We “angels” shop at garage sales, send WalMart certificates or outgrown toys (and occasionally someone packs up a truck and just GOES.)   Occasionally we get a letter from the Cayces, updating the services we have helped to sustain.  It makes me feel as if we are doing what Mother Teresa always suggested,  “Bloom where you are planted.”

If you are already volunteering in your own community or caring for those who need you, please don’t stop.  Cayce Charities is mainly for those who are looking to get involved in something on-going, but there’s no commitment necessary.  We’ll keep you posted.

PS The address is Cayce Charities, 403 South Second Street, Thornton Arkansas 71766

And here’s the story:

On the  day that Amy Pruitt’s little boy was born, the doctors were grim.  Baby Cory had so many physical problems that he was not expected to live past a few hours.  “Don’t even hope,” Amy’s doctor told her, trying to prepare her for the loss.

But Amy was hearing a different voice inside her.  “Somehow I knew that despite his difficulties, Cory would be healthy,” she says.   And her son did make a miraculous recovery.  He was deaf, but this did not intimidate Amy.  “I had always heard that deaf children were easy to raise,” she says.  And Cory’s life seemed to prove it.

He was a bright, sunny little guy, with what seemed to be a deep spiritual connection. When Cory was about eight years old, he asked his mother if she remembered when he was a sick newborn.  “How could I forget?” Amy asked.

“Well,” Cory said, “I saw Jesus then.”

It was a wonderful story.  But could she believe it?  A few years later, Cory fell through the ice on a river, but ended up safely on shore, with no explanation of how he got there.  Later he told Amy that an angel had picked him up and placed him on the shore.  Amy had goosebumps.  The evidence supported Cory’s statement perfectly.

“ Last year a five-year-old friend of ours was in intensive care with a ruptured spleen,” Amy recalls.  “I asked Cory to pray.”  A few hours later Cory came to his mother.  “He looked as if there was a glow of some sort around him,” she says.

“I just finished talking to God,” Cory told her.  “That little kid is going to be fixed.”  The next day the boy was fine. The bleeding had mysteriously stopped in the night.  A few months later, Cory’s grandmother had a massive stroke and it seemed hopeless. Again Cory prayed, and his brother reported that Cory was glowing, and said that Grandma would be fine.  She made a complete recovery.

Just recently Amy was told that her initial belief—that deaf children are easy to raise—was not true.  In fact, most presents major challenges.  And yet “Cory has always been a very good kid, a joy and a gift in our lives,” she says.  The whole family waits to see what will happen next.

Recently Daniel had what the family thought was flu, but it got worse and when he was taken to the hospital, a smart doctor in the emergency room did a CT scan, which showed that Daniel had fluid around his heart, which was making it beat 200 times per minute.  They airlifted him to another hospital, where a heart team waited for him. No heart surgery but he was in Intensive Care for five days.  When he did finally get back to school, the same thing happened and he had to return to the emergency room.

Needless to say, the family was not able to get the news around to everyone, but they are convinced it was prayer power that kept Daniel from dying.  In fact, they have been told that the e.r. doctor probably saved his life.  He is back at college (probably finishing his finals) and is okay but very tired.  How the family will bring Christmas to the people there this year is anyone’s guess.  Obviously we need prayers for this fine young man and his wonderful family, as well as prayers for those who depend on the Cayces.  Let’s send some extra angels to Thornton this year.  And here’s our story:

“When you were a little girl, Grandma, was there a Christmas?” my granddaughter asked one December day as, heads together, we read a book about the season.

“Why of course!” I laughed. “There’s always been Christmas, honey, ever since Baby Jesus was born.”

“What was it like-—your Christmas?” she wanted to know.  And I set the book down for a moment as the sounds and scents and the magic of long ago crept into the room…

Christmas started back then, strangely enough, with the aroma of wet wool.  Scarves and mittens dampened by the first snowfall and hung to dry over steamy school radiators somehow signaled the beginning of the season.  As the scent stole across the classroom, we children would catch each other’s eyes, unspoken understanding passing among us.  It was the beginning.

From wool, we progressed to boots, not the sturdy leather footwear that today’s children use, but floppy rubber overshoes clanking with metal buckles, fitting snugly over oxfords or saddle shoes—if one tugged hard enough.  In every home in mid-November, the same scenario ensued: locate the stored-away boot box, drag it to the drafty back hallway, measure which child would be promoted to which pair—and caution children to wear the contents Every Day.  We didn’t mind. It was another ritual, another step in the dance.

Then slowly, almost without notice, the trappings of Christmas began to appear.  Store windows took on a  dusting of artificial snow, an occasional red ribbon or evergreen bough, very often, the beloved manger scene itself.  Lights sparkled over the front door of the village hall while local firemen hung stockings from the mantelpiece behind their engines.  Wreaths, hand-drawn in colored chalk, festooned the school blackboards, and the faint sound of carols drifted across the snowy landscape.  No raucous commercialism, no hucksters exhorting us to “Buy, buy!”– just a simple but growing awareness of the time that was to come.  And we children watched, and held our breath and waited.

Christmas came in bits and pieces in those days, changes in our routines that whispered rather than shouted.  An extra delivery of coal to ensure a warm house for the visitors who would share the day. Sledding on the big hill, then coming home in the late-afternoon dusk for warm soup, and hearing the rustle of tissue paper behind Mother’s closed bedroom door.  The soft aroma of sugar cookies unexpectedly mingling with breakfast oatmeal and toast.   In the Chicago area, the radio program “The Cinnamon Bear,” faithfully reviewed each day on our walks to school.  Being asked to accompany Dad on an evening shopping trip, the sound of our boots squeaking on the packed snow, the thrill of being out after dark with the most important man in our lives.  Those pleasures were as much a part of the awareness of Christmas as bells and candles and holly.

And then one day, at last, the tree.  Pine-scented needles scattering across the kitchen floor,  Dad carried it to its place of honor in front of the window so we could share its beauty with all who passed.  First, the lights, then the delicate colored balls, and the tinsel which we hung one strand at a time in a shimmering waterfall.  The angel at the very top and finally the crèche in the place of honor, its chipped statues heralding memories of Christmases past.  “And it came to pass…” someone would read the comforting words that gave the season its true meaning.

The countdown began in earnest now.  Five days…four days… Hurriedly we completed our own shopping —a comb for a favorite aunt, a candle for Grandpa—and stored our wrapped cache under our beds, understanding again the joy of giving. Three days…two..the turkey on the cold back porch. Quick errands, candles, stockings that didn’t have holes (my brother hung a kneesock), cookies for Santa, and the feeling that one’s heart would burst..

And finally, on a cold dark morning, my siblings, wrapped in flannel bathrobes, bouncing on my bed in excitement.  “It’s Christmas!” they were shouting.  “It’s here!”

The remembered wonder gripped me again as I sat in my own living room, my own grandchild listening in delight.  “It came!” she exclaimed.  “Your Christmas always came!”

And yours will too, I told her silently.  Oh, the trappings will be different from the slower days of my childhood.  You will have frozen turkey breasts, TV commercials, a wrapping service at the local mall—by-products of a more modern age.  But beneath the gadgetry and clamor will be the same holy Child, the joy at his arrival shared by millions, past, present and yet to come.

For Christmas is excitement and anticipation and wonder, the secrets, the smiles, the sharing.  It’s the message of the little King repeated down through the ages, the message of hope and peace, renewed again in a troubled world. The message that keeps us believing in the magic of love.

“Yes,” I told my granddaughter, “Christmas will always come.  For what would we do without it?”

And yet…she felt certain that this was not the answer. For when she was twelve years old, Barbara had seen two angels. “One was a man, the other a woman,” Cathy remembers the story. “The man told Barbara that they were her guardian angels.” He had stood at the foot of her bed, holding a book open in his hands while the woman had said nothing, but had danced in joyful abandon. Slowly their image had faded, but the experience left Barbara with an even deeper faith. During the following years, she had often sensed the presence of these guardians. And somehow, they seemed to encourage her. Why should she assume God had forgotten about her request? Now, as she remembered that amazing vision, she decided to keep praying for a baby.

Just a few months later, a miracle happened. A member of Barbara’s extended family had a baby, and decided to let Barbara adopt him. She took him home on the day of his birth, put him in a bassinet right next to her bed, and named him Nathan. As Cathy recalls, “he was more than she had ever hoped for. He fits right in like it was meant to be.”

Barbara was overjoyed. But, as with any new mother, especially an older one, she might have worried—just a little—about whether she’d be up to this huge commitment. And then, a few weeks after Nathan’s arrival, she received another answer. One night, Barbara suddenly awakened, opened her eyes and was amazed. There were three angels standing over the bassinet. “All were children about the ages of 4 to 7 years, and were dressed in brown, with knickers and vests—and one had a walking stick,” Cathy says. “There was light coming in above them. They just stood over Nathan’s bassinet, watching him.” Barbara lay there, silently, not wanting to scare them away! For wasn’t this her answer, brought to her through the love of angels? She did not have to worry if she was up to the task. God had given her glimpses into the invisible world, where guardian angels stood ready to care for every one of His children.

Gradually the angels faded, and Barbara has not seen them since. But she knows they are around. Nathan, now five years old, has told a few people about the angel-friends who come to play with him at night, in his room. Barbara often hears him laughing in the middle of the night, but has never glimpsed any strange light—or brown-clad children.

“I live near Nathan,” Cathy says, “and I see him often. He is a little pistol, not too angelic! But there is something different about him, and I’m not sure exactly what it is.”

Perhaps it’s the confidence that comes from acknowledging these beautiful beings, and inviting them into our lives. October 2nd would be a great day to start!
(C) 2006 Joan Wester Anderson www.joanwanderson.com

When it was time for Adam to go to school, Susan decided to homeschool him. She was already tutoring other children, so it seemed like a practical decision. But it was so much more. “I was blessed to be his mom, his teacher and his nurse,” Susan says. “We were together twenty-four hours a day, never spending much time apart.” Rather than considering this a burden, Susan really loved looking for ways to make Adam’s life more enjoyable.

One item that Adam really loved were smiley faces. “They just look so happy, Mom,” he would say. (Susan filled the school room with them.) Adam had many hospitalizations and medications, but he faced life with laughter and a joyful spirit—and his never-ending enjoyment of those smiley faces. And his love for his mother… “Mom, I hope you die before I do because I don’t think you could make it without me,” he sometimes told her. Susan thought that it might work out that way. Given the good care that Adam was receiving, he could live to reach his thirties, perhaps even his forties.

However, Adam died suddenly when he was twelve. It was the hardest situation that Susan had ever faced. “I drew courage from the strength, wisdom and joy that my Adam showed every day of his life,” she says, struggling for composure and calm. She was determined not to let Adam’s death define who she was, but rather his life.

One morning about six months after Adam had died, Susan was working on the computer, when her printer suddenly spit out a piece of paper. Strange, Susan thought as she reached for it. She hadn’t been printing anything. But there, up in the corner, she noticed a tiny smiley face, so small that it could have been missed. Chills ran through her. How had this happened?

About three months later while she was absorbed in a lesson with her home school students, the printer again started up, and discharged a piece of paper—-and there, again, was the same smiley face. “It must be something you’re doing,” Susan’s skeptical husband protested.

“But what?” Susan wondered. “I hadn’t touched any of the computer controls either time…” She called her computer company, and the technician was baffled too. He had never heard of such a thing.

Only, it began to happen regularly, and now occurs—without warning—every few months. Now, however, there is a smiley AND a heart! Just recently Susan’s printer turned on, and delivered three faces and a heart. Maybe angels know how to run computers..

“Do I believe they are a sign from my Adam?” Susan asks. “I most certainly do. They give me heart tugs but good ones. I treasure every smiley I receive and I consider myself blessed.”

Susan, like many parents who have lost children, find that people are often ill-at-ease with them, or don’t like to discuss the child after some time has passed—which only increases a parent’s sorrow. So she has set up a web site and invites you all to take a look at: www.adamkevinkidd.com And may we parents with healthy children says a special prayer of thanks this week.

(C) 2004 Joan Wester Anderson www.joanwanderson.com

The flight into the San Diego airport had arrived late. Julie still had to get her rental car and drive to Escondido. It was getting cloudy, and the traffic was heavy on the Interstate. “I prayed that I would not be late to the funeral service, and that I would be able to find the chapel without problems,” she says. “During the trip I was praying and trying to keep my composure despite my grief.” Julie was missing both her uncle and her aunt by now, and feeling more and more nervous. She asked God to keep the torrential rains from falling until she had reached her destination, and it did seem that He was hearing her plea, since every traffic light was green all the way from the airport to the Interstate.

Then Julie felt a warmth and bright light coming from the back seat. “I knew it was coming from inside the car, not outside,” she says now, “and that someone was in the back seat.” She cold not see him, but she felt certain that He was the source of light. And strangely enough, instead of being frightened, she was comforted. Was it an angel? Her angel? Her uncle’s? “The sky was dark, but no one behind me had any headlights on. And even if there had been someone with lights on high beam, the light would have been in the mirrors and street, not just inside the car.”

Somehow Julie knew that her passenger was a heavenly guardian, sent from heaven to bring her the assurance and comfort that she needed on this difficult day. She thanked him for His guidance and soon she found the chapel without any problems. In fact, she arrived early. Of course, when she got out of the car, the back seat was suddenly dark and empty.

During the chapel and graveside services, the rain held off, then after the mourners had gathered at the house for awhile, the storm came. Julie was relieved—but not really surprised—that it was only after they were all safety indoors that the sky “dumped” its load on them.

“I know God works in wondrous ways,” says Julie Hill. “It was demonstrated that day in Escondido, and many times since.”
(C) 2003 Joan Wester Anderson www.joanwanderson.com

In an hour or so, the cookies were ready. Nancee’s husband went out to start the car, as Nancee dressed the three-year-old, Jerry Jay. But she didn’t hear anything. Looking out, she realized that the car’s engine wasn’t turning over. After about fifteen minutes, her husband came back. “The car’s dead,” he said. “I’ve tried everything but it won’t start.”

“What are we going to do now?” Nancy wondered aloud. “Rebecca Lynn is going to be so disappointed.”

Little Jerry Jay looked up. “We could pray!” he suggested, his eyes bright. The adults looked at him. “Well…” Nancee began. But Jerry was already on his knees. “Please, God, make the car start!” he prayed.

Nancee’s husband smiled. “I guess I’d better try it again.” He went out, turned the ignition key—and the engine sprang to life. Astonished—and before the car could change its mind!—Nancee and Jerry jumped in, and they sped to school. Nancee’s husband kept the engine idling, as Nancee and Jerry brought the cookies to a delighted Rebecca Lynn, then ran back to the car. Next stop, the mechanic. He would be back in a few moments, they were told, so they sat down to wait.

Soon the mechanic returned, opened the hood and looked at the car. “Who towed this in?” he asked.

“No one,” Nancee’s husband replied. “We drove it here.”
The mechanic shook his head. “You couldn’t have done that. The battery is completely dead. It’s ice cold.”

The adults looked at each other. What a Father they served, One who cared about every detail of their lives! And what a lesson to remember, that God loves to give His children good things. Even the littlest ones. “I have told many people about our miracle,” Nancee says. “The prayers of children are amazing.”

(c) 2003 Joan Wester Anderson www.joanwanderson.com

“I didn’t know very much about them, but I began looking for angel books and reading everything I could find, at times until early in the morning,” Krysta says. “I needed to hear stories told by others. As I read, I experienced a lot of peace and happiness. And yet I was skeptical. I wasn’t sure that God was everywhere, or that He always knew what was happening to me. I asked Him to send me an answer, a little sign, to assure me that I was not alone.”

Krysta’s husband worked at night, so she was always alone with her two young children—a newborn and a toddler—during the night. The children slept upstairs and Krysta’s bedroom was on the first floor with no windows in it, so everything was very dark. She did have a baby monitor, however, so she could hear if either child awakened or cried out during the night.

One morning Krysta awakened, and heard little noises coming through the intercom from her three-month-old. It sounded as if the baby was cooing contentedly. But as she listened more closely, Krysta heard something else. It was a woman’s voice! “Don’t be afraid. I am always with you,” came the soft words.

Krysta leaped out of bed and tore up the stairs. There was no way anyone could have left the upstairs room without meeting Krysta on the way up. But there was the baby alone in her crib, wide awake, still cooing and looking at the ceiling.

Had it been a dream? Krysta didn’t think so. She had read enough angel books by now to know that little children often seen angels. They are so close to heaven, after all. But it was the sign she had been looking for. Krysta never wondered if God would forget her again.

(C) 2004 Joan Wester Anderson www.joanwanderson.com

“She had a difficult home life,” says Debi. “Her relatives all wanted her to keep her baby, but she was determined to give it a better life with an adoptive couple. We admired her courage.” But as Anna’s delivery date approached, the pressure on her intensified. She stopped phoning the McCreas.

Debi was devastated. Had Anna changed her mind? Would they lose yet another chance to be parents? One desperate day she went to church, and stumbled into a pew. Slowly she began to realize that, although she had prayed every day for the baby, she hadn’t been interceding with the same fervor for Anna. Yet didn’t Anna need the support that only heaven could provide? And who else was praying for this lonely unwed mother during this heartbreaking time?

Debi would do it. She lit the only candles left in the rack, one for Anna and one for the baby. God, she prayed, Please be with Anna, and do what’s best for her, even if she decides to keep the baby. She really needs You now.

There. It hurt, but she had surrendered her will to His, and put Anna’s dilemma ahead of her own. Tearfully, she sat back in the pew, and her hip hit something hard. Debi turned to look at the object. It was a baby’s pacifier.

A sudden burst of joy washed through her. Was God sending her a sign?

Four days later, Brianna was born. The moment Debi saw her she knew immediately that their long wait had had a purpose, that this was the baby God had chosen for them. Anna knew too. Although there were some hurdles to overcome, Brianna eventually became the McCrea’s legal daughter. “We still keep in touch with Anna,” Debi says today. “Our prayers for her have formed a bond that will never break.”

(C) 2002 Joan Wester Anderson Originally appeared in Woman’s Day Magazine

A group of women gathered around my book-signing table in a Lexington, Kentucky bookstore to tell about their neighbor, Barbara, who had not been able to come and tell me the story herself. Barbara was driving down the highway, her six-year-old son Benjamin in the passenger seat. Ben was late for his piano lesson and Barbara was beginning to think she should have canceled it. There was always so much to do, and Barbara, a night duty nurse at the local hospital, had recently worked some extra shifts. She was feeling unusually tired. And today’s sleet storm, and resulting icy roads, were adding to her tension. Maybe she should turn the car around… “Mom!” Ben cried suddenly. “Look!”

Barbara saw it at the same time. The car ahead of them had lost control on a patch of ice. As Barbara hit her brakes, the other car spun wildly around, rolled over, then crashed sideways into a telephone pole. The impact was horrible.

Barbara pulled onto the road’s shoulder, skidded to a stop, and wrenched open her door. Thank God she was a nurse—her skill might make some difference in the fate of these unfortunate passengers! Then she paused. What about Ben? She couldn’t take him with her—-little boys shouldn’t see scenes like the one she anticipated. But was it safe to leave him alone? What if their car was hit from behind, or a stranger approached him? For a brief moment, Barbara considered going on her way; someone else was sure to come along…. No! She pushed the door wide. “Ben, honey, promise me you’ll stay in the car!” she cried over her shoulder.

“I will, Mommy,” she heard him say as she ran, slipping and sliding, toward the crash site.

It was worse than she had feared. Two high school-aged girls had been in the car. One, the blonde on the passenger side, was dead, apparently killed on impact. The driver, however, was unconscious and pinned in the wreckage. Barbara quickly applied pressure to the wound in the teenager’s head while her practiced eyes ran over the other injuries. A broken leg, maybe two, along with probable internal damage. But if help came soon, this girl would live.

A trucker had pulled up just ahead, and was calling emergency on his cell phone. Soon Barbara heard the ambulance sirens. A few moments later, she was glad to surrender her lonely post to the rescue workers. “Good job,” one said as he examined the driver’s wounds. “You probably saved her life, Ma’am.”

Perhaps. But as Barbara walked slowly back to the car, a feeling of sadness overwhelmed her, especially for the family of the passenger who had died. Their lives would never be the same. Oh, God, why did such things have to happen?

Slowly she opened her car door. What should she tell Benjamin? She glanced at her son. He was staring at the crash site, his blue eyes huge. “Mom,” he whispered in awe, “did you see it?”

“See what, honey?” she asked.

“The angel!”

“What?”

“The angel, Mom! He came down from the sky, real softly, while you were running to the car. And he opened the door, and he took that girl out.”

Barbara’s eyes were filling with tears. “Which door, Ben?”

“The passenger side. He took her hand, and they floated up to heaven together.”

“What about the driver?”

Ben shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone else. Just the blonde girl. She looked so happy. They were talking and laughing… Mom, it was cool!”

During the following days, Barbara was able to meet both families. They gave her their love and gratitude for the help she had provided. But she was able to give them something too, the gift of Ben’s vision. There was no way he could have known-—by ordinary means–who was in the car, and what had happened to any of them. Nor could the passenger door have been opened; Barbara herself had seen its tangle of immovable steel. Yet Ben’s account brought consolation to a grieving family. Their daughter was home safe in heaven. They were closer to her now than they had ever been. And they would see her again.

(C) 2000 Joan Wester Anderson. I wrote this story originally for Angels on Earth magazine, and it may be floating around the Internet by now.

“My second child, Joe, was in the 8th grade in public school,” Elizabeth recalls. “We had discovered that he was using drugs. We were going everywhere looking for help for him, but meeting a lot of brick walls. I felt terrible. I was heartsick over my child and I felt like a bad parent.” Elizabeth believed she had failed Joe in some way, and she blamed herself. God had given her this precious life to raise—and she had fallen short.

On one particularly bad day, Elizabeth waited until her husband and all five children were away from the house. Then she sat down at the kitchen table, put her head on her folded arms and wept. “Oh God, where did I go wrong?” she asked aloud. “What more could I have done? I failed Joe and I failed you, as a parent.” She had never felt such despair. And that’s when it happened.

Elizabeth felt a hand on her right shoulder. It startled her, because she knew she was home alone. She turned to look but saw no one there. Still, she could feel the pressure of the hand, firm and consoling. Fear gripped her for a moment. Was this real, or was grief disturbing her mind? “Then I ‘heard’ a voice,” she says. “Whether it was with my ears or like a telepathy, I am not sure to this day. But this is what I heard:”

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. He created the creatures of the sea, the birds of the air, animals of the land, and He created man and woman. And God was a GOOD parent. He walked with his children in the garden and talked with them in the evening and all he asked for was their love and respect. But Adam & Eve blew it! Does that make God a bad parent?”

Amazed and surprised, Elizabeth vigorously shook her head No. Then the voice went on: “And neither are you. Did God blame himself for Adam and Eve’s choices? Did he look for things he could have done differently? NO. He held them accountable–because he loved them and wanted them to grow. Now go and do the same…”

A peace and comfort came over Elizabeth that could only have been from God’s realm. She had never thought of the story of Adam and Eve in those terms, and how God’s parenting might resemble her own. Instantly she went from blaming herself to a blessed, astonished release, a desire instead to deal with the problem, and to trust and depend on God to help her take care of Joe. Nor did she ever cry over this situation again.

”I have no proof that it was an angel,” Elizabeth says. “There was no one here but me at the time. I never saw an angel with my eyes or even in my mind’s eye. But I believe it was an angel because the voice spoke of God like a narrator in a movie would, and yet it was talking directly to me.” And she obeyed, dismissing the question of blame, and simply seeking help for her son. Today Joe is a fine adult, married and raising four children. God truly did remain faithful to Elizabeth, as she did to Him. With a little help from an angel….

(C) 2003 Joan Wester Anderson www.joanwanderson.com