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‘The Star Thrower’ and the Difference You Can Make

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

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The Biblical Story Behind New York City’s Modern-Day Pool of Bethesda

Posted on by Alexandra Chipkin

The summer of 1832 was a bad one for New Yorkers. Not because of the heat, but because of the cholera epidemic that was ravaging the city. What made it especially difficult to cope with was that no one knew exactly how it spread, although many suspected it had something to do with contaminated water.

The city’s solution was to build the Croton Aqueducts almost a decade later—a water distribution system that brought in water from upstate New York into giant, newly constructed reservoirs in Central Park—with the goal to never run out of clean water again.

For New Yorkers at the time, the reservoirs must have seemed like a modern-day Pool of Bethesda. The Gospel of John tells of how an angel would come down and stir the pool of Bethesda with his hand, miraculously curing the first person to enter the water after the angel left. “For an angel went down at a certain time into the pool [of Bethesda and] stirred up the water; then whoever stepped in first, after the stirring of the water, was made well of whatever disease he had” John 5:4. When Emma Stebbins created her angel fountain statue for the park, she included this quote to commemorate how the aqueducts brought clean water to the city and ended the cholera epidemic.

The Croton Aqueducts in Central Park are long gone now, but the “Angel of the Waters” statue still stands, reminding us of both the horror of the disease and the beauty of healing.

The Beautiful Birds Restored Her Hope In The Future

Posted on by Alexis LaMaster

The gray sky outside my kitchen window matched how I felt inside. Hopeless. I sighed and turned away. Life had lost all meaning.

Nearly a year earlier, on a sunny Fourth of July day, I drove to a nearby lake to celebrate with friends and family. It was my birthday. After a long workweek, I was looking forward to our picnic. And I couldn’t wait to get in the water. I loved to swim.

“Here I go,” I shouted, laughing, as I dove headfirst from a boat dock into the lake. That was the last thing I remember. I was pulled unconscious from the water with a severed spine, paralyzed from the waist down.

After months of hospitalization and rehabilitation, I was finally home. But things weren’t going well. I had to adjust to many lifestyle changes. I was impatient with myself as well as my three teenage daughters.

Turning from the kitchen window couldn’t keep the grayness at bay. Oh God, what am I going to do? My life has fallen apart.

A few days later, I poured out my despondency to Jerry, a good friend and neighbor who came to visit in my front yard. “I don’t feel like I have a reason to get out of bed,” I told him.

Jerry was quiet. His eyes were focused on my mulberry tree. “Look,” he whispered. “There’s a male cardinal. On that lower branch to the right.”

I saw the bird with its long tail, black mask and bright scarlet outfit, a dashing crest on his head.

“They like to nest in thick shrubs,” Jerry said, “and mostly eat seeds. They dine regularly at birdfeeders, especially in the winter.”

Cheer, cheer, cheer, the cardinal sang in a sweet voice. I’d seen cardinals before, in passing. Now as I studied this one, I realized I’d never really seen a cardinal. He was stunning.

Cheer, cheer, cheer, he trilled again before leaping into the sky.

The next day, Jerry pointed out a flock of cedar waxwings. “They’ve landed in your mulberry tree!” he said. His enthusiasm was catching. As I watched the elegant birds with their golden plumage, crimson wing tips and inky eye masks, something clicked. Curiosity, like a light, awakened inside me. And with every bird Jerry identified, the light grew brighter.

On his next visit, Jerry brought along his field guide. In it, he’d written the date and location next to every bird he’d seen since 1991. I was transfixed by the entries. I couldn’t believe how many different birds he’d observed right here in our neighborhood! Nashville warblers, American goldfinches, thrashers and many others. As I leafed through his guidebook, I knew I wanted not only to watch birds but also to know birds, to understand them.

With help, I set up birdbaths, bird feeders and suet cakes in my yard. A whole new world opened before me—the world of wings. And I wanted to find my place in it.

Living with paraplegia required incredible patience and persistence, and I was determined to apply these qualities to birdwatching. I paid laser close attention to the birds’ nest building and child-rearing, to what they ate and to their relationships with other birds. Everything concerning my new companions interested me.

I started to record sightings in a field guide of my own, and I photographed every bird I logged. Jerry was impressed with my progress. “What’s your favorite bird?” he asked.

“I count all birds as friends, but especially the small dainty ones,” I said. “Hummingbirds, chickadees, kinglets, wrens and warblers. There’s an art to photographing them that involves patience and serendipity.”

Churr-churr, queeah, called a red-bellied woodpecker, feasting on a suet cake, his red head shining in the sun’s rays. We laughed. Woodpeckers have distinct, resounding voices.

I locked my wheelchair in place, listening until the woodpecker took flight.

“You know, I became obsessed when I heard about that rufous hummingbird spotted in the area.”

“Yep,” Jerry said, “a rufous appearing in this region of the country is extremely rare.”

“That’s not all. While I was pondering the unlikelihood of seeing it myself, I experienced what I can only describe as a nudge, and then a knowing. I raced—and you know how fast I can wheel my chair—to the next street over, where I knew scarlet sage was growing, one of the rufous’s favorite foods. I waited and waited, camera in hand. Finally, a male rufous appeared, wearing a bronzy-copper suit and a bright red tie. I got the photograph!”

I showed Jerry the picture in my field guide. Cheer, cheer, cheer, sang a cardinal from the tallow tree. “Why, thank you, sir,” I said.

After Jerry left, I wheeled to the front of the house and spread birdseed up and down the sidewalks. It was the least I could do for these creatures who’d shown me how to be fully present in the moment.

I now slow down and savor the taste of my favorite foods. I appreciate long, meaningful talks. I’m more patient with my daughters. I feel a new kind of pleasure when tending the potted plants on my deck. And I’m alive not only to birdsong but also to the range of nature’s soundscape, like the whistle of a breeze through the leaves, the chants of tree frogs at dusk.

A few months ago, when the sun hung low in the evening sky and lingered on the tips of the mulberry tree, a male painted bunting landed on my birdfeeder. The most beautiful bird in North America was right here in my own neighborhood, with his indigo-blue head, sunset-orange breast and iridescent golden-green wings. I reached for my camera. Could such an exquisite being really belong to this world? I wondered.

Of course, I encounter hardships every day, but now when I look out my kitchen window I see birds. And when I see birds, I see earthly angels. I see miracles. And I’ve found my place among them.

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

The Angel Who Helped Her ‘Keep the Faith’

Posted on by Constance Kirk

Sunshine burst through the tall glass windows and the first light notes of the “Appalachia Waltz” sounded from the string trio. I took a deep breath, squeezed my bridal bouquet of white calla lilies and started my slow procession down the aisle. How happy I felt in this moment, happier than I’d ever dreamed possible. Ken, my groom, took my arm and we approached the altar. My best friend stood beside me as my honor attendant. Her bouquet of pink calla lilies was perfect, the sturdy, cylindrical petals peeking out from a spray of baby’s breath. Like spongy pink hair curlers, I thought. Hair curlers. Not the most romantic comparison, but one that had special significance to me. In a wayit was curlers that had gotten me here today.

Seven years ago, I’d taken a short trip away from my home in New York City. It had been ages since I’d spent the night alone in a hotel. Just divorced at 34 I’d forgotten how to enjoy anything on my own. A favorite restaurant, an afternoon movie, even the church my husband and I had attended every Sunday all seemed strange without him, and I ended up staying at home more and more. I lay on top of the thin hotel bedspread, staring up at the stucco ceiling. The television droned in the background. Will I ever get used to this?

I woke up in the same position at 3:00 A.M. The hotel fire alarm was going off. Quick as I could I pulled on a robe, grabbed my room key and joined the other guests filing into the parking lot. I stared at the ground, running a bare toe over the gravel while firemen checked out the problem. The other guests huddled together in their pajamas. A flash of pink caught my eye, and I stepped forward to see what it was. The crowd parted around me to reveal a little lady in a terrycloth bathrobe and slippers. Her gray hair was completely rolled in dozens of pale-pink curlers, and she held her robe tight to her neck. She’s all alone, like me, I thought. I wonder if she’s scared. I stood beside her, as much for her comfort as for mine.

“What brings you here?” the woman turned and asked.

I looked into her face. She seemed to be in her 70s, but her twinkling eyes belied her age. “I needed to get away,” I said. “I recently divorced, and the future seems so uncertain.” Had I just said that to a complete stranger?

The woman put her hand on my arm and shook her head, making the curlers bounce. “Oh, you mustn’t think like that,” she said. She leaned in close. I bent down to listen, bumping my nose on a spongy pink curler. “Keep the faith,” she whispered in my ear. “The best is yet to come.” Could that really be true? Looking into the woman’s sparkling eyes, I couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, it could be.

“False alarm,” the hotel manager called out.“We apologize for the inconvenience.” I held out my arm to escort the woman back into the hotel, but she was no longer standing beside me. I scanned the crowd for the head full of pink curlers. Strange, I thought. Not just her disappearance, but the warm, hopeful feeling in my chest.

I took the feeling back home with me, determined to make a new life for myself. The first time I entered a restaurant alone I wanted to run right out the door before I even looked at the menu. I forced myself to stay. And traveling filled me with dread no matter where I was going. “This just isn’t working,” I sighed one evening after returning home early from a weekend at the beach. “I just can’t hack it alone.” But before I could throw out my suitcases, I heard the voice of the lady in pink curlers: “Keep the faith. The best is yet to come.”

Keep the faith. Had I really been doing that? I hadn’t been to church since my divorce. It’s time to give it a try, I decided. After all, there were other churches in New York besides the one I’d belonged to with my husband. I just had to find the one that was right for me.

I started visiting, and my prayer was the same in each church: “God, I need your help finding my place in this world.” It wasn’t easy sitting in a pew by myself, but it wasn’t impossible, either. Each Sunday was a small victory. I began to venture out on my own: movies, museums, bookshops. Eventually I decided to use my frequent flyer miles and take a weeklong solo trip to Paris. The best is yet to come, I reminded myself on the Champs-Élysées.

Upon my return, I resumed my Sunday research. I’d visited a dozen churches before I finally dropped in at St. Clement’s, which I’d often walked past. The building left a lot to be desired, its red paint peeling, but I got a good feeling as soon as I sat down inside. The preacher had a way of speaking that drew me in and made me feel right at home. “Loving God is a process,” he said. “It brings us out of isolation and into the embrace of a community.”

I went back to St. Clement’s the following Sunday, and the next after that. In between I actually enjoyed my life, even the quiet times alone. In fact, I found myself scheduling time alone. I was happy again. Soon I wasn’t waiting for Sunday to go to church. I volunteered for some of the outreach programs the church sponsored and got to know the preacher. We became quite good friends along the way. That friendship turned to love, and Ken asked me to marry him. I’d never been so sure of anything as I was about accepting his proposal.

The final notes of the string trio faded, and I turned to face Ken for our vows. I looked into his eyes as he slipped the wedding ring on my finger and thought about that little lady in the hotel parking lot, pink curlers bobbing in her hair. “The best is yet to come,” she’d said and she was right. I had found happiness, on my own and with Ken. All I had to do was keep the faith. A faith that today Ken and I keep together.

I looked into her face. She seemed to be in her 70s, but her twinkling eyes belied her age. “I needed to get away,” I said. “I recently divorced, and the future seems so uncertain.” Had I just said that to a complete stranger?

The woman put her hand on my arm and shook her head, making the curlers bounce. “Oh, you mustn’t think like that,” she said. She leaned in close. I bent down to listen, bumping my nose on a spongy pink curler. “Keep the faith,” she whispered in my ear. “The best is yet to come.” Could that really be true? Looking into the woman’s sparkling eyes, I couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, it could be.

“False alarm,” the hotel manager called out.“We apologize for the inconvenience.” I held out my arm to escort the woman back into the hotel, but she was no longer standing beside me. I scanned the crowd for the head full of pink curlers. Strange, I thought. Not just her disappearance, but the warm, hopeful feeling in my chest.

I took the feeling back home with me, determined to make a new life for myself. The first time I entered a restaurant alone I wanted to run right out the door before I even looked at the menu. I forced myself to stay. And traveling filled me with dread no matter where I was going. “This just isn’t working,” I sighed one evening after returning home early from a weekend at the beach. “I just can’t hack it alone.” But before I could throw out my suitcases, I heard the voice of the lady in pink curlers: “Keep the faith. The best is yet to come.”

Keep the faith. Had I really been doing that? I hadn’t been to church since my divorce. It’s time to give it a try, I decided. After all, there were other churches in New York besides the one I’d belonged to with my husband. I just had to find the one that was right for me.

I started visiting, and my prayer was the same in each church: “God, I need your help finding my place in this world.” It wasn’t easy sitting in a pew by myself, but it wasn’t impossible, either. Each Sunday was a small victory. I began to venture out on my own: movies, museums, bookshops. Eventually I decided to use my frequent flyer miles and take a weeklong solo trip to Paris. The best is yet to come, I reminded myself on the Champs-Élysées.

Upon my return, I resumed my Sunday research. I’d visited a dozen churches before I finally dropped in at St. Clement’s, which I’d often walked past. The building left a lot to be desired, its red paint peeling, but I got a good feeling as soon as I sat down inside. The preacher had a way of speaking that drew me in and made me feel right at home. “Loving God is a process,” he said. “It brings us out of isolation and into the embrace of a community.”

I went back to St. Clement’s the following Sunday, and the next after that. In between I actually enjoyed my life, even the quiet times alone. In fact, I found myself scheduling time alone. I was happy again. Soon I wasn’t waiting for Sunday to go to church. I volunteered for some of the outreach programs the church sponsored and got to know the preacher. We became quite good friends along the way. That friendship turned to love, and Ken asked me to marry him. I’d never been so sure of anything as I was about accepting his proposal.

The final notes of the string trio faded, and I turned to face Ken for our vows. I looked into his eyes as he slipped the wedding ring on my finger and thought about that little lady in the hotel parking lot, pink curlers bobbing in her hair. “The best is yet to come,” she’d said and she was right. I had found happiness, on my own and with Ken. All I had to do was keep the faith. A faith that today Ken and I keep together.

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The Angel That Saved My Son

Posted on by Mark Shields

“No, Chad,” I snapped, spotting my energetic little boy racing for the front door as it closed. “You can’t go with your sister.” Chad ran to the window and knocked on the glass. Shauna waved before she ran off down the street to play with her friends. At two and a half, Chad was a handful. Trying to keep him out of mischief and danger, I’d nailed drawers shut, built a wooden box over the TV knobs and duct-taped safety plugs into the electrical outlets.

For nearly two years, since I’d suffered a slipped disk and had to leave my job, Chad and Shauna had been my responsibility at home. My wife, Lori, worked at her gift shop, which specialized in angel items: books, cards, ceramic, jewelry—everything she could find to offer her customers some of the glory she found in these heavenly beings. Lori saw angels as symbols of God’s love; to me they were merely a source of income. My day was consumed by more practical matters; namely, making sure Chad stayed out of trouble or worse.

I watched him at the window that morning, tears welling up in his green eyes. I’ll never be good at this house husband thing, I thought.

Suddenly Chad streaked away from the window and up the stairs. Just walking was an effort since my injury; running was out of the question. I went after my son as fast as I could. It was another long day.

When we picked up Lori in the evening, I decided to treat my family to dinner at the Burger King near her shop. After we finished eating, Lori and I talked while Shauna and Chad played around a partition near our table. Then Shauna came back and plopped down in her chair. I got up to get Chad.

The second I reached the partition I heard the restaurant’s door click shut. I looked across the dining room through the wall of glass windows at the traffic streaming by on Lincoln Avenue. There was Chad. He’d already bounded across the sidewalk and was ready to step into the street.

I’d never get to him in time. “Please, God,” I begged, “he’s just a baby. Don’t take him now.” Instinctively, I started to run, and amazingly, my body obeyed. But I couldn’t feel my feet hit the floor. A force seemed to lift me by the seat of my pants, propelling me toward the door. I kept my eyes on Chad. He stepped off the curb, and headlights loomed toward him in the dark. “No!”

In the blink of an eye I reached Chad. I scooped him up with one arm, whirled and made for the curb. The car sped past, missing us by inches.

Neither Lori nor I could find words to talk about the incident. The next day seemed like any other. I tried keeping pace with Chad, my body struggling with the limitationsI knew so well. How had I suddenly become so agile and strong in those crucial moments the night before? My son was living proof that it had happened. When we picked up Lori that night at her shop I asked her to tell me more about angels. Surely God had told them about me.

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The Angel That Helped Me Quit Smoking

Posted on by Pat Katnik

There were two ways I relaxed: quilting and smoking. Quilting was my passion. Smoking was my addiction. I was a nurse. I knew cigarettes were slowly killing me. But I just couldn’t stop. My good sense couldn’t stop me. My husband couldn’t stop me. My kids couldn’t stop me. I was a smoker, and that was that.

I loved the ritual: Take the cigarette out of the pack and put it in my mouth, flick the wheel on the lighter and watch as a spark becomes a flame, suck in and taste that first drag of smoke. A ciga- rette first thing in the morning or after a good meal felt like a reward.

One day after work, I settled in at my quilting studio. I was in the middle of a baby quilt, and I pulled out my fabric. The cloth reeked of cigarette smoke. You’re going to give this to a newborn? I chided myself. No more smoking in my studio. As it was, I was running out of places to enjoy a cigarette. At home I had to go out on the deck to light up. I guess my family did have a point about the smell.

I took the baby material home for a good washing. That night, out on the deck, I stared up through the plume of smoke into the stars, wondering which one my guardian angel was sitting on. He probably wants you to quit too, I thought. Days later, I developed an uncontrollable cough. “Are you okay?” my husband asked. I struggled to catch my breath.

“Fine,” I insisted. But after weeks with a hacking cough, I felt more foolish than ever. “I know, I know,” I told my husband when I came in from the deck one night. “I want to quit. I’ll try after this pack’s finished. I promise.” I hated to see the day come, but I’d promised. I crushed the empty pack and dropped it into a wastebas- ket one morning before work. Within an hour my head buzzed. Then came a full-on headache.

I went to work. I snapped at co-workers. I was curt with patients. I fidg- eted, not knowing what to do with my hands. This is too much, I thought. Soon as my shift was over, I raced to the store. I tried other ways of quitting: hypnosis, the patch, nicotine gum, cutting down. But nothing worked.

I got tired of people’s dirty looks, complaints and lectures. Seemed the only place left to smoke in peace was in my car. Of course, there was no escaping my own better judgment. I strode across the parking lot one night after work. God, if only quitting were easy, I prayed silently, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

I buckled up, started the engine and reached for my cigarettes. Oh no! Only one left! I’d have to stop for a fresh pack on the way home. Just as I put the cigarette in my mouth, I heard a voice. I thought you wanted to quit. Who said that? I looked in the backseat. Nobody there. Now I was hearing things. The voice of my guardian angel, for all I knew.

I do want to quit. Well, put up or shut up. Tough talk from an angel? I had to laugh. But the words rang in my ears: “Put up or shut up.”

I thought for a moment. This was one way I had never tried to quit—with divine intervention. Who knew how many times I’d heard a voice telling me to quit, yet I refused to listen? Now my ears were open and I was ready. “God, I’ll quit if you help me. I don’t want to suffer withdrawal or cravings. I’m too weak,” I said.

No promises from my guardian angel. But I felt a conviction come over me: This cigarette would be my last one ever. That was it. No more. For real. I made it through the evening and went to bed early, just to be safe. The next morning I jumped out of bed and had my coffee, as usual—but not out on the deck with a cigarette. My husband didn’t know what to make of it. At work someone asked me why I wasn’t dying for a break. It was midafternoon. It struck me that I had not smoked a cigarette all day. No one was more surprised than I was. My family believed me when I said this time quitting was for good.

They say the first couple of weeks are the toughest. For me it was a breeze. I quilted more than usual to keep my hands busy, but I never went through withdrawal, and I’ve never been tempted to light up since that night in my car. I know it’s a miracle. Because a tough-talking angel told me to put up or shut up. I put up, and God won’t let me down.

If only that angel would drop by my studio. I’d make him a nice quilt.

This article is excerpted from Threads of Encouragement.

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

The Angel That Heard Their Christmas Wishes

Posted on by Douglas Scott Clark

Frigid December wind passed right through my threadbare coat. I might have wished to be at home, but those days it wasn’t much warmer there than it was standing at the bus stop. Mama had written a letter to the electric company explaining that we were late paying our bill because my sister was very ill and Daddy had been laid off, but the power was cut off anyway. That’s why Mama, my brother Buddy Earl and I were on our way into town to pay the bill in person.

I sat close to Buddy Earl for warmth on the bus when it finally showed up. Wreathes decorated the streetlamps along the route. “I don’t think there’s going to be much of a Christmas this year,” I whispered to him. As the older brother—I was seven—it was up to me to warn him.

“I heard Daddy and Mama talking about not having money to pay bills,” he said. “That’s why we’re always eating pinto beans and potatoes.”

The walk to the electric company office from the bus stop was only a couple of blocks, but it was a relief to get inside. “I wish our house was this warm,” Buddy Earl said. “I’m tired of wearing my coat all the time.”

My own coat didn’t do much good against the cold. It was too old and worn. After settling the bill Mama brought us over to Rich’s department store. There was Santa in a big wooden chair. “You two go talk to him,” she said. “Just don’t expect to get all you ask for.” Buddy Earl and I joined the line of children waiting, and Mama sat on a bench nearby.

“What presents are you going to tell Santa you dream about?” Buddy Earl asked. “I’ll bet it’s a toy airplane or a boat to play with in the creek.” I sighed. “I’m going to ask for a new pair of shoes and a warmer coat,” I said. “The ones I’m have let the heat out and the cold in. What about you?”

Buddy Earl thought for a while. “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” he said. When we got to the front of the line Buddy Earl climbed up on Santa’s knee. I stood beside them. “I see you two come together,” Santa said. “Are you best friends?”

“Not best friends,” Buddy Earl explained. “We’re brothers.” Santa nodded. “Have you been a good boy this year?”

“Not good enough to get a lot of toys,” Buddy said thoughtfully, “but not bad enough to get a lump of coal.”

“And what would you like?”

“Santa, I want the largest can of pork and beans you can find. I’ve eaten so many boiled potatoes lately, I think of them as part of the family.”

“A can of beans? You’re sure?” Santa said. “No toys?”

“Yes, Santa,” he answered. “And if it’s not too much trouble, I also want a large box of that sweet cereal called Sugar Crisp. The kids at school say you can eat it right out of the box and don’t need any milk.”

“And what about you?” he said, turning to me.

“Well, I ain’t been any better or worse than any seven-year-old boy,” I said. “I was going to ask for a new pair of shoes and a coat, but my brother is right. Food and a little money is what our family needs most of all.”

Santa reached in his pocket, pulled out a notepad and scribbled something with a pencil. “Is your mother with you two?” he asked. I pointed to the bench. “That’s our mama over there. She’s waiting for us to finish.” Santa lifted Buddy Earl off his knee. “Could you ask her to come and talk to me?” he said.

Buddy Earl huddled up against me as we walked over to her. “Are we in trouble?” he asked. “Is that why he wants to talk to Mama?”

I shook my head. “He’s probably going to tell her to tell him what toys we want. He doesn’t squeeze down chimneys to bring food.”

“I really wanted pork and beans and Sugar Crisp,” Buddy Earl said. “Me too,” I admitted. “But Santa’s a toymaker not a grocer. I hope we didn’t insult him.”

Mama and Santa talked for a few minutes. Santa took a couple more notes. Then Mama brought us home. We didn’t dare ask about their private conversation. Christmas morning Mama and Daddy gathered us around our tree to give thanks for all we had. There were no toys from Santa under the tree. No presents at all, really. But that was okay, especially since we had electricity again. I felt pretty good as I took my seat at the kitchen table.

Breakfast was homemade bread with apple butter Mama had canned the year before. It wasn’t Sugar Crisp, but it was wonderfully sweet and filling. I’d just taken a big bite when there was a knock at the door. Daddy opened it to a man I’d never seen before. He was holding a big box.

“This is for you and your family,” he said. “Merry Christmas and may angels watch over you.”

The man was gone before Daddy even had a chance to invite him in. Daddy put the box on the table and opened it up. Inside was an envelope and lots of food! Daddy read the letter from the envelope. “May the Lord’s blessings be upon you. Do not dwell upon sadness for our savior knows your sufferings and has heard your prayers.”

Daddy reached into the envelope again and pulled out some dollar bills. Mama and Daddy looked at each other, and she removed the food from the box. The first thing on the table was a big can of pork and beans. Buddy Earl’s eyes went wide. “An angel came to our door today,” Mama said as she pulled out a big box of Sugar Crisp.

Later Buddy Earl pulled me aside. “There were only two people in the world who knew I wanted beans and cereal. You and Santa.”

“Mama said it was an angel who brought them,” I said. I tried to make sense of things for my little brother. “Santa must have asked that angel for help. Or maybe angels are listening when kids talk to Santa at the store.” That was the best I could figure.

Not long after Christmas, Daddy was called back to work. My sister recovered from her illness. I even received a new pair of shoes and a coat. Well, the coat wasn’t new, exactly, but it was thicker than my old one and it kept me warm. All these years later I still think about that man who came to our door.

Could he have been an off-duty Santa Claus? Could he have been an angel on call? In my heart, I know he was both.

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The Angels You Meet in Heaven

Posted on by John Burke

Eleven-year-old Jennifer was in a severe car accident and left her body. She saw her “limp and lifeless body” below. A spiritual being told her, “His nose is cut off his face; you will need to go back and help him; he is bleeding to death.”

Jennifer said, “No, let somebody else do it. He will be fine without my help. I do not want to go back down there. No!”

The voice said, “I will tell you what to do. You take off his shirt after you pick his nose up off the floorboard of the car. It will be next to your feet and his right foot. Place his nose on his face, pressing down to stop the bleeding. It’s just blood, so do not be afraid. . . . So then, Jennifer, you will begin to walk him up the right side of the road, and a car will come. Tell the man to take you to the nearest hospital. . . .”

When Jennifer returned to her body everything happened as she was told. A car stopped and carried them to the hospital. She was able to calm both the anxious driver and the man who lost his nose. And there was a happy ending: a skin graft was used to reattach the nose with “barely a scratch left to notice.” The astonished emergency room doctor said, “I cannot explain what kind of miracle I just witnessed in this emergency room today.”

We know when evil, pain, or suffering hurt us, but we do not know how often God orchestrates his angels to care for us. Angels are God’s servants sent to help people. Are they real beings or just mythological?

Well, just imagine God’s unlimited creativity. There seems to be no end to it—billions of stars clustered in billions of galaxies, and on just one planet orbiting one star, he’s created over seven million species of creatures (as best scientists can estimate—we’ve only catalogued 1.2 million). God has also created spiritual creatures who do not live confined to time and space as we do—one species we call angels. Angel literally means “messenger.” Angels are referred to 196 times in Scripture. Humans do not become angels—meaning we don’t go through a species change—but we can be messengers.

As you’ve probably noticed, NDErs often report seeing angels. Marv Besteman noticed, “My angels looked like regular guys, except regular guys usually don’t wear white robes. Both looked in their mid-forties and stood about 5’8” to 5’10”. One had longish brown hair, and the other one had shorter hair . . . neither one of them had wings [though he later saw winged creatures].”2 They can appear much like human beings, or they can shine with a radiant light, less brilliant than the radiance of God, but still quite impressive. Most do not have wings, though some creatures do (Ezekiel 1).

Dale Black reported angels coming in pairs. “I moved effortlessly along the road, escorted by my two angelic guides.”3 Marv and other NDErs noted the same: “Beside me stood two angels who would always accompany me.”4 After noticing this trend, I recalled Jesus’s statement: “See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels [plural] in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven” (Matthew 18:10).

What are angels and what do they do? With so much increased interest in angels come many diverse opinions. I’d like to show you what the Scriptures say and how our world of suffering may tie in to their story in Heaven. “Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?” (Hebrews 1:14). Scripture teaches that angels are spirit creatures who live in God’s realm, but they can interact with earth in order to serve people and accomplish God’s will. Even in Heaven, God accomplishes his will through free-will cooperation of angels. Some are guardian angels assigned to individuals, some are assigned to churches (Revelation 2), some are over cities or nations (Daniel 12:1). And some were cast out of Heaven.

In Imagine Heaven, John Burke recounts some of the most dramatic and powerful near-death experiences and compares them directly to Scriptural accounts of heaven. The result is a profoundly powerful experience that allows you to better understand God’s loving promise to you – and glimpse the glorious, beautiful home that awaits you.

Learn more about Imagine Heaven.

The Angels That Protected Her Horse Farm

Posted on by Jill Mansor

Horses have always been my passion, but I never thought I’d own a horse farm, one where I taught children and adults, many with special needs, to ride. God had made that possible. When I first started out, I felt like he and I were partners. He was on the farm with me as I fed and watered the animals, cleaned their stalls, talked with the riders. But over time the daily struggles of running a business made me feel as if I were on my own.

I felt the weight of my doubts on my shoulders the afternoon a 10-year-old student came to say goodbye at the end of her lesson. Before getting into her parents’ car, she paused and looked around at the stables and pastures. “You know, Miss Jill, you have a fence that goes all the way around your property.”

“Well, without a fence the horses would wander off and might get hurt.”

She shook her head. “Not that fence,” she said. “It’s a fence of peace.”

“A fence of peace?” I said. “What does it look like?”

She frowned, as if choosing her words carefully. “You know how when it’s hot and you can see a shimmer in the air over the pavement? It’s like that. I can see it as soon as our car pulls up.”

I watched her walk away, trying to see the shimmer she described. Could it be true that God was so present here still?

A few days later I worked with a little boy who was about eight years old and had autism. We brought him over to one of the horses. Three employees and I laid our hands on the animal and said a prayer. “Lord, we ask you to give this horse love, patience, kindness and goodness.” The horse nickered, as if in answer. I helped the boy climb on the horse’s back. Another employee took the lead rope. I walked on one side, and two other employees walked on the other. “Here we go. That’s a good boy,” I encouraged the horse.

Our little rider looked around. He clearly enjoyed the sensation of being on the horse, although he couldn’t tell us himself. He didn’t easily speak, and I had never heard him utter a word. I hoped he was enjoying the clear, sunny day, the gentle rocking of the horse, the smell of hay and leather as much as I was. Slowly and steadily we walked into the horse pen. In an instant the horse stumbled, lurching sharply to the side. He steadied himself quickly, but I was worried the boy had been frightened. “Are you okay, buddy?”

To my surprise, the boy wasn’t looking at the horse beneath him or at the ground where he had stumbled. He was looking up into the sky, as if admiring the clouds above. “Angels,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“Angels,” the boy repeated, still gazing up at the sky.

The employee with the lead rope and I exchanged glances. Angels? I gazed into the sky. Did angels shimmer? Like heat rising from a hot pavement? If they were present, I couldn’t see them.

Days later I readied another horse. It’s up to me to keep the children safe, I reminded myself. Especially during this lesson. This particular student could be hard to control and regularly received low marks on the behavior chart her parents kept at home. I didn’t know how much we could help her. She’d told me flat out, in fact, that she didn’t like horses. But she did like Fuzzy, a particular horse I didn’t normally use for lessons. The student had begged and begged me to let her ride him, until one day I’d made an impulsive promise. “The day you get a hundred on your chart at home is the day you’ll ride Fuzzy.”

Well, that was all it took for her to get an A-plus. Today was the day. “A promise is a promise,” I said when she hopped out of the car. Her parents agreed she’d more than earned the privilege.

I enlisted five other employees to walk with Fuzzy, just to be safe—two on each side, another holding the lead. All six of us prayed over Fuzzy before we started. God, you know he isn’t used to children and needs you with him today.

Fuzzy was good as gold. So was my student. Maybe God is watching the farm just that closely, I thought as we walked around the back pasture. “Let’s go down to the driveway,” I said. Children loved the sound the horses hooves made as they clip-clopped on the pavement.

We walked over the grass and were just passing the oak tree in the backyard when Fuzzy suddenly reared up on his hind legs. “Hold on to his mane!” I shouted. “Hold on to his mane!” My voice was harsher than I ever used with the children, but I didn’t want the rider to panic and pull the reins back. That would just make the horse rear higher. It felt like a full minute before Fuzzy’s front hooves finally hit the grass again. I glared at him furiously for scaring us like that. Then I took a deep breath and turned to my student. “Honey, I’m sorry I raised my voice,” I said.

The little girl looked down at me with a look of outright disdain. “Miss Jill,” she said, as if my behavior was not only silly but downright rude. “There were angels all around me. I was fine.”

The girl was ready to continue her ride, and all my doubts were lifted from my shoulders. My name might be the one on the deed to the farm, but God and I were running this business together.

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The Angels of Miracle Road

Posted on by Lorraine Lay

Saint Francis and I have always had a special relationship. As a little girl I learned he watched over all the animals I loved.

Saint Francis was on my mind driving home one morning from my midnight shift at a retirement home. Highway 231, the hilly two-lane road between Wyandot and Seneca County, curved through fields of corn, soy beans and woods.

I’d seen it a hundred times, but my breath still caught as I rounded a bend and faced an explosion of fall colors overhead. In summer the rich green trees made a canopy of shade. In winter the snow made a Christmas wonderland. In spring the road came alive with new buds and flowers.

I wasn’t the only one who loved this stretch. Squirrels, opossum and raccoons walked this road too. And deer, my favorite. The animals made me love my commute all the more, but I couldn’t bear the idea of one darting out and getting hit. An accident with a deer could be fatal to me as well.

So each morning and night before I turned onto the highway from Sycamore Street, just after I passed the little wooden bridge over the creek, I said my special prayer: “Saint Francis, please bless and protect all the animals, big and small. Keep them away from the road I travel on today so that I don’t hurt them and they don’t hurt me.”

I’d never had a car accident. But my spotless record was attributed to more than just luck and careful driving. As I crossed the border into Wyandot County, I remembered a day years before. My husband, Brian, and I were driving the highway in my old Geo Metro. “Brian, slow down,” I said. “You never know what’s going to jump out.”

“I’m not going that fast,” he assured me. “I can stop.”

Saint Francis, I prayed, be extra watchful today.

“I thought I’d pick up some coal for the barbecue,” Brian said as he steered around a bend into the woods. The summer road turned shady. “I could get steaks at the—”

A herd of deer streaked out from the left side of the road. There was no time to stop. Brian jerked the wheel far to the right. Blood pounded in my ears, but I could hear the thunder of hooves on pavement.

All I could do was wait for the terrible impact I knew was coming….

But it didn’t come. The deer thundered into the woods behind us. Now the only sound was Brian’s hoarse breathing beside me. We sat on the side of the road, shaking.

“What just happened?” Brian asked. His face was white.

“They jumped over us,” I said. “They all jumped over the car.”

Brian looked at me sideways. “You said that goofy prayer, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I replied. “It worked.”

It had worked, hadn’t it? I thought as I drove past the same spot going in the other direction. What else could have protected Brian and me that day? And what about that second time, I reminded myself. That memory was even more clear.

I was rushing into town for a meeting. My mind wasn’t on Saint Francis that night, but I said my prayer by the little bridge out of habit. I should have left earlier, I thought, speeding toward Seneca County. If I go the speed limit all the way, I just might make it.

Instead, my car slowed. I hadn’t touched the brake but the speedometer was dropping fast. I pushed down on the gas. Nothing. “Oh, of all the days!” I said. I coasted to a stop on the side of the road, dead. “What’s wrong with this thing?” I smacked the steering wheel with my hand.

That’s when something caught my eye. A fuzzy white glow just to the left of my car. It was about five feet tall, shaped like a person, but it wasn’t a man. And right beside it were five deer standing stock still, just inches from my car. I would have hit them if I hadn’t been stopped.

I pressed the gas pedal again. This time I moved forward. There was nothing wrong with my car. I looked in my rearview mirror. The white glow pulsated as if it were alive, then faded into the darkness. Only then, did the deer cross the road.”

“I didn’t hear a single thing anyone said in the meeting,” I told Brian that night. “I kept thinking about that glow. Was it Saint Francis? Was it an angel? Did I actually see a miracle? What was the truth?

“You’re the one who saw it,” said Brian. “What do you think?”

I couldn’t say for sure. Even now as I passed that little bridge I wondered. If only someone else had been with me, I thought. I needed a witness. But I was the only one who knew about the figure who protected me and the deer that day.

The next morning I had an early appointment. I left the house at sunrise. I couldn’t wait to get to the highway where the fields would be sparkling with morning dew. “Saint Francis, please bless and protect all the animals, big and small,” I said. “Keep them away from the road I travel on today so that I don’t hurt them and they don’t hurt me.”

I pulled onto Sycamore Street, approached the bridge and—“Oh, my!”

I rolled to a stop. There on the tiny bridge, not a foot away from my car, stood an eight-point buck!

I gazed up in awe at his antlers spreading like tree branches. The morning sun came out from behind a cloud and struck him as he looked out over the bridge like a king surveying his realm.

The buck turned his head. Our eyes locked. I could almost hear him thanking me for my prayers for him and his family.

He knows, I thought. He knows! This animal knew Saint Francis just as well as I did.

My deer friend leapt off into the woods beside the creek. I pulled my car back onto the highway. Never again would I wonder about the truth of this miracle road.

Download your free ebook, Angel Sightings: 7 Inspirational Stories About Heavenly Angels and Everyday Angels on Earth.

The Angel on the School Bus

Posted on by Abbey Ferguson

I found my usual empty seat on the school bus and stared out the window at all the other high schoolers milling about, saying goodbye to their friends. Everybody seemed to have somebody. Except me. I didn’t have any friends. No matter how hard I prayed for one. The driver pulled the door closed.

I felt someone plop down in the seat beside me. A boy had his hand out for me to shake. “Hey!” he said. “My name’s Jack. I’m new. Mind if I sit here?” I looked around to see if this happy guy was making a scene, but nobody seemed to notice us, or care.

“I guess you sit here every day,” he said. I’d never seen him before, and I was always the first student on the bus. I wouldn’t have missed him getting on.

Jack talked a blue streak till he got off next to Saint Michael’s Church. All that week, we rode together and had a grand time.

The next week, my friend wasn’t on the bus. But by then, I was used to making conversation. I looked at the other kids. Talk to them. Valentina, a girl who got off at Jack’s stop, was a good start.

“Have you seen Jack today?” I asked her. She looked confused. “The loud boy who sits with me? He gets off at your stop.”

“I don’t know who you could be talking about,” she said. While Valentina and I tried to solve the mystery, she and I eventually became friends. None of the other kids at the St. Michael’s stop knew of Jack either. Only me.

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The Angel of Times Square

Posted on by Jennie Wilson

New York City never gets dark at night, not the way it does in the country. That’s one thing that always fascinates me whenever I make the seven-hour trip from Lynchburg, Virginia. But by the time my two friends and I hopped off the Circle Line boat tour, the meatpacking district was a ghost town.

The bright lights of Times Square, where we were heading for dinner, seemed far away. “Doesn’t the city make you nervous?” one of my friends asked as we walked to the bus terminal.

The Big Apple could be overwhelming for folks not used to it, but I came up often. I loved everything from the serenity of Central Park to the views from the Statue of Liberty’s pointed crown, from the stars on Broadway to the street performers of Washington Square Park.

I knew if we kept walking we’d hit civilization.

But the streets remained empty. Not even a cab passed by. I sent up a silent prayer.

“What are you ladies doing around here this late?” a voice asked. “It’s not safe.”

I jumped. It was a street vender, pushing his hot pretzel cart along the potholed street. It rattled so much on the uneven asphalt, it was a wonder I hadn’t heard him approach. I told him our destination. “Follow me,” he said.

For some reason, I knew we could trust him. We walked with him for several blocks, until we reached the bus to Times Square. Soon we’d be back in the hustle and bustle, back in the light. “You’ll be okay now,” he said.

My friends and I crossed the street. I turned to wave goodbye. He was gone. I hadn’t even heard his pretzel cart rattle away.

Download your FREE ebook, Angel Sightings: 7 Inspirational Stories About Heavenly Angels and Everyday Angels on Earth.

The Angel Museum

Posted on by joanwanderson

Perhaps the largest collection of angels in the entire world resides in Beloit, Wisconsin, in a lovely restored church. It’s a testimony to people working together—and God’s special and perfect timing.

When Joyce Berg and her husband stopped at a small store while on vacation in 1976, they were enthralled with the angels featured there. They bought a few that day, and through the next twenty-some years, the couple added more until they had several thousand! By now, people were coming to see these beautiful and unique treasures, and Joyce was running out of room as well as energy.

At the same time, Beloit was going through a renovation, and most of the older buildings in the area had already been demolished. The church, vacant for 10 years, was scheduled to be razed too, but the few parishioners left began to fundraise in order to keep it.

In one of the sweetest of heavenly coincidences, enough money was raised to turn the church into the Angel Museum, which opened in 1998. Today the museum accommodates sightseeing buses from every state, and Oprah Winfrey donated 700 black angels to the 10,000 estimated items in the museum.

I’ve been to the museum, and found it to be a place of peace and beauty. Check out the video, and make your travel plans!