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I AM YOUR FRIEND
by Anne |
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He always seemed close to God in a way that I had not
seen in my other children, or other people's children for
that matter. Carman was the baby I bore more than a
decade after my second child. Perhaps that is the reason I
called him my Angel Boy. Or perhaps it was an intuition
of what kind of child he would be.
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Carman was a gentle boy with a quiet voice and slow,
calm movements. My little Buddha, I often called him. As
a babe in arms we could take him to church and he would
sit quietly and solemnly, except when holding out one
chubby little arm to point at the stained glass window,
gasp and exclaim, "I see Jesus!" Of course he knew about
Jesus from me talking about Him, but I could not have
infused the passion that my son had for Jesus of Nazareth.
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At one and a half Carman had a medal with Jesus' image
on it that he insisted he keep with him in his crib. At two
years old he would beg to look at the pictures in the family
Bible we owned. I can still see him, a tiny boy sitting on
the couch, legs sticking straight out, with a Bible almost as
big as he was open on his lap. Carman would turn to one
of the drawings of Jesus and sit enraptured, with an
expression of radiant love in his face. Oh yes. Angel Boy
was a very apt nickname for this child.
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I remember too how he would get out of the bathtub,
dripping wet, and I would wrap a towel over his head and
around him. Grasping the towel under his chin Carman
would give me this big smile and say, "Look! I'm Mary!"
Yes, yes, I'd say, laughing out loud. You look just like the
Blessed Mother, I'm sure.
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It's not that Carman wasn't a normal boy who ran and
played and occasionally fought with his siblings and had
tantrums. He did all of those things. Right now as I write
this I hear his animated conversation about the newest
video game he and his cousin are playing. Decidedly
normal is my son, but with a rare spirituality.
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One sunny, spring day when he was four years old I let
Carman go out in the back of the house to ride his tractor
in our driveway. I stood at the sink washing dishes and
watched my son through the screened in porch. Soon he
got off his little green tractor, disappeared for a second and
then I heard the screen door slam behind him as he
walked into the kitchen. "Jesus talked to me," he
announced. I paused, dish towel and plate in hand.
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"He did?" I asked. "What did He say?"
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"I was riding my tractor around the driveway and I heard
someone say, 'Carman, I am your friend,'" my son told
me in all seriousness. "I kept riding around and around
and saying, 'Where are you my friend?' But no one was
there. So I know it must be Jesus."
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What does one say to a four-year-old who has had a
spiritual experience? All I knew was to accept
unquestioningly that my son had indeed had Someone
speak to him. Whether it was Jesus or an angel I don't
know, and I don't suppose it really matters.
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I do know it was experience that six years later still has a
profound effect on my son. "I heard Him speak right out
loud," he said the other day.
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"It was a gift," I told him.
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"Yes," Carman replied. "I was very lucky." Neither
Carman nor I know why he heard a voice beyond this
world speak to him so audibly, although we still
contemplate it occasionally. I do know my son continues
to exhibit a profound love for God and an extraordinary
compassion and love for other human beings. Recently he
told me that he would like to be an astrophysicist and a
priest, and I thought how apropos that choice seemed for
him, exploring the heavens above earth and nurturing
the heaven inside each of us. Whatever Carman chooses
to do when he grows up, I know one thing for certain. He
will have his Friend guiding him each step of the way.
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Anne Goodrich
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AGAINST ALL ODDS
by Sharon |
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Some things in life cannot be explained. I'd had a few
occasions to encounter such things. Less than two weeks
before my son died in 1977 at the age of five, he had saved
some money and we were at a church festival. There he
found a Swedish Ivy plant. It only had three small leaves
on it. My son managed to get it home without me seeing
it.
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The next morning he came into the kitchen for breakfast
and had both his hands behind his back. He grinned and
said, "Mom, I bought you something.
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"I said, "What?"
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He proudly brought the plant around in front of him and
said, "I checked all your plants mom, and you don't have
one like this." And I didn't! I remember I bent down,
hugged him and told him I LOVED the tiny plant, and
that I would love it and cherish it forever and ever. How
long is twenty years? Forty? I haven't found out, but for
now, my forever has endured twenty-two years.
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When I was getting my divorce in '84, my husband was so
horrible he poured Clorox on the plant, which had by
then grown into a beautiful, twice transplanted, piece of
art in my living room. Looking back now, I realize my ex
wanted to get me in the worse way he knew how, and that
would be through one of my kids. I remember how
horrified I was as I saw him pour a bottle of Clorox on the
plant telling me the stupid plant was going to die. I pulled
the plant out of the soil, I ran water over it, I washed it,
then planted it in another pot. It survived!
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When I went on a week's vacation a couple of years later
and asked my stepmother to watch the plant for me, she
put it outside in the cold snowy month of February. It
survived.
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When I was in the hospital and no one could get to the
house to water the plant, it was dry as a bone, but it
survived.
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But last spring, in May, just three days before Mother's
Day, something happened. I was moody, since my other
two children, (who were born after my son died), had left
home and moved 800 miles from me. I was not looking
forward to Mother's Day at all. I was getting the "empty
nest syndrome" I suppose, and missing all three of my
kids very much. Hubby wanted to take me to dinner and I
declined the invitation. My first Mother's Day in over
twenty some years and I had no kids to come visit.
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On the Thursday before Mother's Day, I had the plant
sitting on the coffee table. I was vacuuming the living
room floor when I noticed the sunlight coming through
the window catching my eye on something on the plant. I
bent down and saw a flower bud. It was violet colored.
Growing right off the stem off one of the plants "arms." I
knew Swedish Ivy do not produce flowers, and I knew
what I was seeing was not possible.
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The next day when I woke up, I checked on the plant, and
there sat this beautiful violet colored flower, looking
almost like an orchid. That was on Friday. I called some
friends who had houseplants asking if they'd ever heard
of a Swedish Ivy producing a flower and they all said they
had not. I then called the horticulture department at the
local university. They were very much interested in
seeing the plant and asked me if I'd bring it into their
department. I told them no, the plant stays in my home.
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On Saturday, when I woke, I checked the plant again.
Again, there was that beautiful flower among the tangles
of Ivy limbs just sitting there as pretty as could be.
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I awoke Sunday, Mother's Day in a sad mood. I walked
into the living room, and there was the plant, the flower
standing tall and elegant. I kept watching it all day long,
wondering how it got there, what kind of flower it was,
and why after twenty one years, would a flower suddenly
grow. I felt better that day and even though I missed my
kids, after their phone calls, I felt comforted. I sat in the
front room looking at the flower, still trying to figure out
what the flower was and how it got there.
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Monday morning when I got up, I walked into the front
room. The flower had died, shirveled up and fell off into
the soil. I sat down and stared at the plant. And suddenly I
realized something. I wasn't alone Mother's Day after all.
My son made sure he was "with" me to help me get
through the day. He came three days before the day I
dreaded, he saw me make it through the day. This past
Mother's Day in May I was alone again. No flower
appeared. And I suspect another never will. But as long as
I live I will never forget that Mother's Day, when a plant
helped me make it through a tough day in my life. I've
always felt it was my son's way of saying, "I'm still with
you mom."
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Sharon Bryant
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THE DISFIGURED ANGEL
by Libby |
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When my children were small my husband and I would
take them along with us to antique car shows, which my
husband had an interest in. One summer, we attended a
show that was held in a park along a river in a small town
about fifteen miles from our home.
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As usual, the children quickly became bored with the old
cars and wanted to do something else. Since there was a
play area at the park, with swing sets and such, I took
them over to play for a while.
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As we approached one of the slides, I could see a young
girl, about six or seven years old, climbing up the ladder to
the top of the slide. My son ran up and began to climb up
the ladder too, but I asked him to wait his turn while the
girl took hers.
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At that point she turned around to look at me and
beamed me a wonderful, warm smile. Her face was very
disfigured, as if she'd been burned in a fire, but her smile
was genuine.
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She looked right into my eyes, and said, "I know you." I
laughed, thinking it was a child's imagination, as I'd
never seen her before.
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I said "Oh? You do?"
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Very seriously, she gazed at me for a few seconds and then
said, "Yes, I know you. I know you quite well, in fact."
And down the slide she went.
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The two children played on the slide for a while and then
the little girl said she had to go. At that moment, my
attention was drawn away towards my son, and when I
turned back to say goodbye, she was gone.
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I didn't see her again that day, although the park is small
and there weren't many people there. In fact, I've never
seen her again.
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I've often wondered who this little angel with the
disfigured face, but beautiful smile, was. All I know is that
she KNEW me. And if she was truly an Angel, then I'm
glad she does!
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Libby
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INTERSTATE INCIDENT
by Jenni |
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There were three of us traveling in an almost new car that
day. We had been to the crusade of a famous preacher and
the day had gone well. We were just out of Jacksonville
looking at about a seventy mile journey on the interstate,
but as we traveled onto the interstate the car lost all power
and simply stalled.
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I felt helpless and said a prayer for help. Instantly two men
in a small white car drove up. The big guy said "do you
need help?"
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I replied, " I sure do."
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Both men jumped out of their car and pushed us out of
the way of traffic. I was so relieved about the car I didn't
pay too much attention, The big fellow stood in front of
my car until help arrived. That was when I noticed that
their white car and the other fellow had suddenly
vanished!
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A lady cab driver must have called the police to give us
assistance because they soon arrived. The second they
arrived the big fellow who had been in front of the car just
vanished!
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We began talking about what had happened and came to
the conclusion that angels had assisted us and watched
over us until help arrived. Well eventually that night we
did get home and all three of us knew who to thank for
safely bringing us through a situation that could have
been much worse.
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Jenni of Florida
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SMILE THOUGH YOUR HEART IS ACHING
by Carol |
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My father was as stubborn as a country mule. And when it
came to religion, salvation or eternal life, he didn't
believe, didn't want to talk about it, and claimed the only
place he was going when he died was "in the ground."
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Dad lived alone in his home for fifteen years beyond my
Mother's death in 1981. In the spring of 1996 a series of
"mini strokes" weakened his tall frame and confused his
strong mind. After eighty-six years of independent living,
Dad required at least two people to lift him from his bed to
a chair or to the bathroom. He became more confused
with time and his doctor determined the necessity for
sheltered care. After eighteen months in long term care,
Dad was ready to call it quits. There was no need for verbal
confirmation. His body was weak and he was tired of
struggling through each day. He had no desire to eat and
another stroke caused him to choke on food or drink. His
body was slumped in his wheelchair, eyes closed and head
bowed.
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With thoughts of his salvation, family members
welcomed visits from clergy who wished to share the
gospel. Dad was more rude than receptive and didn't
hesitate to share his message as well. Thoughts of his
salvation became more of an issue with each passing day.
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In Dad's final week of life, my sister-in-law stood on one
side of his bed and I on the other. We joined hands and as
she prayed, a new sense of peace filled the room as Dad
accepted our prayers and said "Yes" to Jesus. Was it too
little, too late?
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Long Term Care had been relatively quiet as we
alternately went to be by Dad's side in what was to be his
final hours of life. As the nurse searched for a heartbeat
and Dad took his last breath, I heard the most beautiful
music. Twice I asked anyone in the room, "Do you hear
that music? Listen to the song that's playing." There was
no response. My heart raced as I left Dad's bedside and
followed the music across the hall. As I peered through
my tears, I saw the television and a figure skater gliding
across the ice as Nat King Cole sang, "Smile though your
heart is aching. Smile even though it's breaking.
Although a tear may be ever-so-near, that's the time you
must keep on tryingä."
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Mom loved Nat King Cole, the song and figure skating.
Was this her way of comforting her children and letting
them know that Dad had joined her in Heaven? Did God
send His message of peaceful reassurance via the
television?
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Carol
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WHITE ROBED ANGEL
by Ronnie |
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The patients knew she was an angel that white robed
figure who slowly and silently moved through the dim
night hours in Ward Eight of Huddersfield Royal
Infirmary. Some people do not believe in angels, and I
understand why they do not. But I do!
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Angels come in all shapes and sizes. Their existence does
not depend on whether people do or do not believe in
them. Most think of angels as diaphanous spirits floating
down from heaven to minister to people in times of need,
before returning to ethereal realms. This angel was not
visiting from heaven. She was an earthling, who did not
know it, but was on her way to paradise.
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The angel's name was Norma. We had been married for
almost thirteen years when she became ill. Initially it
seemed to be nothing more serious than a sore throat. She
took a turn for the worse, becoming hoarse, tired, and
weak. I drove her to the hospital, insisting that a doctor
examine her. The doctor ordered tests and x-rays.
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The test results and x-rays came back. The young physician
was taciturn, avoiding my gaze. "I think we'll keep her
in," he said. "We need to do further tests." I wheeled her
into the reception ward, hugged her long and hard, and
left for home. When I returned with her necessities, she
was in bed in Ward 8.
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She was gratified that something was being done and after
some rest, she was more like the happy, laughing woman
everyone knew. I spent each day with her and she had
many visitors. Friends and neighbours flocked to see her,
bringing her flowers, fruit, chocolates, and the mandatory
energy drinks.
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Her happiest day was the Sunday three of her four
surviving children visited. They spent the day talking,
remembering, and laughing. She loved to laugh, but her
greatest attribute was her impulse to loving service.
Although now enfeebled by disease, she obeyed the divine
impulse to serve others, shuffling painfully through the
ward, seeing to the needs of others.
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A young girl, struggling to come to terms with life, lay
listless and morbid. Tattooed, pierced, her arms bearing
the scars of frequent self-mutilation, ostracized by her
fellow-patients, brooding, and depressed. Norma
encouraged her to think positively about herself and he
possibilities of her life.
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In the bed across from Norma was an old lady. Everything
she ate came back. Norma soothed and comforted,
encouraging her to take a little nourishment to get strong
enough to fight the illness that was sapping her vitality.
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One elderly Indian woman spoke little English. She had
many visitors at one particular time of each day, but for
long periods after that, she was alone and unable to join
in conversations. Norma, who spoke no Urdu or Gujerati,
sat on her bed and painstakingly made contact. She
understood how important it was for people to have
human company if they were going to feel good about
themselves.
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Many others, scattered throughout the large ward, were
grateful recipients of Norma's ministration. She was often
up in the night, comforting those who were feeling lost,
or lonely, or who were anxious, or unable to sleep. It was
not easy for her to move around, because her illness
sapped her strength, and made walking difficult.
However, it did not stop her from visiting and helping.
The nurses and doctors praised her enterprise,
appreciating the value of spiritual support in healing.
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In the next bed was a woman in her thirties. It was she,
more than any other, who attracted Norma's most
profound compassion. She was a tender little thing who
apologized every time she opened her mouth. She was so
anxiety laden that it was painful to hear her. If she
dropped a crumb onto the bed covers, she apologized,
looking as if some ogre was going to punish her. She
repeatedly complained that she was being a nuisance, and
felt that she caused trouble for the staff.
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One night, she called for a commode. After using it, she
began to cry that she was sorry, that she was sure she had
made a mess. Would they forgive her? Norma assured
her that everything was all right. She spoke softly and
encouragingly. The woman came and sat on the edge of
Norma's bed. Norma took her hands in her own, looked
her in the eye and spoke softly but directly. "You have a
Father in Heaven who loves you." These were the last
words she heard. She smiled, the only time Norma had
seen her smile, then died. How fitting that the last words
she heard in mortality were words of love, assurance, and
hope.
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The White Robed Angel had performed her ministry.
Three weeks later, she was herself called to a better place
where, I do not doubt, she continues to minister to fragile
souls who need to learn that through all the
disappointments and anxieties of life, they have a Father
in Heaven, and he loves them.
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Copyright 2000 Ronnie Bray
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Ronnie is a delightful author formerly of West Yorkshire,
England. He and his wife, Gay have recently moved to the
States. He is working on his autobiography, "A Shout
From the Attic."
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