Saved by an Angel (15 page)

He told me not to worry and that we would meet again. Walter then took my hands in his. He again told me that everything was going to be all right and not to worry and said that he loved me. He gave me a big hug, kissed me on my left cheek, and told me to have a merry Christmas with my family and friends. Then he turned around and walked out of the room.

I stood there for a few moments trying to take it all in. I realized that the woman sitting at the table had gotten up at some point and had walked to the other end of the room. She returned to the table and rejoined me. I said to her, “That man was so amazing and kind. I want to come back and visit him again.”

She looked at me and said, “Yes, he seemed very nice. It’s funny. I’ve volunteered here every day for the past three years, and that’s the first time I’ve seen him!”

D
ANCING
A
NGEL
B
OY
by Jill Wellington Schaeff

The first time I heard the song “Hands,” by pop singer Jewel, the words leaped from the radio, mesmerizing me with their wisdom. One line in particular, referencing kindness, squeezed my heart. Now, every time I hear the song, my physical surroundings blur, and the spiritual message takes over my very soul.

That’s what happened in November of 1999, only the words didn’t flow from the radio. My husband and I are Cub Scout den leaders, overseeing a rowdy group of six second-graders, including our son, Mark. We were asked to supply a Christmas-ornament project for at least 50 boys at the monthly pack meeting. The boys from eight different dens would move from table to table making the ornaments, then deliver them to various nursing homes in December. It was also our den’s turn to create a crafty neckerchief-slide project for the month of November for our pack’s 88 Cub Scouts.

The inspiration came early one morning in a dream. I clearly saw the project laid out before me—a little ear of Indian corn, popcorn kernels glued to a corn-shaped piece of cardboard with straw poking out the top. It was adorable! I jumped out of bed and headed straight to the kitchen to duplicate the project from my dream.

I spent the entire day experimenting with food coloring to get the exact shades for Indian corn. It took hours to mix the colors, blend the kernels, and measure them into tiny plastic bathroom cups, one for each boy in our Cub Scout pack. My hands cramped as I painstakingly cut out 88 cardboard cornstalks and glued the straw on top. I then placed each one into a cup of popcorn kernels so that every boy would have a ready-to-make kit. Then he could glue on the kernels and complete a slide for his uniform’s neckerchief.

I was proud as my family helped me carry the projects into the school gym and lay them out. Our long table was immediately surrounded by whooping boys from all the different Cub Scout dens, drawn to our neckerchief-slide project.

“Look at these neat little corns,” I heard them saying.

Tiny hands reached for the boxes in front of me, plastic cups tipping over and spilling. “I have just enough for each boy in our own pack,” I said, my mind flooding with frustration. What seemed so orderly in my house was now chaotic. Finally, the pack leader saved me by announcing that each boy must rotate from table to table. Our table remained the most crowded, with boys gathering around to make the little Indian corns.

As my husband and daughter guided the boys through the ornament project, I struggled to make sure we had enough supplies. “Honey, you only need
one
cup of popcorn,” I said to one of the boys. “Try not to spill your cup; that’s all I have,” I told another. I was definitely feeling stressed.

During this confusion, a little boy danced over to me. Dressed in a long-sleeved plaid shirt, instead of the bright blue-and-gold Cub Scout uniform, the child appeared either Indian or Hispanic. “I want to make the little corn,” he said, his brown eyes like full moons.

“Honey, you will make a project with your pack.”

“Please, I want to make the little corn,” he pleaded.

I felt overwhelmed with so much chatter, plus parents and other adults vying for my attention. Losing my patience, I asked, “Where is your Cub Scout den?”

He stared me right in the eye and said, “I don’t have a den.” The answer was vacant, confused. Kneeling down in front of him, I firmly told him that I only had enough corn projects for the Cub Scouts, but that if he could bring me his den leader, he could do the project. With that, he danced away, twirling around and around. I was relieved that his leader would deal with him.

That’s when it happened. Inside my head, louder than the lively din echoing off the cement walls, I heard Jewel singing the lyrics about kindness being the only thing that matters. My heart suddenly swelled with love and remorse. As little boys tugged on my sleeve, impatient for me to demonstrate the corn project, I rose from my seat, my eyes brimming with tears. “Excuse me, I need to do something.”

I quickly made my way through the crowd, searching for the dancing boy with the heavenly brown eyes. I wanted to find him and invite him to make a corn slide, just as he’d asked in his simple, sincere request to me. I thought that surely with his plaid shirt, the little boy would stand out among the sea of blue and gold.

But he was nowhere to be seen. I walked from table to table, my eyes searching each face. I started to quake as I scanned the length of each table in search of the dancing boy. He was not among them. Where was he? At that moment, I noticed a table with a group of physically and mentally challenged Cub Scouts.

Like a former Scrooge who’d had a huge awakening of the heart, I announced, “I want all these boys to come to my table. I have a project waiting for you.”

Precious eyes lit up, and parents delighted in helping the boys with various physical limitations get across the crowded room. I seated the eight boys around the table, and watched in awe as they carefully glued the kernels to the cardboard.

My heart sang with joy the rest of the evening, as the boys slowly completed their projects. Just like the fish that multiplied in the Bible, my supplies for the corn project seemed to do the same. After all the boys had made their neckerchief slides, I still had several kits left over.

I continued to scan the room for the dancing boy, but he had disappeared. I know now that he was an angel, sent by God to teach me a tremendous lesson about kindness. The experience ignited a change in me. Whenever I feel frazzled and impatient over life’s little stresses, I sing the inspiring words from Jewel’s song to myself.

A M
ESSENGER FROM
A
BOVE
by Kimberly Miller

The first time I realized that I’d encountered an angel was in 1985 when my grandmother died suddenly from heart failure. She had been on dialysis for about five years, and during one of her treatments, she’d had a major heart attack. She was rushed to another hospital, and my father called me to tell me she was there.

Before I could even leave the house, he called again and told me she was gone. I was very close to my grandmother and was devastated. I was extremely upset and concerned that she had died alone.

We were at the funeral home for the visitation, and the oddest thing happened. A Dominican nun (the order of the nuns who taught at the Catholic school I had attended as a child) approached me. She touched my hand and said to me, “I was with your grandmother when she died. She told me to tell you that she is okay now and she knows how very much you loved her.” I was so surprised that I was speechless for several minutes. I turned to thank her, and she was gone.

I asked my brothers and my father if they had spoken to the nun, and they looked at me strangely and wanted to know what I was talking about. Nobody in the room that day had seen her, let alone talked to her. I realized then that the angel had come to calm my fears about my grandmother dying alone, and to reassure me that my grandmother knew how much I cared.

M
Y
F
EAR
W
AS
H
EALED
by Helen Kolaitis

In the summer of 1996, my son Michael had a great summer vacation, which he desperately needed after enduring three open-heart surgeries in May of that year. He was doing great, until the fall came. We went to the doctors, and in September they told me that he needed to have another operation. I was devastated and went into a depression, feeling suicidal. The doctors medicated me.

Three days later, my best girlfriend insisted that we go to a local bagel shop with Michael and her young daughter. The shop was all glass, and had only one door leading in and out of it. We found a table in the back, where my son and I were facing away from the other customers. At that moment, an elderly woman came up behind us and put her hand on Michael’s right shoulder. She said, “He sits there with such great strength.”

Then the woman asked my son’s name. When I replied, “Michael,” she said, “Of course! Michael, the archangel.” I noticed that the woman had blondish-gray hair. She was wearing an old brown coat, and a gold ring with a religious symbol. She then told us to have a great day as she prepared to leave our table.

We watched her turn around, but we never saw her go out the door or exit the parking lot! It was like she just vanished into thin air! After that moment, I took no more drugs. I was happy, and had no more fear of my son dying. That December, Michael had his operation. We got through it, and all went well. I see now that the elderly lady was an angel, sent to give me strength and the will to live.

B
LESS
H
ER
H
EART
by Susan Sansom

In 1994, at the age of 44, I awoke at 4:30
A.M.
to incredible chest pains. The pains were so severe that my husband called an ambulance. Several paramedics arrived, and they confirmed that I was having a heart attack. They shared this news with my husband, but they all decided not to tell me. En route to the hospital, I told the paramedics that I felt like I was going away, and that they sounded strange and distant. At that moment, I let go and died.