I had always had an active relationship with God, at least from my point of view. I talked to Him frequently especially after I married and gave birth to five children in rapid succession. Although my prayers were brief---“Oh, my God!” being a favorite---I always believed that He heard, smiled benignly and expected no more from His harried, hurried daughter.

He and I were not without conflicts, however. To me, prayer consisted of giving God my agenda, and asking Him to bless it. When He so often didn’t, I’d assume He was busy elsewhere and had overlooked me. Of course He had not. “Does a mother forget her baby? Then I shall not forget you…” He had simply said “no,” or on occasion, “not yet.” There were times when I definitely felt directed, sensed a little sign being offered, a guiding touch in the right direction. But such things were vague. I wanted trumpets, skywriting, clear directions, an ANSWER when I asked. None were forthcoming.

In 1973, I began a freelance writing career on our kitchen table, surrounded by children and orthodontia bills, coping with uncertain health and much pressure. I continued to pray hit-or-miss while running carpools, hiding in closets to complete a magazine assignment before the kids found me and demanded dinner, or recovering from a distressing professional failure---a rejected manuscript, a book launched with high hopes and ending with dismal sales figures, the stuff of which writing is made. I had always longed to somehow make the world a better place, and since the children, my first priorities were turning out reasonably well, I assumed God might allow me to make my mark in journalism. But although I slowly and painfully worked my way up my professional ladder, no solid writing triumphs emerged. God, apparently, was not in league with my plans.

During these years I joined a charismatic prayer group. Here I was introduced to in-depth Bible study, and it began to come alive for me. Oh, for the time to really get into it, I often thought. Perhaps when our nest is empty, when I quit writing, when I enter a rest home…. In prayer group, I also became aware of meditative prayer, for the group spent time in praise and worship, but also in quiet reflection. Long moments would pass when absolutely nothing seemed to be going on. I the activist, the make-it-happen, the pray-er on the run, had trouble sitting and simply waiting for God. During these periods, my mind wandered to lists, tasks, tomorrow’s schedules. Typically, He seemed to have little to say to me anyway. Perhaps He preferred His more contemplative offspring.

Late in 1991, I put the finishing touches on my eighth book, which I had also decided would be my last. By now, our youngest had entered college and the need for a second income was dwindling. My career had been less than illustrious for the past nineteen years, and I was bone-weary of the deadlines, the superficiality and the striving. And this book, WHERE ANGELS WALK, was like nothing I had ever written: stories about people who believed that they had been graced by the touch of an angel, that for a moment heaven and earth had collided with awesome grace. I believed wholeheartedly in the book’s painstakingly researched premise, and my own son’s mysterious rescue had been the catalyst. But…I also suspected that such a work might mark me among most of my secular editors as someone who was becoming a bit unstable, someone they might just ignore when the next assignment came along. WHERE ANGELS WALK could very likely spell the end of my career. And yet, with that familiarly vague instinct, I felt God was asking me to do it anyway, even though the book would demand an enormous amount of work just to get it noticed by an increasingly secular industry.

It was then, one morning at my computer, when I heard it. An interior voice, a prod more than actual words. Yet it was unmistakable. “I want to spend time with you,” the Voice said. I think I knew right away that it was He.

“I want to spend time with you too,” I spoke in my mind to the Voice. “As soon as I have this mailing list finished, we’ll go for a walk, and talk.”

The Voice was silent. I finished the list—everyone who had ever written to me was getting a notice about this odd new book---but there were several phone calls to return. The day ended without the walk or the conversation.

The following day, as I turned on my computer, He was back. “I want to spend time with you,” He said.

“And I with you,” I promised. But the book’s galleys needed to be corrected and sent back today. “We’ll get together soon,” I promised, reaching for the paper stack. After all, I had always planned on developing a rich prayer life when my career ended. And I was on that path, wasn’t I?

During the next few months, the Voice came again and again, insistent, nudging, but oddly, only when I was at my keyboard. Was this some kind of sign? Did God want me to give up writing now? I wondered. But there was this last angel project to launch, responsibilities, deadlines… I kept working. God would be proud of my efforts, my diligence. And there would be time enough later for us to get together.

In February of 1992, I attended our annual charismatic convention, when all the Chicago-based prayer groups come together for teachings and combined prayer. One of the talks was about false gods, the breaking of the First Commandment. I was tempted to skip it; since I was not into idol worship, the occult or fortune telling, what could the speaker say to me? But I was wrong. “What do you spend time on?” the speaker asked. “What is the compulsion in your life—and we all have one or more---that keeps you from a more intimate relationship with God? Is it television, partying, sports? Is it…. work?”

The message hit me with the force of a bullet. “I want to spend time with you.” The Creator, the Father of the Universe, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the great I AM had reached down, tapped me on the shoulder and issued an invitation. And I had been too busy with my agenda to take a chance on His. I had said “no.”

I wept in shame and sorrow. And then I made a pledge. Never again would I turn on my computer without having first spent time with Him. He would have my first fruits---however inept and unsatisfactory they might be---instead of my leftovers, for the rest of my life.

It was difficult at first. I was not miraculously transformed into a mystic---my mind today still wanders during prayer time. But I kept at it, reading the Bible, praising, and sometimes just sitting with him in quiet companionship, at home or in chapel. Gradually I noticed that everything I needed to do was getting done, without undue haste or pressure. I began to feel calmer, more secure, less concerned with outcomes, more willing to ask direction, to do it God’s way even if it didn’t seem to make sense. And when WHERE ANGELS WALK was published in July 1992 by a beginner company, with all the obstacles that such a small-time venture entails, I kept my newfound peace. This was God’s book, after all. Its success or failure was not up to me---I freely laid my entire life at His feet when I surrendered each morning, so there was nothing to be concerned about. He was in charge now, and whatever happened would be the perfect plan for me.

WHERE ANGELS WALK became the best-selling angel book of the hundreds subsequently released during the next several years, in a trend that surprised and intrigued the nation. My book remained on the New York Times Best-Seller list for over a year, and has been published in sixteen languages. I wrote several sequels, became a media advisor, a national public speaker and radio guest. All this time---as I struggled through those difficult years, God had been getting me ready for this.

Was it all because of my submission, my new pair of spiritual eyes? I’ll never know for sure. But I suspect that God was patiently waiting—as He does for each of us---for the one gift that is truly ours to give, our free will. Perhaps all He had ever wanted from me was my heart.

He has it now. And forever.