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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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Soundscapes for Restorative Sleep and Mindfulness 

In the hustle of daily life, finding moments of peace and tranquility can sometimes feel like an impossible dream...

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How Her Grandmother’s Vintage Sewing Machine Came to the Rescue

Posted on by Emily Beliles

I wasn’t sure whether my grandmother’s old sewing machine would still work. After much fumbling around, I finally got the bobbin threaded. I pressed lightly on the pedal and the old motor began to hum, whirring to life again. The little needle moved up and down, but then, all of a sudden, it stopped. Jammed. The stitches were a jumbled knot of threads. What had I done wrong? How could I get Grandma’s machine working again?

My mother and sister had gone through Grandma’s belongings after her memorial service and decided on the sewing machine for me. I wasn’t sure I was the right person for it, though. I hadn’t sewn since taking a class in high school. This would take some experimenting.

I opened the built-in drawer to find Grandma’s stash of bobbins, still strung with old pieces of thread. I held her tomato-shaped pincushion and thought of all the memories wrapped up in this machine. Grandma had become a seamstress out of necessity. As a missionary in Africa in the 1960s with four small children to clothe, she’d quickly learned how to sew almost everything they needed. Even my mother’s prom dress was a “Clara Golden original,” sewn entirely by my grandmother on her little machine in the Congo.

When my grandparents moved back to the States after 30 years of service, Grandma kept up with her sewing. She made matching Easter dresses for my sister and me, costumes for our school festivals, Christmas stockings with our names on them. She was always in search of a new project, whether it was teaching inmates at the women’s prison in our town or sewing dresses for orphans. But for the last several years of her life, dementia had left a withdrawn and silent woman in place of the strong, opinionated, loving grandmother I’d known.

To honor Grandma’s memory, I wanted a project to help people the way she had. With the stay-at home order in place because of Covid-19, I certainly had the time. So I dug out Grandma’s machine to sew masks. But first I had to get the machine working.

I ran my hand over the top to be sure I’d dusted it. And I noticed something I hadn’t before: a tiny stick-on label with “Clara Golden” printed on it. Just reading my grandmother’s name filled me with a new determination. I logged onto my computer to research how to get the machine going again. If Grandma could do it then, I could do it now. After hours of digging through old black-and-white manuals and vintage sewing tutorials online, I threaded the machine one last time. I held my breath and pressed down on the pedal. Hurrah! It worked!

I ordered 15 yards of red-, white- and blue patterned cotton and read up on how to stitch masks. In no time, my fingers were flying, steadily moving material under the very cooperative needle. When I had sewn enough masks for family and friends, I kept going. I listened to the familiar whir of the machine that had filled Grandma’s ears for so many years, and I felt her presence. With Grandma’s loving spirit right there beside me, I delivered nearly 100 masks to a hard-hit hospital in the area. Quite a big job for an old sewing machine.

A staff member met me outside to receive the donation. “Thank you,” she said, not knowing that any thanks for my efforts belonged to Grandma, who provided the inspiration. And to God, who provided the little machine that could.

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

How Her Family’s Heirloom Quilts Brought Her Happiness

Posted on by Gloria Urian

One day I entered an antiques shop and saw the most enchanting bedroom on display.

The white iron bed was heavy with pieced and appliquéd quilts. A bow tie pattern stitched in a palette of blues. Flowers created with vibrant pinks and greens. Patchwork quilts and quilts with girls in sunbonnets. Next to the bed was an open pie safe chest overflowing with bolts of fabric. Beautiful calico I could dye or print on. Polished cottons. Atop the cozy bed sat a wicker basket with spool after spool of bright threads. Hanging above it was a sign with the words BLESSED ARE THE PIECEMAKERS. The scene pulled me in like a good story; I wanted to live there.

My family had had beautiful quilts like these—once. I never knew my grandmother, but I knew all about her quilts. Back in the day, people talked about those quilts for miles around. Her applique and pieced works. Her artistic selection of fabrics. Her intricate, even stitches. She created those quilts in the way that she lived her very life, one loving detail at a time. Few things are more personal than handmade objects, and Grandma’s quilts symbolized home itself—blankets wrap a body in warmth, but quilts wrap it in love. They would be cherished heirlooms…if only my family had held onto them.

The quilts had been gone for years. My grandmother had died in the Depression, when my mother was four and her sister, my aunt Joy, was five. Their mama got very sick, and one day she went to the hospital and never came home. That meant their daddy, an electrician for the coal company, had two little girls to take care of all by himself.

Swallowing his pride, Granddaddy approached a neighbor named Mabel. He had an offer, or rather, a plea. “I’m desperate. I need someone who will love my daughters as a mother would,” he told her. “I don’t have money, but I could pay you in my late wife’s quilts if you’ll accept them.”

Mabel agreed and was a wonderful caretaker for my mother and her sister. “Aunt” Mabel became part of the family. Of course I was glad she had come to the rescue of those motherless children, but I couldn’t help but wish we hadn’t given her those quilts. Looking at the display in the antiques store, I felt the loss more keenly than ever.

The next day, I met my mother and Aunt Joy for lunch and told them all about it. “If we could just see those quilts again, my heart would be happy,” I said.

“Maybe we could even buy them back,” Aunt Joy said. “I’d love nothing more than to have something my mother made with her own hands. The last I heard, Mabel was working as a cook at a hospital. It couldn’t hurt to make a few calls.”

We started there and followed every lead. We called the phone numbers we had for our old neighbors. When we couldn’t find them, we found their children and grandchildren, who gave us other numbers to try. Finally, after weeks of searching, we found a close friend of Mabel’s who told us she was living in a nursing home, suffering from dementia. And he told us even more.

“Before Mabel fell ill, she told me about your family and those quilts. She always intended to give them back to you one day. I know right where they are. She took good care of them.”

Of course we saw that she had. They were in perfect condition. Aunt Joy’s husband fixed it so that she could hang one of the pieced quilts on her living room wall, like the one-of-a-kind art it was. My mother and sisters and I took home the wonderful appliquéd ones.

I keep my quilt on my guest room bed, and I tell my visitors my family’s story. That sign in the antiques store made the perfect biblical reference, BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS. For that’s what Aunt Mabel at long last brought to my heart.

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How Faith Overrode an Expectant Mother’s Fears

Posted on by Cherol Pederson

Christmas Eve service was beautiful. The deep red, velvety poinsettias on the altar, the soft and warm glow of the candles, the choir singing “Silent Night.” I’d never had so much to be thankful for. After five years of hoping and praying that this would be the month, I was finally pregnant through in-vitro fertilization. My husband, Tony, and I had gotten the news the first week of December. Just in time for Christmas, all my wishes had come true. Now all I had to do was wait for our child to be born. I leaned against Tony, sitting next to me, and put my head on his shoulder.

While the minister read the story of the first Christmas thousands of years ago. I imagined what Mary must have felt that night, waiting for the child God had promised her. No matter how scared she was, traveling all the way to Bethlehem, she knew God was watching over her and her baby. On our way out of the church, I paused for one last look at the Nativity and thanked God again for our blessing. “What a Christmas this is,” I said to Tony.

Back at home I played with my sister Carol’s five-year-old son, Michael, looking forward to waking up with a child in the house on Christmas morning. Michael eagerly examined the stockings hung on the fireplace. One for each of us, I pointed out to him, and one more for the baby. “You’re going to have a cousin very soon,” I told him.

I felt myself flinch. Something didn’t feel right. I excused myself and discovered I was bleeding. While everyone else was distracted in the other room, I called the doctor and described what was happening. He said not to panic. “The best thing is to take it easy. Get a good night’s rest,” he said. “We’ll do a thorough exam at your next checkup.”

When my nephew was tucked into bed and Tony was putting gifts under the tree, I helped Carol set out cookies on the fireplace and sprinkle flour on the floor to make Santa’s footsteps. I took advantage of the moment we were alone to tell her what was happening. “I don’t want to worry Tony unnecessarily, but I’m scared to death.”

“Trust the doctor,” she said. “And God. It sounds like it’s important to stay calm.” Carol bowed her head and prayed for me. I tried to draw comfort from it, but found myself looking over at the fireplace, at the stocking hanging limp and empty. Will I ever be a mother?

I went up to bed to wait for Tony. When I told him, he tried to be reassuring, but I could see he was scared too. How could I trust that anyone was in control?

After the holidays Carol came with me to the checkup. The nurse got me comfortable on the exam table. Lying there, I thought back on that Christmas Eve service. I tried to conjure up the soft glow of the candles, the voices in the choir, the image of Mary in the manger with her baby. What I really tried to conjure up was the faith I’d had that night. A faith that God was watching over me. Now it seemed all I had was doubts.

“Listen to that beautiful heartbeat!” the nurse declared. “Your baby is doing fine.”

Carol squeezed my hand. I was flooded with relief, but still worried something else would go wrong. The doctor tried to calm me. “Many women bleed during pregnancy early on,” he said. “Just lie low. Get plenty of sleep. Let someone else carry your groceries. Don’t run around after your nephew or pick him up. Your baby is growing stronger every day.”

I followed the doctor’s orders and got as much rest as I could. All through January and February and into March. At the end of my first trimester Tony and I were driving along the highway looking at the late winter sunshine shining through the trees. I remembered those candles from Christmas Eve and felt my spirits lifting. Nothing like the same strong faith I’d experienced on Christmas Eve, but hope.

When I got out of the car, Tony glanced down at the seat. “Cherol,” he said. “Honey, you’re bleeding.”

We drove to the doctor. He took every precaution, examined me carefully. “The fetus implanted low,” he said. “Not uncommon with in vitro. But the heartbeat is strong. Some women bleed throughout pregnancy and deliver healthy children.”

I wanted to believe him. But no matter what the doctor said, I was sure I was going to lose the baby. Back at home, lying in bed, gazing at a dense fog pressing in at the window, I tried to pray. “I know this child is yours to give and yours to take home,” I said. Then I broke down. My faith was worse than shaky. God knew it. I had nothing like Mary’s faith that first Christmas Eve. How could I expect him to listen to me? Or protect my baby? “I am weak,” I cried out. “I’ve lost my faith!”

In the quiet, God seemed to answer. I didn’t hear a voice, but I did hear what he said: “I don’t need your faith to perform a miracle.”

I lay there, awestruck, letting the words sink in. He is with me, I thought. God was with me just as he had been with Mary. He was present in exactly the same way. No matter how helpless I felt, God was as powerful as ever. Every birth was a miracle. No matter how much the mother doubted what God could do.

I stayed in bed for the next couple of weeks, just as the doctor advised. Eventually he said I could walk around. I did light housework, played with Michael. I followed the doctor’s orders not to push myself too hard, but I no longer doubted that God was watching over me. If I felt a twinge or had a cramp, I didn’t panic. I called the doctor, took it easy, trusted that God was in control. Finally came the day in August when our son, Kjell, was born. Christmas was months away, but I knew that when it arrived Kjell’s stocking would be full and the Christmas service would be more beautiful than the year before.

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How Doves Helped Her Overcome Her Grief

Posted on by Jeannie Hughes

Snow clung to the wintery branches of the wisteria climbing the trellises in our backyard. Gazing out the kitchen window with my husband, Roger, I thought, I know exactly how it felt to be frozen in that bitterness. We had just returned from burying our 21-year-old son, Steven. But even with Roger by my side, I felt alone in my grief. Isolated from him, Isolated from God.

Only a few nights ago, Steven had come over for dinner. He lived just five miles away in our small town. Roger and I had hugged and kissed him goodbye, never imagining it was for the last time. The next morning, Steven was on his way to work when his car hit a patch of black ice and slammed into a tree.

As I looked out at the yard, my mind flooded with visions of our son over the years: Steven laughing, throwing snowballs at his big sister. Steven climbing the monkey bars on the swing set, sliding down the slide, chasing our dogs.

A flutter of wings grabbed my attention. A mourning dove landed on a branch of the wisteria. Then another dove, and another, their pale gray feathers beautiful against the snow.

“I’ve never seen a mourning dove in our yard,” I said. “Only in town.”

“Seven of them,” Roger said. “God’s perfect number.”

“Right,” I said, wincing. What was Roger implying?

I was startled when he began to pray. “Oh, Lord, if these doves are a symbol of your grace, sent on the saddest day of our lives, please let us feel your comfort.”

At that moment the sky filled with doves; they descended over the yard, lining every branch of the wisteria. With no place left to land, some floated above the cold ground. Soft coos filled the air. We watched in silence, mesmerized, for several minutes, until they suddenly flew back up into the sky, gray wings ablur.

“That’s it,” Roger said. “God has given us a sign.”

“Of what?” I said. I turned away from the window, feeling numb. How was Roger able to find comfort in the doves when all I saw was a bunch of birds?

Over the next two years a few doves visited our late-winter yard, but nothing like on the day of Steven’s funeral. Roger reminded me often of the flock we’d seen, still sure it was a message of consolation, but I felt nothing. The bitterness in my heart had not melted. How I wished I could find the solace that my husband found in his faith!

I stopped going to church. 
I continued to pray, but now my prayers consisted mostly of questioning God. I asked over and over how he could have taken our son from us. My despair intensified until I was frozen in a debilitating depression. At my family’s urging, I forced myself to see a grief counselor.


My healing began with a gradual understanding that what had happened to Steven was not God’s fault, but just a terrible accident. I realized that ultimately my tears weren’t for Steven, but for myself, for what I’d lost. I returned to church. I no longer felt isolated from Roger in my grief. I no longer felt isolated from God.

One morning in early spring, I looked out at the backyard and saw another flutter of wings. A mourning dove settled on a wisteria branch budding with purple flowers. Its return marked the end of winter—and my own release from the bitterness that had gripped me for so long. God was with me, offering me comfort, and I was finally able to accept it.

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How Does God Speak to Us in Our Dreams?

Posted on by Rick Hamlin

Ever try to figure out what your dreams mean? I scribble mine down first thing in the morning, when I can still remember them. Later I look at what I’ve written and wonder, What in the world is this dream saying to me? No doubt about it, God speaks to us in our dreams. That’s clear from countless biblical examples. But on a recent rereading of the book of Daniel, I was reminded that even an expert at dream interpretation, like him, sometimes needed angelic help.

The first thing that always comes to mind about Daniel is his being thrown into the lions’ den. A gifted and talented observant Jew, he was asked to serve more than one Persian king during the time of the Babylonian captivity. His enemies at court, jealous of his power, conspired against him by creating a law that anyone who prayed to anyone other than the king would be thrown before the lions.

No way was Daniel going to deny his God. He was called out, and the king was forced to observe the law. A stone sealed the mouth of the den that held his loyal servant—and the lions. The next day the king hurried to see what had happened. There was Daniel, alive and hardy, praising God and acknowledging the angel that had held shut the lions’ mouths. Daniel emerged from the den unscathed. His enemies at court weren’t so lucky when the king had his way with them.

So many popular expressions come from the book of Daniel. Feet of clay, for instance, refers to the dream King Nebuchadnezzar had. In the dream he saw a huge statue with a head of gold, chest and arms of silver, thighs of bronze, legs of iron, and those feet, well, partly iron and partly clay. Daniel’s interpretation was that Nebuchadnezzar, with all his power, would still contend with vulnerabilities. Feet of clay.

Or consider the expression the writing is on the wall, referring to a forecast of coming doom. At this point in the story, Nebuchadnezzar’s son Belshazzar has become king. In his father’s conquest of Jerusalem they had stolen the vessels of gold and silver from the temple, and the king and his mistresses and wives and lords were using them to drink wine and praise false gods. Until the fingers of a human hand appear out of nowhere and begin writing on the palace’s plaster wall.

Who can read this foreign writing? Who can interpret what it says? Daniel is sent for and risks all to tell the truth. As he reports, things do not look good for Belshazzar. Not by a long shot. He has not humbled himself before God and has misused the sacred vessels. His days were numbered. In fact, even after quickly promoting Daniel in a desperate attempt to save himself, King Belshazzar dies that very night. So much for reading the writing on the wall.

There is another wonderful story in the book about how an angel—or maybe it was God himself—appeared in a fiery furnace and rescued Daniel’s compatriots, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. When these three young men did not bow and worship a mighty golden statue that the king had set up, they were escorted into the inferno, whose heat was increased sevenfold. If I imagine my own oven, often set at 350 degrees, we’re talking about 2,450 degrees! The escorts were immediately obliterated. But as the king watched from above the flames, he saw Daniel’s three friends walking through the fiery furnace—with a fourth in their midst, a fourth who had the appearance of a god. The three young men were released, not a hair on their heads singed, their tunics hardly damaged. The king is forced to praise not only the God who protected them and walked with them but also the angel who was sent to deliver them.

What I find especially impressive about Daniel is that he doesn’t solely interpret the dreams of kings; he can actually recount one before it’s even been recounted. He possesses that kind of mind. No wonder he was granted such privilege and power. So it comes as a bit of a relief to me when, toward the latter part of the book, in chapter eight, Daniel reveals that he too can be flummoxed by a dream. Not one from a king this time, but one of his own.

In this dream he sees a ram standing beside the river. The ram has two horns, one longer than the other. All beasts were powerless to withstand this ram, who did as it pleased. Until the ram came upon a goat with one horn between its eyes (that proverbial locus of inner vision). The goat threw the ram to the ground and trampled it. In the scuffle, the goat’s great horn was broken, and four more horns, marking the four winds of heaven, grew in its place.

Wouldn’t you be baffled? Just reading it, I’m clueless (as I often am when I study one of those dreams I’ve scrawled in the morning). And so was Daniel. The dream goes on, as dreams often do, and Daniel doesn’t know what to make of it. He can’t understand it at all. Then a figure appears before him. Who is it?

It’s an angel, of course. To confirm, Daniel hears a voice saying, “Gabriel, help this man understand the vision.” None other than Gabriel—the angel Gabriel—was sent to help Daniel interpret his dream. As we’ve seen before and will see again in the Good Book, Daniel—even visionary Daniel—is overcome with fear and falls down prostrate before God’s messenger. (Note to self: The appearance of an angel can initially be quite frightening.)

Gabriel describes what the dream means in more mundane terms. (Second note to self: Angels can be quite practical.) The horns of the ram represent the kings of Media and Persia. The goat with a single horn represents the king of Greece. The four horns that grow from the single horn predict the four kingdoms that will arise when the king’s vast land is conquered and divided. A bit of history foreshadowed.

I find all of this oddly reassuring. To think of my own life, to think of our own history and all the prognostications that are made by experts, and to realize that in the end God has the last word, God has the ultimate understanding. We might see “through a glass darkly” in this life, as the Apostle Paul put it, but in the next, there is the promise of clear vision.

In the meantime, I continue to record my dreams, and I turn to others to understand them, talking to a therapist or a friend, consulting a book or listening to what might come to me in meditative prayer. God does speak to us in our dreams. But don’t be shy about asking for help to understand what he might be saying. Angels are here to lend a hand.

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How Constant Prayer Gave Her a Miracle Baby

Posted on by Angie Atkinson

“We’re all finished,” said the doctor. “But you’ll have to lie there another twenty minutes or so before you can go.”

I felt my body relax. The hard part was over, now I just had to wait. I was used to waiting. After all, infertility itself was a waiting game.

Beside me sat my husband, Eli. He’d been there throughout the procedure, his comforting presence giving me strength. Once the doctor had left the room, Eli took my hand. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“Okay,” I said. “It didn’t hurt at all.” I’d read as much when I did my own research on IUI—intrauterine insemination—in the weeks since the doctor had suggested the procedure.

After several years of trying for a baby with no results, Eli and I made an appointment to see a fertility specialist. There was no obvious reason why we couldn’t conceive, especially since we’d done it before.

Our son, Colin, had just turned four and almost every day he asked us for a sibling—a brother or sister, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t picky. Neither was I. Eli and I had always intended to have another child. But every time I got my hopes up, I was disappointed. At this point, hope itself was becoming painful.

The specialist finally found the problem when she asked Eli for a sample. The likelihood of us conceiving on our own was less than half of one percent. Even if this procedure went off without a hitch, our chances only increased to two percent. Colin had been no small miracle. I knew we couldn’t count on receiving another one.

“You can get up now, Angie,” the doctor said when she re-entered the room. Please, God, I prayed as I slipped out of the cotton hospital gown and back into my clothes. I would love just one more miracle.

Before we left, the doctor stopped us. “We’ll know in a couple of weeks,” she said. “But I’m going to be honest with you. You shouldn’t get your hopes up.”

I’d told myself that 100 times. But it was like telling me not to pray. What else did I have? Eli and I went home, spirits dim. We tried not to say aloud what I was sure we were both thinking: This was never going to work.

The next morning, I put on a happy face for Colin. We hadn’t told him about the doctor’s appointment and what it could mean. The last thing we wanted was for him to get his hopes up. Dealing with my own struggles to stay realistic seemed like enough.

Colin and I were driving across town to the library to return some books when he piped up from the back seat. “Mom, when I get my sister, she’s going to sit right here,” he said. Sister? I glanced in the rearview mirror as he pointed to the spot next to him.

My voice caught in my throat. “Oh, yeah, buddy?” I finally said, trying hard to keep my tone cheerful. “You think so?” But Colin didn’t let up. He continued to talk about his “sister” as if she were already on the way. It was hard to dismiss his enthusiasm, his certainty. Hope was a dangerous emotion to indulge in, yet there it was, working its way into my heart, despite the doctor’s orders.

I couldn’t wait out the month. I broke down and bought an over-the-counter pregnancy test. I kept telling myself it would be negative. I had to be prepared for the worst. But when there was one line instead of two, it still felt like a punch to the gut. I’d been hoping for a miracle in spite of myself. In vitro fertilization was the next step, but it was out of our budget. This was our last chance. The time for hope was truly over. My prayer now was for acceptance. Colin would grow out of his imaginary sister. How could I?

By month’s end, though, there was still no sign of my period. Since the pregnancy test I’d bought came in a pack of two, I tore open the second. Why do you want to torture yourself like this? I thought. Of course it was negative again. Or was it? Was there a faint second line? My heart raced. The longer the test sat, the clearer the second line became. I took a picture with my phone and sent it to my husband to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating, that I wasn’t just getting my hopes up again to have them come crashing back down.

I wasn’t. A blood test at the doctor’s office confirmed it. I was pregnant! And eight months later, I gave birth to the little sister Colin had already saved a seat for.

How a Snow Angel Changed Her Parenting Perspective

Posted on by Diane Stark

“Jordan! Julia!” I called, pouring orange juice so fast that it splashed on the table. “Get dressed right away—we’re late!” I hadn’t been a single mom for all that long, but I’d been optimistic about the new year. For my children’s sake, I’d sworn I was going to be the best I could be, and I’d had the whole Christmas vacation to get us organized for the first day back to school after the holidays. But I had overslept, and we were racing to get ready, as usual.

Breakfast was rushed, and we bundled up for a snowy day. I held the door while Jordan, in kindergarten, and his little sister Julia, in preschool, ran to the car. Everybody buckled up, and we were off. I kept to the speed limit but wished time would slow. God, I’m already messing up.

In the back seat, Jordan unzipped his backpack. “All my Christmas stuff is still in here,” he said. “You forgot to clean it out over break.”

What could I say? I was the same imperfect me as always. “I’ll clean it out right after school today,” I said. “I promise.”

We arrived at school 10 minutes late. Too late to slip in unnoticed, not late enough to have a good excuse, like an early morning doctor’s appointment or impassable roads. I’d have to sign the kids in under the secretary’s watchful eye. She slid a clipboard to me across her desk. Why don’t they just let us check a column for Good Mom or Bad Mom? I thought as I wrote Overslept. I left the office feeling as if I had a big F stamped on my forehead.

I did manage to pick up Julia on time when her half day of preschool was over. She made snow angels in the yard as I caught up on the laundry. Later that afternoon we went to get Jordan. I helped him with his homework and left him to play in his room. Laundry will be done soon, I thought. Wait! Don’t forget to clean out that backpack. I didn’t want Jordan to have to remind me again.

I pulled out some Christmas cards, a colored picture of Santa, a baggie full of sparkles and bits of oats. There was a note stapled to the baggie: “Empty this bag outside on Christmas Eve to give Santa’s reindeer a snack!”

I imagined the fun we all might have had sprinkling the “reindeer food” outside on Christmas Eve. Too late now, I thought with a sigh. Again.

I put the baggie in the trash and went back to the laundry. I was folding some towels when Julia came in, the plastic baggie of reindeer food dangling from her hand. “We need to put this outside,” she said.

Oh, no. “I’m sorry, honey,” I said. “It’s too late now.”

Julia grabbed my hand and tugged me outside. It felt like being dragged back to the school office: Reason for not feeding Santa’s reindeer? Forgot to clean out backpack. Bad Mom.

Out in the yard, Julia pointed to the ground. Her snow angels decorated the whole yard. She opened the baggie. “I need to make their wings sparkle,” she said.

Julia walked, then danced around the yard, sprinkling glitter on all her angels’ wings. As I watched her, my feelings of inadequacy began to fade away. Julia probably wouldn’t remember the school office this morning, but she would definitely remember a yard covered in sparkling angels. Angels that never could have happened if I hadn’t forgotten about that backpack. And Jordan would be pleased when he unzipped it tomorrow. Maybe my kids didn’t need a new mom after all. Maybe Mom just needed a new attitude.

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How a Regal Angel Escorted My Mother to Heaven

Posted on by Carol Duquette

It was late. It had been a hard day for my siblings and me—one we knew was coming. But the day hadn’t gone at all how we’d planned. I tossed and turned in bed, thinking about Mom’s last minutes here on earth, dying all alone in her hospice room. More than anything, we all had wanted someone to be with her when she took her last breath.

Our 89-year-old mother had been slipping away for the past two months. We knew she didn’t have much time left, so we’d come up with a schedule to make sure one of us was by her side. Today had been my day, but my brother and sister showed up as well. “I can’t explain it,” Gary said. “I just couldn’t stay away.” Bonnie had the same feeling. It seemed as if the Lord had drawn us all there together for a reason. We gathered around Mom’s bed, waiting. We asked one of the nurses if she thought we should stay the night.

“It’s hard to say,” she said gently.

“It could be days yet. We can’t predict when someone will feel the peace of that final goodbye and be ready.”

We finally left Mom in good care, but I got the call not 15 minutes later. Mom was gone. My siblings and I rushed back to grieve together.

Now, at home, I couldn’t sleep. I rolled over, staring at the ceiling. If only we’d waited, I thought. What if Mom had spent her final moments searching desperately for a familiar face, looking for comfort and unable to find it? Had I let her down?

All I could do was pray until I fell asleep and found myself in a vivid dream. I was lying in a bed, one I recognized. Whenever I stayed overnight with Mom in her old apartment, we both slept in her bedroom. But Mom wasn’t there beside me in the dream. She was standing on her dresser. “Mom, what are you—?”

A figure stood beside her. A man, dark-skinned and wearing rich, colorful robes. He looked regal, with a strange, otherworldly air about him. He acknowledged me with a bow of his head, then turned to Mom, taking her hand.

I watched, amazed, as they ascended, weightless. Up and up. Mom spared me one last loving look before they disappeared through the ceiling. Stunned, I looked around the room, searching for answers. My eyes lighted upon something on Mom’s side of the bed. It was her hospital gown—the one she’d been wearing when she died—crumpled and discarded. Where she was going, she had no more need of it.

I awoke that next morning with a profound sense of peace. The same peace Mom must have felt after she had said her final goodbye to all three of her children before going off to heaven. We hadn’t left her alone at all. An angel escort was there waiting for her to be ready.

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How a Pinterest Board Eased Her Grief

Posted on by Gwendolyn Odom Burton

I snuggled in my favorite corner of the sofa, scrolling through other people’s Pinterest collections on my phone, searching for decorating ideas to freshen up my home. At least that’s what I told myself I was doing. The heaviness that weighed on me when I stopped my scroll said otherwise. “Why can’t I let this go?” I asked myself.

My eyes locked on the collection I’d amassed, a Pinterest board I’d titled “Me and My Future Grandchildren.” Now it saddened me every time I looked at it. “God, please help me,” I whispered.

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Pinterest served as a kind of digital bulletin board, a place to collect favorite images I’d found on the internet. I fixed my gaze on a photo of a woman about my age holding a young girl aloft in an artful pose I would have loved to imitate. Another was of an older woman, happily doing her stretching exercises with a baby in her lap. I’d saved plenty of ideas about how to share my fitness routines with a grandchild of my own. I’d “pinned” dozens of heartwarming sayings too: “Blessed are those who spoil and snuggle, hug and hope, pray and pamper, for they shall be called grandparents.” And “Lord, I lift my grandchildren to you.”

These were things I’d never be able to do. It had been two years since my 26-year-old son, Miles, had passed away and with him my dreams of becoming a grandmother, of seeing my family’s legacy continue. My sense of worth faded with my dream. I’d always been a fixture at the gym and active at church, where I served as an elder and a member of the choir. But without the hope of grandchildren, my life felt empty. More than once I’d thought of simply deleting this board and all that it meant to me. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, it tormented me daily with thoughts of dreams forever lost.

I put my phone facedown in my lap and reached for a cup of herbal tea on the end table beside me, desperately seeking solace. “Let me move forward today,” I prayed, though I couldn’t imagine this day being any different from the rest.

Miles was my husband Bob’s and my younger child. Our older son would likely not be able to father children, and so I had pinned all my hopes on Miles. Being a mother had given me such joy, such purpose. When the boys grew into adults, I’d assumed a new role as keeper of our family’s story, our place in the world. I’d researched our genealogy with the idea of nurturing our ancestral tree for future generations.

And Miles had encouraged me in my quest. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he was always telling me. “When I get married, I’m gonna give you grandchildren to spoil.” Our laughter filled the room. “I can commit to three,” he’d say.

I was proud of the man he’d become. He owned his flaws, yet remained compassionate, polite, trustworthy and easygoing. Others could count on him. He excelled academically and after college worked as a financial planner.

Known for his dancing skills, one of his YouTube videos had more than 12 million views. His debonair manner, and tall, slim frame captured attention when he strolled into a room with a quiet, commanding presence. To me it was all part of who we were as a family, another branch to a tree I’d imagined growing ever more full. I looked forward to teaching my grandchildren about their roots.

I had endless stories about growing up in the Deep South, where my grandmother had reared me. Even as a girl I’d been inquisitive about my ancestors—especially my maternal side of the family. Occasionally I pulled out the cassette recorder I’d bought with my allowance so I could interview my grandmother. She explained that she could only trace back to her own grandmother, who had died in a house fire as a young mother. How I longed to learn more.

Thinking about the life journeys of all the people who came before me, of their challenges and triumphs, made me feel part of something bigger than myself, a reminder of how God had been a comfort and refuge for us down through the ages. His angels ever present, ever faithful.

As an adult I found new connections by researching my genealogy online. That’s how I learned about the possibility of getting my DNA tested from a saliva sample that could give me clues to my family’s origins from hundreds of years earlier. When the results came back, I felt like I’d unearthed buried treasure.

My ancestors, I learned, were brought over from West Africa, with DNA shared by the people of Cameroon, Nigeria, Congo and Mali. There were indications they’d been sold to slave owners in Alabama, Georgia and South Carolina. A terrible chapter and yet undeniably part of my heritage.

Online I’d combed through census records, death certificates, and birth and marriage records. Miles was always asking if I’d found anything new to add to our legacy. It had felt like we were partners in the quest.

Now on my couch, I looked again at my phone, at that Pinterest board I’d stopped adding to. Slowly my eyes took in the photos, those strong beautiful women loving on children full of life, the sayings I’d collected, each addition perfectly arranged in tiny squares. One of the quotes, near the top of the board, jumped out at me: “Before you were conceived I wanted you, before you were even born I loved you.”

I’d never really pondered the meaning of those words—how God’s love is truly forever, without beginning or end. Eternal love. Like a pebble dropped in a pond, the ripples extending beyond what the eye could capture, each ripple causing another, growing ever wider. These photos and sayings were a part of me, a celebration of beauty and strength and spirituality. Love that was still a part of me, still waiting to be shared. Even if grandchildren weren’t in my future, there was still something here to be cherished and nurtured.

I thought of the angels who had been a source of strength to my family through the generations. Of how they had surely guided me even in making this Pinterest board. My dreams. Just as my ancestors had dreamed. They hadn’t all come true, not by a long shot. But that too was part of our story.

Legacy wasn’t defined by grandchildren, or even by extended family with shared DNA. So many people had blessed my life—people at church and at the gym, friends I’d known for years, even parents I’d connected with over the grief we shared. I had touched their lives too, in ways I’d rarely stopped to appreciate. Until now. My life, the connections I’d continue to make—my legacy was still unfolding, full of opportunity. And love.

I added a joyful image to my Pinterest board to remind me of my place in the world today and my hope for the future—a future that has been carried on angel wings, dream by dream, story by story, since the dawn of creation. It’s the legacy we all share as one family, all of us the children of a loving God. My legacy held a divine promise in every tomorrow, a future God could see as perfectly arranged as the squares on my Pinterest board.

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How an Angel Rescued Her in the Aftermath of a Hurricane

Posted on by Jane Sanders

I squinted. Was that a pothole?

Turning the wheel, I guided the car around potential danger. It was early, still dark, and the back roads that wind over and around our creeks in Fredericksburg, Virginia, were tricky even in daylight. The children were at home, still asleep, but I was driving to meet my carpool, all of us government workers in Alexandria, about an hour north.

A hurricane had just blown through our area, but apart from getting to work on time, I wasn’t worried. We were fortunate, with no damage to our property, and most of the rain had already passed.

I looked down for a split second to adjust the radio—and lifted my eyes back up to see…muddy water? Taking my foot off the gas pedal, I felt the car drift as water washed over the windshield. The little creek was now a rushing river. It carried me down what was left of the road, until the water pushed my car onto its side, wedging the vehicle on an exposed cement culvert. Water poured in from all angles. I had to get out, but how would I battle this current?

Headlights shone through the dark. A woman jumped out of her car, waving her hands frantically from safe ground. “Can you swim to me if I hold out my umbrella?” she called.

With no other choice, I slipped on my shoulder bag and pulled my body through the driver’s side window, hoping against hope that my feet would find the creek bottom.

I slid out carefully, but the current immediately took hold and pushed me under into murky darkness. The scream of rushing water filled my ears. I had to get my bearings. I wasn’t tumbling through the current; I was stuck. I struggled to take a breath, but I couldn’t lift my mouth above water. Just my nose. I could see I was caught against the driveshaft near the rear axle. There was no way I could swim toward the woman’s umbrella, but I took comfort in her presence. I wasn’t alone.

The purse around my neck was choking me. I yanked it off and watched the violent current take it away. I feared where that rushing water might take me. Lord, please don’t let me suffer if I’m to die here. But if you wish me to live, send an angel to rescue me.

The faces of my children flashed through my mind. I couldn’t wait for a miracle. I had to fight for my life. I turned myself sideways, stretching my legs, searching for footing. I could find nothing through my shoes. Cold and weak, I clung to the car with every ounce of strength I had. “Get help!” I yelled to the woman at the shore. All I could do was wait. And pray. Alone. The woman sped away.

I’d never felt so tired, but just when I feared I might pass out I saw lights in the distance. The sheriff’s car, neighbors with flashlights, reporters. Everybody watched in horror, but nobody moved. They needed a plan. The river was too dangerous. I had to hold on. Fight to save yourself, I thought.

Amid the confusion, a young man stepped into the water. How could a stranger be so brave? I had to stay calm and not make our situation worse. When he reached the car I said, “I will not panic; I promise I will not panic.”

“No,” he said. “I know you won’t.” He held onto me and asked me to take off my shoes to better grip the slimy stones beneath. “I’ll help you find the creek bottom,” he said. I trusted him, and I knew that if I slipped, the river would take us both.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Chris Hawkins,” he said. “I’m your neighbor.”

A neighbor, I thought. Perhaps that’s why he was taking this risk. With his arm around my waist, Chris guided me, and soon I felt silt and stone beneath my toes. Slowly we reached the shore.

When we stepped out of the river, exhausted but safe, the media swarmed me. Voices everywhere. Was I hurt? What had happened? How had I escaped?

“Chris Hawkins saved me,” I said, looking for his face in the crowd.

He was gone.

The next morning I called my neighbors to ask if anyone happened to know where Chris lived. “Who?’ they asked.

“Hawkins. Chris Hawkins. I want to thank him again for saving me.” Not a single person had heard of him, and my brave rescuer remained a mystery.

A year later, almost to the day, I was at home with my family when the doorbell rang. Two boys stood outside.

“Is this yours, ma’am?” one asked, holding up my purse.

“Yes,” I said. “Where on earth did you find it?”

“We fished it out of the creek.”

I paid them with money from the purse, still intact, and waved goodbye. My goodness, I thought. I’m so blessed. First surviving the river, and now this timely reminder of a good neighbor.

I’d learned since that county officials had opened a levy after the hurricane swept through, which flooded the creek unexpectedly and without warning. I’d been horrified to find strips of metal all over the scene when I passed it on my way to my carpool the next day. It was a wonder that I hadn’t been ripped to shreds. Or that I could only reach the creek bottom with Chris Hawkins’s help. Once more I thanked God for this neighbor I’d never seen again, the neighbor who no one seemed to know. I recalled thinking I couldn’t wait for a miracle that day, that I had to save myself. But what else could I think now, but that God had indeed sent an angel to rescue me?

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How A Mailman and His Guardian Angel Saved A Young Girl’s Life

Posted on by Thomas Cummins

Good Friday was as good a day as any to end my decades on the job as a U.S. mail carrier. I’d been planning every aspect of my retirement for a while now—but finally I’d settled on the specific date.

“Think of all I could have been doing these past few months,” I muttered to myself when I got to work that last morning. “I could have been spending time with my wife, getting things done around the house.” Well, all that would start after today. This weekend I would celebrate Easter and our new life in retirement together.

I headed for my truck. A mechanic flagged me down. “You’ve got a different vehicle today,” he said. “We’re putting your old one up for inspection before giving it to the next carrier.”

Looks like I’ll have to say my goodbyes now, I thought, pausing by the truck I’d driven for years, tracing my route in downtown Stamford, Connecticut. So many memories. Like when the Mill River flooded the road. I had to use an old shopping cart to deliver the mail that day. Or all the dogs that had barked at me, which was better than being chased! The apartment complexes, offices and houses I’d visited. The Christmas cards, special deliveries and presents. It was strange to think of leaving it all behind. Maybe that’s why I’d put off retiring for so long.

I turned away to look for whatever temporary vehicle I’d been assigned for my last day on the job. The mechanic called me back. “Hey, you don’t want to forget this!”

He reached his arm out of the truck and dropped something in my hand. A medallion with an angel on it. “Thanks!” I said, and tucked it into my wallet. This angel had been with me almost as long as I’d had my route. I didn’t remember where she came from, but she had a permanent place on the mail truck dashboard. She watched over my route through every flood, blizzard and angry dog.

Glad I didn’t leave her behind, I thought as I found my vehicle and pulled out of the garage. I went on my way with my angel in my wallet, delivering Easter cards and goodies.

I turned onto Washington Boulevard, a four-lane highway going north. The mailboxes here were set back a little ways from the road, the houses set back farther. As I prepared to pull over to the curb, I saw a little girl running back and forth between the lanes of the highway just in front of the red light at the intersection.

I wrenched the truck into the nearest driveway and slammed the brakes. I jumped out and ran into the intersection. I had just enough time to scoop the little girl up like a sack of mail and run back to the curb before a dump truck came barreling around the corner at top speed. The driver blasted his horn as he blew past us. He’d made a right turn on red without even slowing down.

I looked at the unexpected “package” in my arms. “Thank God he didn’t hit us,” I said.

The little girl just smiled at me, not frightened at all. A second later the light changed and the road filled with speeding cars. She had no idea the danger she’d been in.

I looked around at the houses nearby and spotted one with an open screen door. I walked up the driveway and steps, holding the little girl tight in my arms. “Hello?” I called.

Nobody answered, but I could hear voices inside. An older boy came to the door. “That’s my sister,” he said. The adult voices continued chatting in the very next room. Obviously they had no idea she’d slipped out.

I handed the little girl over to the care of her big brother and carefully closed the door until I heard a firm click. “Make sure the screen door stays locked,” I said to the children. “And happy Easter.”

I walked back to my truck on shaky legs and finished my route. Back at the post office I cleaned out my locker and swiped my time card one last time. I said goodbye to my supervisor and coworkers, but I brought my guardian angel with me into my new life. All that time I’d put off retiring. Now I knew why.

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How a Guardian Snow Angel Saved Her

Posted on by Nancy Saint John

Hours before dawn, I awoke to a magical sound: the crunching metallic clatter of rolling tires outfitted with snow chains. It’s snowing! I thought. I leaped out of bed and ran to the window. Beneath the glow of the streetlamp, our road and yard in Raleigh, North Carolina, were blanketed with pristine white snow. School would be closed today—no question—and I was going to make it the best day ever.

My friend Peggy called when it was daylight. “Bring your sled,” she ordered. “A bunch of us are meeting in the woods above Cedar Creek.”

The woods were only a block behind our house, but I wondered if they’d be too dense for sledding. “Cedar Creek?” I repeated to be sure.

“Yep, that’s the spot. See you in an hour!” Peggy said and hung up.

I inhaled a bowl of cereal, threw on my snow clothes and called goodbye to my mother. Dad was a traveling salesman who was home only on the weekends. My grandmother was resting in her room. My sister had her own plans with a friend, including a sleepover. Perfect, I thought. I’d have the whole day to myself.

By the time I was outside, pulling my sled around the block, the sky had cleared to a brilliant blue and the snow glistened on the needles of the towering pines. I heard whoops and yells coming from the woods above the creek. I was pretty shocked when I saw who Peggy was sledding with. The two of us usually did our best to avoid Nicky and Larry. But today the boys had carved out a few challenging sled runs around the steep bowl of a tree-covered hill.

I watched the three of them maneuver their way down the death-defying trails. “C’mon. Bring your sled over here,” Nicky said. “This run is the best.”

I took his advice and with a deep breath, plopped down on my sled, trying to work up my courage. A grown-up would most likely say it was too dangerous, but out here on my own…

“I’ll help you,” Larry said. He shoved me hard from behind.

I shrieked as my sled shot forward at breakneck speed. Grabbing the rope, I steered the sled around huge pines as I barreled down the slope into the small meadow at the base. That meadow was all there was to stop me from crashing into the creek. My eyes opened wide. I pulled up on the rope. My sled slowed to a stop. I had made it—and I couldn’t wait to do it again!

All day we careened downhill, belting out “I’m Popeye the Sailor Man,” and other cartoon songs as we tramped back up to the top. I stopped counting our runs. We were having so much fun, we forgot about lunch. It was late afternoon and starting to get dark when we finally thought about the time.

“So long,” we called to each other as we headed off in different directions. “Best sledding day ever!”

Walking home alone, a new reality set in. The temperature seemed to fall as fast as the disappearing winter sun. I decided to cut through neighbors’ yards instead of hauling my sled on the icy road. My shortcut wasn’t much easier. Struggling through foot-deep snow, I suddenly felt the effects of a full day of sledding. Fatigue crept over my body and mind. My clothes and hair were drenched, and I shivered from exertion and cold. I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since that bowl of cereal.

“This is impossible,” I muttered. The deep snow was now covered in a thin layer of ice, and my sled was getting heavier by the second.

It was a relief when I finally plodded into the Brooks’s backyard. Just two houses away from home, I thought. But those two houses might as well have been two miles. I couldn’t force another foot forward. Dropping onto my sled was a deliriously inviting idea.

“I’ll just rest here for a minute,” I told myself. “Just for a minute.”

I could see Mrs. Brooks at her kitchen window. It was a comforting sight, even though she couldn’t possibly see me freezing in the dark. But it relaxed me enough that I curled up on my sled, rested my head on my arm, closed my eyes….

“Wake up!”

I opened my eyes and lifted my head. The female voice that commanded me was loud and firm. I looked around the yard—nobody was there. No one except Mrs. Brooks, who could still be seen in her kitchen.

“Who’s there?” I called out. No answer. I must have been dreaming, I decided, and lowered my head.

“Get up! Right now!” the lady insisted. She didn’t sound angry, but her tone was urgent—like my mother might sound if I overslept for school.

I forced myself to sit up. I wanted to tell this noisy woman to let me sleep. But what woman? Where? Even in the darkness, I could see I was the only living soul in the Brooks’s backyard. But someone wasn’t going to allow me to have a moment’s peace.

I pulled myself up and reached for the rope of my sled. That’s when it hit me: Who was here to help me? Mrs. Brooks would never hear me if I called out. Dad was working out of town. My sister was at a friend’s. Grandma wouldn’t notice my absence, and Mother probably thought I was already safe in my bedroom, worn out from a day of activity. Not one person in this earthly realm was concerned about me or would ever think to come looking for me here. I forced myself to make it the rest of the way home.

Nobody noticed when I finally dragged my wet, weary body through the front door. My family didn’t know I was in danger, and I didn’t know enough to worry about hypothermia. But God knew it all and sent a guardian snow angel to protect me.

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