As she stood staring into the murky water, a black man who appeared to be a dock worker came up next to her. At first she was afraid because he was such a big man, and it was a rough neighborhood that women just didn’t frequent. But then she thought, It doesn’t matter.
He said, “Killing yourself is not the answer. Everything is going to be okay.” My mother looked away from him for a few seconds and stared down into the water again. When she looked up, he was gone. She scanned the area, but the man had simply disappeared into thin air.
Everything did turn out okay, as I obviously lived. My mother had a special affinity with the angels from that time to the day they took her home … on May 18, 1999.
MEETING MY ANGEL
by Cammy Rosso
I attended Doreen Virtue’s workshop here in Calgary, Canada, in October 1999. In the workshop, we were taught how to ask for our guardian angels’ names. I discovered that my angels were named Teresa and Walter.
Two months later, on December 17, I had the most amazing encounter. I was working on a project at a seniors’ drop-in center for a few hours. I was chatting with an elderly lady when a man walked in and sat down. We began talking, and he told me that he’d had several visits from his wife after she passed on, and that he thought she was trying to give him a message. I told him that I believed in angels, and he responded by saying, “I know you do!”
I felt so comfortable talking to this man I’d just met. He was so warm and caring and understanding. Before I knew it, I was telling him how my husband had been out of work since the previous March and how tough it was for us to support our two boys.
He just sat and listened, and at one point he put his hands on mine and told me, “Everything is going to be okay; it’s all going to work out for you and your family. Keep doing what you’re doing, and keep the faith. Things will get better. I know that it’s a struggle right now, but it will work out, and you will get through this.”
I had this feeling of peace that everything really was going to be okay as he spoke to me. Then the man said, “I’m going to tell you something, and you will know what I mean; you will understand what I say to you.” He then told me that he loved me!
At this point, I felt like the whole world had stopped—just like in a movie—and no one else was in the room. I asked him, “What’s your name?”
To my amazement, he told me that his name was Walter! At that exact moment, I had no doubt in my mind that I was sitting there face-to-face with my angel! I also had this most unreal feeling, like a thousand shooting stars going through the top of my head and right out my toes. I can’t even begin to explain the love and warmth that I felt. I told him about the workshop and that my angels’ names were Teresa and Walter. He smiled, and said to me, “Well, I guess we need to meet Teresa.” I told him that I wanted to come back and visit again.
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!”
DANCING ANGEL BOY
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, m
y 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 MESSENGER FROM ABOVE
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.
MY FEAR WAS HEALED
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.
BLESS HER HEART
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.
I heard the paramedics frantically saying that I had flatlined. I watched one of them, a tall blonde woman, scream, “You’re not doing this to me!” as she slammed me in the chest. I saw her hit me and was somewhat surprised that I didn’t feel it! I was revived and was code red at the local hospital.
I was going in and out of consciousness in the emergency room, with three doctors and several nurses in attendance. I was administered beta-blockers, and the doctors told my husband to call my family members so that they could come and say their final farewells to me. As the drugs coursed through my system, I felt cold, the deepest and most bone-chilling cold I have ever experienced.
Still uninformed about the severity and details of my condition, I started talking to a nurse. She had the sweetest smile and held my hand. She was of medium build and looked matronly. She didn’t wear a regular nurse’s uniform, which, in my confused state, I didn’t question. She told me that I’d indeed had a heart attack, but that it was over and I would never have another one. This news greatly eased my mind, and I drifted off to sleep.
When I awoke, I was in the intensive care unit, and a doctor asked me to decide which hospital I would like to use for my heart surgery. He also stated that I was to undergo cauterization at 1 P.M. that day and that I was in a very bad way. Normally they scheduled such procedures for the following day, but as he explained, I was likely to have a fatal heart attack at any time. A helicopter would soon land on the hospital roof and transport me to a town 30 miles away for immediate surgery.
To say that I was confused by this news would be an understatement, since the nurse had assured me that I would never again have a heart attack. At 1 P.M., I went to the coronary lab and was given the cauterization. Although 40 percent of my heart was not working, the doctors were astonished that I had no blockage left and no need for surgery.
One week later, I was released. The doctor said that the damaged heart could possibly recover over time, but I would still probably suffer 15 to 20 percent permanent damage to the muscle.
Several weeks later, I returned to the hospital for a stress test and was eager to talk to the nurse who had been so reassuring. I scanned all the faces and met some of the nurses who had attended me that night. They firmly assured me that no such person had been with me that night in the room! I also learned that hospital policy would never have allowed any staff member to say such things to me, since my prognosis at that time was dire!
Fifteen months later, my heart doctor dismissed me and said that he was amazed that my heart muscle showed no damage. He said, “Whatever you’ve done has worked!” Since that time, I had unrelated, minor surgery and had to inform the hospital that I’d had a heart attack, which surprised them since my EKG showed no problem with my heart at all. They even asked me if I was sure!
What I am sure about is that the kindly nurse was my very own guardian angel!
Chapter 5
VISIONS OF DECEASED LOVED ONES
ANGELS HELPED DAD STAY WITH US
by Dianne Galligan
Fourteen years ago, I lost my younger brother (age 29) to suicide. When I got home on the day of his funeral, my answering-machine tape had all been used up. Yet everyone who knew me would have known that I was at my brother’s funeral. I played the tape, and all I heard was an electrical sound throughout the whole recording. I knew that it was my brother communicating with me. He used to call me up and tease me on my answering machine all the time.
A month later, my father had a massive heart attack. My brother appeared to me (I know I wasn’t sleeping!) and told me he would be coming to get my dad. I begged him not to take my father because this was only a month after his own death. I told him that we needed Dad, and my mother couldn’t possibly handle another loss so soon. So I prayed to God and sent angels to my father to protect him. I called the hospital, and they told me that my dad was having a very bad night.
I know it was the angels that helped Dad stay with us for another eight years even though his heart was very weak. When my father died in 1994, the doctors said they didn’t know how he had lived so long because his heart was so damaged. But I knew why!
THANK YOU, DAD!
by Peggy Keating
My father died in 1973. Approximately two years later, he saved my life.
I was driving late at night, very tired. Foolishly, I was determined to keep going. I was drifting off to sleep, and suddenly I saw my father standing at the side of the road! He appeared in full form, wearing the same kind of clothing he had worn when he was alive—there was no mistaking him. When I looked in the rearview mirror, he was gone. Needless to say, I was wide-awake for the rest of the trip. Thank you, Dad!
WATCHING OVER US
by Catherine Kilian
My father, William, passed away from a massive heart attack when I was 13. We had a tight father-daughter relationship and did almost everything together. His passing was very tough on me because not only did I lose my dad, I lost my best friend.
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