offices. Edward Grinnan, the editor in chief of Guideposts, thought it would be a good idea if I took a look at the potential hire.

As we talked—me explaining what Guideposts and Angels were about, and Ptolemy telling me about his interests and work up to that point in his life—I noticed that his eye kept traveling to my bookshelves. My office had a lot of shelf space, much of it taken up with books on angels, but plenty of it empty.

It wasn’t long before I was going over to Ptolemy’s office and giving him stories to work on. At our offices someone is always on the phone, talking to the narrator of a story, asking questions, and making suggestions for how to shape and structure it. I soon got used to hearing Ptolemy’s voice in his office doing just that.

At first Ptolemy worked on the usual Angels story—a first-person narrative that the editor works to create with the person who has had an angelic experience. But before too long, he branched out.

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He started producing what we call “thought pieces” for me: articles that would take a subject that at first glance seemed to have little to do with angels, and show how this wasn’t the case at all. I loved these articles, and began to feature them as cover stories every other issue.

From seeds to seashells to birds to stars, wherever Ptolemy turned his gaze he seemed to find connections with angels. The shelves of his office overflowed with books, and I realized what he must have been thinking that day we met in my office: Why aren’t all of her shelves completely full?

In 2007 Ptolemy left Guideposts and Angels to work on a book called The Divine Life of Animals, the idea for which had come from an article he’d written for Guideposts about animals and the afterlife. The article turned out to be one of the most popular in the magazine’s history, and Ptolemy spent the next year developing and enlarging the idea.

Today, Ptolemy and I are married. Though he no longer works in our offices, in a way not much has changed. He still has too many books on his shelves downstairs in his study, and during the time he spent working with Dr. Eben Alexander on Proof of Heaven and The Map of Heaven, I’d often hear Ptolemy on the phone, shaping the narrative, bouncing ideas back and forth, just as he would have done had it been a Guideposts or Angels on Earth story.

In fact, Ptolemy called Proof of Heaven his “ultimate Guideposts story,” and though the result was not a Guideposts article but a bestselling book, I could see why he felt that that was just what it was.

One morning last March, I sent Ptolemy a link to a story that we’d discussed in the weekly editorial meeting: a story about a young woman who had crashed in a river, and the police officers who had worked to save her, believing she was alive because of a voice that came from inside the car. It was just the kind of story Ptolemy would have liked: tragic, mysterious, but also deeply hopeful.

I knew that Angels on Earth readers wouldn’t have taken that mysterious voice for anything other than the voice of an angel, and I knew that Ptolemy would have loved bringing out the details and drama of the story to maximum effect.

Could we do the story justice in our pages, or was it too big a story, too bittersweet, for our short format? I sent Ptolemy the link.

An hour or so later, Ptolemy called. Not too long after my email had come in, he’d received a call from an agent working with one of the police officers who had been on hand at the crash. The agent—Jennifer Gates—knew Ptolemy’s work, and thought he might be able to turn the story into a book. She even had a title in mind: Proof of Angels.

For the next few months, our house was more like an extension of the Guideposts and Angels on Earth offices than ever before. Ptolemy and police officer Tyler Beddoes were on the phone constantly, developing not just a working relationship but what I soon realized was a deep friendship as well. Ptolemy believed that just as Proof of Heaven was his “ultimate Guideposts story,” Proof of Angels was going to be his ultimate Angels on Earth story.

Reading it now, I have to agree. And I can’t help but think that an angel might have been at work that morning Ptolemy received not just an email from me about Tyler’s story, but a call from Jennifer as well.

—Colleen Hughes, editor of Angels on Earth magazine

The lazy days of summer were winding down, and I was anxious for the new school year to begin. I always liked to come into my elementary school art classroom a couple of weeks before the first day to get things ready for the kids.

You could hear a pin drop in the quiet halls. My mind wandered among all the new projects and ideas I had for the coming year. Thank you, God, for this time alone to work hard and prepare.

This year I planned to teach world cultures through art. I sorted my supplies into large copy-paper boxes, letting my imagination run wild with each item I picked up.

Coffee cans covered with fabric could make drums. Big sheets of colorful cardboard would be perfect for African masks. Old paper rolls could be transformed into tribal staffs with some feathers and beads. The beads would also make great Egyptian necklaces. Of course we’d have to make pyramids too! The possibilities were endless.

All done, I carried the not-too-heavy boxes over to the tall shelf where I store my supplies. I can lift these by myself, I thought. No need to bug the custodians. They were busy too, cleaning the school and doing last-minute repairs.

I dragged two chairs from the students’ desks and arranged them side by side against the shelf. With one foot on each chair I hoisted the boxes. Back and forth I stepped, using the chairs as if they were a platform. I positioned the boxes in stacks till they nearly reached the ceiling.

One of the boxes jutted out a bit. Neatness counts! I thought. I reached to straighten it. Almost…only a touch more.

My fingertips just barely brushed against the out-of-place box. My foot slipped between the chairs. I couldn’t catch myself! My eyes squeezed shut in fear. Surely I’d sprain an ankle, break my leg or worse! God, please soften my fall….

A second later I was sitting in one of the chairs, amazed not to be sprawled out on the floor as I should have been. I sat there wondering, How? There was no logical way I could have fallen into this position, especially when I had been facing the opposite direction! I looked myself over. Except for a sore arm, I was fine. As if an angel had caught me.

There was still work to finish: decorating, checking the paint sets to see if they had dried out. I moved on to my next task, knowing I wasn’t the only one working hard in the art room that day.

Read more stories about heavenly angels and angels on earth.

Anybody who asked me about babies when I was a little girl got the same answer: I would rather have puppies. I’ve sure changed since then, I thought as I stepped into the pre-dawn darkness one September morning. My job started at 6:00 a.m., so this time of year I made the 45-minute commute in the dark.

The drive gave me a lot of time to think, and lately all my thoughts were the same: Would John and I ever have a baby?

I pulled onto the country road that led to the office. The sky was still full of stars. I tried to concentrate on the beauty instead of worrying, but it was impossible.

John and I started dating senior year of high school and wed in our 20s. The first couple of years I hardly gave thought to children. There were so many things to discover about my husband and our new life. “When it happens it happens,” John and I told each other.

But when our friends started having babies, the empty space got harder to ignore. All the prayers in the world hadn’t helped.

One afternoon at the beginning of summer, I came home from work, flopped on the bed and sobbed into my pillow. John found me there, still crying.

“Listen,” he said when I’d dried my tears. “Let’s give ourselves the summer not to worry about this. Maybe we’re trying too hard, stressing ourselves out. Then at summer’s end we’ll have a serious talk about our options.”

John was right. It was a relief to take time off from worrying. But our worry vacation was coming to an end. Looking out at the road ahead, my old fears flooded back into my mind. I’ve prayed so much already. Has God even heard me?

The stars in the sky knew nothing of my troubles and shined brightly. The road rose up an incline, drawing me closer to them. As I crested the top of the hill I gasped.

A shooting star blazed across the sky. Its glittering tail stretched out behind it, leaving a glow that lit up the darkness. Without thinking, I chanted, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight….” I didn’t have to name the wish.

God knew what I wanted. Watching the star disappear out of sight, I felt He’d sent me an angel to catch my prayer and deliver it to heaven.

The shooting star disappeared and seemed to take my anxiety with it. I knew my prayer would be answered—how I wasn’t sure.

When John and I sat down to have our first talk about options, he was surprised by the change in my attitude. I told him about my shooting star.

Somewhere, somehow God was at work on my prayer, even if I didn’t know how. There were many options for a couple wanting to have a child. One of them was right for us. “We’ll find the answer soon,” I assured him. John couldn’t help but share my confidence.

On October 1, just four weeks after seeing my star, I learned I was pregnant. Four weeks pregnant to be exact. Perhaps the angel I imagined carrying my prayer was cradling the answer to it in her arms.

Everything in my life was falling into place. I’d found David, the man of my dreams. We had just gotten married and moved to Hays, Kansas, where David was president of Hadley Regional Medical Center.

One Friday afternoon I went to the medical center for an appointment. David promised me a romantic lunch when I was done. It was just a follow-up to my annual physical. My regular doctor had noticed symptoms that might indicate multiple sclerosis, and he recommended an MRI to rule it out.

After the MRI, David and another doctor were waiting for me. Something’s wrong, I thought. “What’s the matter?” I said. “Do you have to cancel our lunch?”

David shook his head and sat me down in the chair next to him. “This is our chief radiologist.” David took both my hands in his. “Michelle, they found a tumor in your brain.” His voice broke. “They think it’s cancer.”

The doctor described my condition and treatment. He pointed to a white, egg-sized mass above my right ear on my MRI. The recommendation was to see Dr.Orrison, a top neuroradiologist in Albuquerque, for surgery. We had to act fast. Numb and confused, David and I rushed home, packed our bags, and headed to New Mexico.

Several days later, I was lying on a hospital gurney in Albuquerque, head shaved.

Was my life over? I was thirty years old. Death—my death—hadn’t given me a worry. I remembered the first time I had thought about dying. It was the day of my baptism.

I was ten. I lay back on my father’s arms, and he slowly dunked my body in the warm water. Seconds later, he pulled me up and helped me to my feet. I hugged Dad as he dried me off, rubbing my long blonde hair with a towel.

“God has a place for you in heaven,” Dad said. “A special place just for you.”

He made the end of this life sound so peaceful. Then Dad reached around his back and handed me a rose. It was the first flower anyone had ever given me. I buried my nose in its soft velvety petals. I carry the scent of that rose with me in my memory to this day.

I turned my head. David was standing in the doorway, talking to Dr. Orrison. I felt a knot in my stomach. Lord, if it’s my time, I know that it’s your will. Please be with David. Give him strength. Quickly I tried to compose myself as David walked back into the room.

“How’s my girl?” He kissed me.

“Well, no more bad hair days,” I said. “You loved my hair. I must look awful.”

“I love you, not your hair—and you’re just as beautiful as ever.”

I grabbed his hand. “Seriously, David,” I said, “I need to know that you’re going to be okay if I don’t pull through. You’ve got a lifetime ahead.”

“I won’t give up on us.” David paused for a moment and laughed. “We’ve only been married a year! Mrs. Carpenter, you’re still under warranty.” He gave me another kiss before the orderlies wheeled me into the operating room.

Waking up, I could only see blurry figures. My head was throbbing. “I’m cold,” I whispered. A nurse wrapped blankets around me.

“Michelle?” a man’s voice said from above. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what season it is?”

The question brought me out of my haze. David. I could see David. “It’s the first day of dove-hunting season,” I said, knowing how much he loved hunting.

“What?” Dr. Orrison said.

“I think she’s okay,” David said.

My prognosis wasn’t good. The tumor was high-grade malignant and its roots had metastasized throughout my brain. I would undergo radiation treatments five days a week for the next two months.

I got used to the hospital routine. I went into a room and lay down on a cold table. A nurse lined the machine up to the dots tattooed on my scalp and walked out of the room. The machine sent high doses of radiation through my brain. One day, on the way home, I was feeling particularly weak and nauseous. David stopped at a red light and looked at me.

“When you’re better, how about a second honeymoon?” he asked. “Hawaii?”

“Hawaii,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to learn to surf.”

“I was thinking more about a few moonlit walks on the beach,” David said. We laughed as the light turned green. We needed the dream. But I knew I was living on borrowed time.

That night I lay in bed waiting for David. The bathroom door was ajar, and I watched him washing his face. I may never see him do that again, I thought. Every moment I had left with David was a gift. He shut off the bathroom light and got in bed. I slid close to him and brushed his hair off his forehead as he drifted off to sleep. I closed my eyes.

I turned over. Must be the middle of the night. I smelled something wonderful…the delicate, sweet scent of roses. The aroma was intoxicating and heady. Two chairs and a table appeared before me. I sat down. A single rose lay on the table. I must be dreaming.

“You’re not dreaming, Michelle,” a young woman said. She glided across the room toward me. Her hair was brown, wavy and parted down the middle. Her lips were full, her cheeks flushed and her eyes the color of honey. An ethereal light glowed from within her.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “My name is Rose. I’m here to help.” She sat down.

“Am I dying?” I said. “I’m not afraid, but I am worried about my husband.”

“You’ll have more time with him,” she said. “One day I’ll show you the way to heaven. On that day, God will heal the hearts of those you leave behind. Now you have more to do, more life to live, more people to touch.”

She hugged me, and I smelled the fragrance of roses lingering on her skin. In her arms, I felt strong and healthy. Rose pulled back from the hug. She put a hand on my head. A vibration ran through me. She stepped back and was gone. Light streamed through our window. I woke David. “Something incredible just happened,” I told him.

That was fourteen years ago. Now every time I’ve seen Dr. Orrison, the MRI has been free of cancerous cells.

I’ve become a hospice volunteer. I try to ease the fears of those going to heaven and hold the hands of those left behind. Sometimes, when the moment is right, I tell them about Rose.

From the very start, God began using angels in a special way; he began sending them on “missions” related to the newborn universe and its strange two-legged inhabitants—human beings.

What was the nature of these missions? Well, according to the Bible, there were many different kinds.

First and foremost, angels served as God’s messengers to mankind. We see this throughout the Old and New Testaments, as God repeatedly used the angels to communicate his will to individuals such as Abraham, Moses, Jacob, Gideon, Daniel, the Virgin Mary, Zechariah, Joseph and a whole host of saints and prophets.

God also entrusted angels with the care of kingdoms and communities that were experiencing crisis, and in this capacity their primary mission was to defend, assist and protect God’s people (as in the incident of Rev. Paton and the cannibals).

As Christians know, angels played a very important role in Christ’s mission to save the world. Aside from announcing the good news to Mary, Joseph and the shepherds, they also protected the newborn Jesus from the persecution of Herod.

Later on, angels were present at the empty tomb when Jesus rose from the dead; and later still, angels liberated the apostle Peter from prison when he was in danger of being executed.

Angels are characterized as “ministering spirits” in the Bible, and we see that they were often sent to give human beings consolation during periods of great suffering. The most touching example of this, perhaps, was when an angel was sent to the Garden of Gethsemane to comfort Jesus during his agony…

Of course, the best known mission of the angels is to be our personal guardians. Throughout sacred Scripture we find it implied that each of us has our own angel watching over us in a highly unique and personal manner.

The purpose of this guardianship is very simple—to assist us to get to Heaven. Why would God give these angels such a task? Basically because we need their help!

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