Fred made his delivery at Kennecott Copper Mine, the only stop on this sixteen-mile-long route, and started his return trip. “Normally on a Sunday night we would have picked up cars from other trains, and then proceeded on to Provo,” Fred says. “We almost never do a Kennecott “flip” (a run up to Kennecott and back,) without a trip to Provo.” Fred remembered where the accident had occurred. On an impulse as he approached the spot, he slowed down. A mile, another mile and then…Wait! Fred leaned forward. What was that, trotting towards him down the tracks?

No! Fred could hardly believe his eyes. By the flare of the engine light, he saw the white dog, alive and unscathed! He must have scooted between the rails, and the train had probably passed right over him, without doing any harm. However, like a bad dream, it was all happening again! “Come on, buddy, get off the tracks!” Fred flashed the lights, blew the whistle and tried to slow down, but the dog—unbelievably—scampered toward the engine. Right before it hit him, Fred got a clear look at the dog. “Oh, no!” he shouted. “It’s a Shih Tzu!”

Fred and his wife have a Shih Tzu, seven-year-old Milo. It made the situation even worse.

Everything was happening so fast…and then the train ran over the dog. Fred heard an unmistakable sound, the thud of the snow plow mounted on the front of the engine. If he hadn’t been crushed, the stray would have been struck by the plow. Either way, it was definitely over.

(And what happened next?)

—I had the honor and privilege of being able to interview the last survivor of the World Trade Center bombing, whose story ultimately appeared in my book, IN THE ARMS OF ANGELS.  At the point when she was discovered, the rescue workers had given up on finding any survivors, and were absolutely astonished when they came across this young woman, bruised and broken but alive.  How had she survived those terrifying hours?  By holding on to the hand of a man named Paul, she insisted, a man who kept her spirits up and encouraged her to keep calling for help.  But there was no man anywhere in the pit where they finally found her—and no way for anyone to have gotten in or out.  I could re-tell her story.

—During subsequent days, people wrote to ask, “Where were the angels in this tragedy?”  And I was able to answer with conviction:  “Right there.  Right on the scene.”  I knew this only because those with angel experiences came forward to share.  A man who saw smoke breaking up as it ascended, and then saw each piece in the shape of an angel, carrying a human being home to heaven…a trumpeter playing at Ground Zero a few days later, attracting a curious crowd. And yet no one’s camera worked.  No one there was able to get a photo…..A man who was escorted out of the building via a nearby stairway that he had never seen before…  There are probably many stories like this.  I could research one or two.

—Or I could tell all of you how meaningful that day was to me personally.  The night before, at 11 p.m. our
daughter had given birth to our first grandson, and I was up practically the entire night thinking about him.  The following day, as my husband and I drove to the hospital, we heard the news of the crashes.  Of course, like everyone else, we did not know how far such horrors would spread.  Was this unbelievable happening the end of the world?
When we finally arrived at the hospital, it was on lock-down, and for a moment I thought that we would not see this precious child, not today, not ever.  But the reception room nurse took pity on us and let us in, one of so many kindnesses offered that day.  It was when I held that little bundle that an the answer occurred to me, in a quote I’d heard: “A baby is God’s promise that life shall go on.”  It was not the end of the world.  And yesterday, in the midst of painful memories, we celebrated an eight-year-old’s special day.  I could write about that.

But maybe, as we lower our flag to half-staff today, it’s enough to quote something from the angel book:  “The future holds exceitement and opportunity.  We may grow inwardly in new ways, emerge stronger, holier and more interested in ministering to the needs of others than to ourselves.  We may learn that the people in our lives are far more important than any personal achievement or possession.  Rabbi Harold Kushner once observed that all the complicated structuress we spend so much time and evergy creating are built on sand.  “Only our relationships to other people endure.  Sooner or later, the wave will come along and knock down what we have worked so hard to build up.  When that happens, only the person who has someone’s hand to hold will be able to laugh.”

See you next time.

Vincent Tan was born Tan Ban Soon in Singapore to Chinese Buddhist parents. As a young boy, Vincent was very interested in science. One day, as he read a book on nuclear physics in the library, he discovered an offer for a Bible course stuck within the pages of the book. Curious, Vincent ordered the course. Ultimately he became a Christian and because he wanted to attend a Christian college, he came to the United States and gave himself the western name of “Vincent.”

Vincent graduated from college, and took a job in analytical chemistry in Chattanooga, Tennessee. His faith deepened, possibly because he wasn’t afraid to share it with others, and life settled down. In March, 1993, Vincent was working late in his lab, looking out the window occasionally to keep an eye on his car, since several had recently been stolen from the area. He noticed a stranger standing on the passenger side of his car. The man was young and clean-cut, but thieves come in all guises, and since Vincent is proficient in martial arts, he decided to investigate. Stealthily grabbing a long metal rod from the lab, he opened the door and called, “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Hi, Vincent,” the stranger responded.

Vincent was startled. Had he mistaken a friend for a thief? But no, he had never seen this man before. “Do I know you?” Vincent asked.

“Not really,” the man responded. “But you don’t have to use Chi-sao or the rod on me. And your mother is fine”

Now Vincent was really confused. No one in America knew of his skill in Chi-sao. Nor could the stranger see the rod Vincent held behind him. And who else could have known that his mother in China had just developed a heart problem?

The stranger smiled. “You love the Lord very much, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” Vincent answered. He started to relax.

“He loves you too,” the man replied. “And He is coming very soon.”

Vincent was thrilled. Could this be true? He looked away just for a second or two, and when he looked back, the man had disappeared.

Could he have been an angel? Eventually Vincent told his story to Jim Bramlett, an author who researches prophecy material, and Jim used Vincent’ experience, among others, in a magazine article.

Three years later, on Saturday, April 6, 1996, Vincent awoke at 4:30 a.m. with a strong belief that he was to pray. He wasn’t exactly sure about what, but this urge had come upon him before, and he always obeyed it. He prayed for a few moments, then fell asleep.

At seven Vincent awakened again, and began his usual morning prayer time. About a half hour later, his telephone rang. It was too early to answer the phone on a Saturday, he decided, and continued praying. The answering machine would handle the call.

But the phone kept ringing. Insistently. Had Vincent forgotten to turn on the answering machine? No, he could see the red light from where he knelt. Vincent got up and went to the phone. Ten rings, eleven…and although the Caller ID was also turned on, no number was showing. Vincent gave up and grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice.

“Hello!” Vincent repeated.

“Hello!” the woman answered again.

“Yes-did you want to speak to me?” Vincent was getting exasperated.

“No.”

“Then why did you call?”

“I didn’t call,” the woman answered, as annoyed as he. “You called me!”

He hadn’t, Vincent explained. He had simply answered his phone. The very same thing had happened to the woman whose name, she informed him, was Doris. “I live in Iowa,” she said. “I can’t imagine how this whole thing happened, Mr. ………?”

“My name is Vincent Tan,” he answered politely, planning to say good-bye and end this strange mix-up. But the woman gave a little gasp.

“Are you the Vincent Tan who had an experience with an angel?” she asked.

“Well, yes…”

“My mother and I read about it in a magazine. We never forgot what a wonderful story it was. Six months ago, my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Every day since then, she has prayed that she might be able to speak with you before she died. This morning I awakened at 3:30, and I prayed, reminding the Lord of my mother’s request.”

Three thirty. Given the time zones, Doris had awakened at the same moment as Vincent. They had been praying together.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Doris went on. “Would it be too much to ask you to talk to my mother?”

“Put her on the phone,” Vincent said.

The elderly lady’s voice was weak and hardly audible, but for the next forty-five minutes or so, the two talked. Vincent told her about his angel experience in great detail, and they discovered that several of their favorite Scripture passages were the same. Finally, the elderly woman whispered, “Praise the Lord. Amen.”

All became quiet. Thinking the old woman had fallen asleep, Vincent was about to hang up when Doris came back on the phone. “Mother has died,” she told Vincent. “Thank you for what you did for her.”

Vincent was overwhelmed. A soul had just entered eternity, and he had been permitted to play a part in this joyous journey! He and Doris said their good-byes quickly, so she could begin the necessary arrangements. It was not until several hours later that he realized he had never gotten Doris’ last name or address, nor had the Caller ID recorded the call. Nor did Vincent ever receive a bill for the call, although Doris had told him she had answered his ring.

Vincent saw no point in investigating further, for the experience, he believes, was simply part of God’s plan. “The Lord has His reasons for all of this,” he says. “And as we near the final hours, I know that He is even closer.”

Order a personally inscribed copy directly from the author for yourself or a loved one (address below). Check or money order for $15 plus $4 shipping and handling. Be sure to tell me to whom it should be signed, and if there’s a special occasion involved. (Note: for 2 books, add $5 postage, for 3 books $7 postage and for 4 or more books, any titles, $9 postage is enough.)

Well, of course, the most important way is to buy IN THE ARMS OF ANGELS.  Give it to someone else after you have read it, or remember someone at Christmas or their birthday or at a death in the family or when they are having a hard time.

The next great help is to tell others about it.  Lots of you have mailing lists of your own, clubs, organizations, relatives…  Spreading the word helps so much. Or call your local library and ask them to order a copy so others can enjoy it too.

If you are in a book club, IN THE ARMS OF ANGELS might make a perfect selection for Christmas or Easter meetings.  Some questions are posted below; feel free to copy them.  Please let me know if you would like questions developed for other books in this series.

What was your impression/understanding of angels before reading this book?  Has it changed?  Did you believe all the stories? If not, how would you explain these occurrences?

Which story affected you the most? Why?

Under what circumstances do you think angels are most likely to appear?  To whom do you think angels would most likely appear? Are you such a person?  After reading the book, did you recall any experiences in your own life that might have been “divine interventions?”

Genelle Guzman, the heroine of “Guardian in the Tower,” was interviewed extensively on television and in newspapers, as 9/11’s last survivor. However, her experience with Paul was rarely mentioned.  Why do you suppose that was?  Are you pleased, surprised or irritated when the secular media focuses on spiritual topics?

In “This Little Light of Mine,” teacher Robin Lee Shope brought about a great change in one of her most difficult students.  Can you remember any mentors, teachers or others, who did that for you?  Have you ever thought of locating this person and telling him/her what an effect his help had upon you?  Could Robin rightly be called an “earth angel?”

In “A Message for Rita,” the title character was angry at God.  Why?  Do you think we have a right to expect a happy or healthy life if we “obey the rules?”

Have you ever felt prodded to do something that, initially, didn’t make sense, like Mona Barnes in “Heavenly Vision”?   Did you forge ahead or pull back?  Why? How did the situation work out?

In “Beyond Coincidence,” how do you think Paul Barkley was changed by his encounter with the angel? Would you want an angel to appear to you? Why? If so, under what circumstances?  How do you think you would respond if an angel appeared to you?

Order In The Arms of Angels from Amazon today. If you’d like an autographed copy, send $19 to me at Joan Anderson, PO Box 127, Prospect Heights IL 60070.  ($15 for the book $4 for postage.  For 4 or more books (any of my titles listed here) send $9 for postage for all.

What goes around comes around. And Roberta Eschenbaum, a farm wife living outside Miller, South Dakota, certainly knows this to be true. She had taken a quick trip into Miller one morning, and was rushing home to get the noon meal on the table for the workmen. As she drove, she was also keeping an eye out for her father, who lived alone and had emphysema. “He didn’t drive much except for the twelve miles out to our farm,” she says, “so I always knew that if he needed help on the road, one of our neighbors would probably see him and stop.” But it was still a worry for her, and she often prayed for his safety.

There was no sign of Roberta’s father’s car. Instead, up ahead, she saw another vehicle stopped at the side of the road, a man peering into the engine. “I was in a hurry, and although I always help people I know, this man was a stranger,” Roberta says. She should have kept going, especially since the area was deserted. Yet something told her to stop. She did.

The driver was having trouble with his battery, so Roberta drove to a neighboring farm, borrowed booster cables, drove back, and got the car going. “This is wonderful,” the driver thanked her and reached for his wallet. “Could I…?”

“No payment necessary,” Roberta smiled, getting back in her car. “Just return this favor by helping the next person you find stalled along a road.”

“I certainly will!” The man waved as she pulled out.

Two weeks later, Roberta’s father phoned, with an interesting story to tell. “I went to an auction about fifty miles southwest of here…” he began.

“Fifty miles!” Roberta was aghast. “Dad, you never drive that far alone!”

“…And I got a flat tire on the way home.”

By now Roberta was in a panic. The area he was describing was a back country road, with little or no chance of anyone coming by. Nor could her father have changed his own tire, weakened as he was. “What happened?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t believe it. A nice motorist came along right away, and changed my tire. But when I offered to pay him, he said no. Seems a woman outside of Miller had given him a battery jump two weeks ago, and told him to pass on the favor. He was paying a debt to her.”

Roberta felt love surrounding her like a hug. “I think God knew Dad was going to do that, and so He arranged a rescue ahead of time,” she says. “I look for evidence of His presence all the time–and I always find it.”

This book has become a favorite of high school and college students, as well as people who are ill or in mourning. (I’m not sure why-this is just what my mail reveals.) If you want to spread some inspiration, this may be a good choice. You may order Angels and Wonders from Amazon, or order an autographed copy directly from me. Send a check or money order for $19 plus $4 per book for shipping and handling to PO Box 127, Prospect Heights IL 60070. Note: For 4 or more books, any titles, $9 postage is enough. Tell me to whom the book should be signed, and if it is for a special occasion (birthday, Christmas, etc). I’ll get it out to you immediately.

Rachel F. was nine or ten when she experienced something wondrous. “It was a very hot night, and I had my bedroom window open to let in the breeze,” she says. “I was supposed to already be asleep, but because it was so hot I had just been lying there in bed. Suddenly I could hear what seemed like thousands of people singing.” It was a song that Rachel didn’t know, and the music thrilled her in a way she had never experienced before. Rachel’s aunt lived a few houses over from Rachel’s family, and as she sat up in bed and listened intently, she thought the music was coming from Auntie’s house. Was Auntie having a party? But it seemed as if hundreds of people were singing, far too many to be visiting Aunty…

The music got louder, more joyous, and Rachel tiptoed out of her room to find her parents. She expected they would be playing music, but the living room was quiet. “There’s nothing going on,” her parents assured her. “No stereo, no party. Now go back to bed.” Rachel couldn’t believe that they didn’t hear the music, so she went upstairs and awakened her sister. She couldn’t hear it either.

“It was beautiful!” Rachel says. “It lasted for a while, and I heard the clock strike 11.00 pm. Then it stopped, and I fell asleep.”

In the morning, Rachel was awakened early by the phone ringing. “It was my auntie,” Rachel says. “She was phoning to let us know that her father had died the night before. My mother came into my room to tell me, because I had been very close to him.”

“What time did he die, Mum?” Rachel asked.

“Just about eleven,” her mother answered. Eleven. When the joyful music was at its peak….

“Rachel,” her mother was smiling, “when I went to bed, I heard the music too.”

Years later, Rachel heard the same music one evening in a church congregation, with both the people—and angels—praising Jesus together. “I have always wanted to tell this story to people who would understand,” she says.

And now, she has.

It was just past midnight on December 24, 1983. The Midwest was shivering through a record-breaking cold spell, complete with gale-force winds and frozen water pipes. And although our suburban Chicago household was filled with the snug sounds of a family at rest, I couldn’t be a part of them, not until our twenty-one-year-old son pulled into the driveway. At the moment, Tim and his two roommates were driving home for Christmas, their first trip back since they had moved East last May.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Tim had reassured me over the phone last night. “We’re going to leave before dawn tomorrow and drive straight through. We’ll be fine!”

Kids. They do insane things. Under normal circumstances, I figured, a Connecticut-to-Illinois trek ought to take about eighteen hours. But the weather had turned so dangerously cold that radio reports warned against venturing outdoors, even for a few moments. And we have heard nothing from the travelers. Distressed, I pictured them on a desolate road. What if they ran into car problems or lost their way? And if they had been delayed, why hadn’t Tim phoned. Restlessly I paced and prayed in the familiar shorthand all mothers know: God, send someone to help them.

By now, as I later learned, the trio had stopped briefly in Fort Wayne, Indiana, to deposit Don at his family home. Common sense suggested that Tim and Jim stay the rest of the night and resume their trek in the morning. But when does common sense prevail with invincible young adults?…The two had started out again.

They had been traveling for only a few miles on a rural access road to the Indiana toll way, when they noticed the car’s engine seem sluggish. Tim glanced uneasily at Jim. “Do not—” the radio announcer intoned, “-repeat-do not venture outside tonight, friends. There’s a record wind-chill of eighty below zero, which means that exposed skin will freeze in less than a minute.” The car surged suddenly, then coughed and slowed again.

“Tim,” Jim spoke until the darkness, “we’re not going to stall here, are we?”

“We can’t,” Tim answered grimly as he pumped the accelerator. “We’d die for sure.”

But instead of picking up speed, the engine sputtered, chugging and slowing again. About a mile later, at the top of a small incline, the car crawled to a frozen stop.

Horrified, Tim and Jim looked at each other. They could see across the fields in every direction…but there was no traffic, no refuge ahead, not even a farmhouse light blinking in the distance…And the appalling, unbelievable cold! Never had they experienced anything so intense. Even if shelter was only a short distance away, they couldn’t survive. The temperature would kill them in a manner of minutes….Well, God, Tim prayed, echoing my own distant plea, You’re the only one who can help us now.”

Then, as if they had already slipped into a dream, they saw headlights flashing at the car’s left rear. But that was impossible, for they had seen no twin pinpricks of light in the distance, no hopeful approach. Where had the vehicle come from? Had they already died?

But no. Miraculously, someone was knocking on the drivers’ side window. “Need to be pulled?” In disbelief, they heard the muffled shout. But it was true. Their rescuer was driving a tow truck.

(Could he bring them back to Don’s? He did, saying nothing, not asking for directions, finally maneuvering around the cul-de-sac and parking in front of the house.) Tim and Jim raced to the side door where Don was waiting. “The tow truck, Don,” Tim began. “I have to pay him. I need to borrow—”

“Wait a minute,” Don frowned, looking past his friends through the windows. “I don’t seen any tow truck out there.”

Tim and Jim turned around. There, parked alone at the curb, was Tim’s car. There had been no sound in the crystal-clear night of its release from the chains, no door slam, no chug of an engine pulling away. There had been no bill for Tim to pay, to receipt to sign, no farewell or “thank you” or “Merry Christmas…”

Stunned, Tim raced back down the driveway to the curb, but there were no taillights disappearing in the distance, no engine noise echoing through the silent streets, nothing at all to mark the tow truck’s presence.

Then Tim saw the tire tracks in the windblown snowdrifts. But there was only one set of tracks marking the cul-de-sac. And they belonged to Tim’s car….

…Angels don’t submit to litmus tests, testify in court or slide under a microscope for examination. Thus their existence cannot be “proved” by the guidelines we humans usually use. To know one, perhaps, requires a willingness to suspend judgment, to open ourselves to possibilities we’ve only dreamed about…

Was it an angel? Our family will never know for sure.

But on Christmas Eve in 1983, I heard the whisper of wings as a tow-truck driver answered a heavenly summons, and brought our son safely home.

Want to read over sixty reassuring stories about angelic intervention? Order Where Angels Walk from Amazon.com or order a personally inscribed copy directly from the author for yourself or a loved one (address below). Check or money order for $15 plus $4 shipping and handling. For two books (any titles of mine) add $5 for postage; for 3 books $7 postage. Be sure to tell me to whom it should be signed, and if there’s a special occasion involved. (Note: for 4 or more books, any titles, $9 postage is enough.)

She should never have waited so long to tackle the Christmas shopping, Kimberley Little reminded herself as she shifted her bundles from one aching arm to the other. She hated shopping, hated having to brave the crowds, and sift through endless piles of merchandise. But there was only so much holiday gift-buying one could do through catalogues, and, of course, the children needed their annual photo taken with Santa Claus. So here she was, imprisoned in a slow-moving “Visit Santa” line, wondering if she might spend the entire holidays in this Albuquerque mall.

Of course, she had to admit she was never “up” at this time of year, no matter how smoothly things went. Her father had died tragically in a plane crash just a few days before Christmas when Kimberley was fourteen, and although many years had passed, she never faced December without feeling echoes of that familiar shock, sorrow and loneliness. As her faith matured, Kimberley had gotten involved in her church, singing in the choir, and teaching her young sons to pray. She didn’t doubt that her father was in heaven with Jesus, and she would see him again. But every year as Christmas approached, the same nagging question emerged: “This is all supposed to be so wonderful. So why isn’t it?”

Kimberley shifted packages again, and looked at her three young sons. Their moods seemed no cheerier than hers. One was demanding a ride on the train further down the mall. Another was hungry. “I hate Christmas!” muttered the eldest, his lip thrust out in frustration.

Kimberley felt guilty. “Moms have so much influence on the spirit of the family,” she says. “If we’re just a little bit cranky, everyone picks up on it.” She didn’t want to spoil this season for the children. They shouldn’t carry the same vague sadness that she did.

And yet… She glanced around at the other families in line. They were all like hers, she realized, the kids were irritable, tired, fighting with one another, the parents grimly Determined to Endure.

Why are we like this? Kimberley wondered. Where was the real Christmas, the spirit of love and peace, the joyful awareness that a Savior had come into the world? How did one cut through the confusion, the fatigue, the pressure, yes, even the sorrowful memories, to find it?

Suddenly, God nudged her. “It couldn’t have been anything else,” Kimberley says, “because all at once I felt a little tingle, as if something new was happening. And I realized that if I wanted to feel better about myself, I had to take the first step. I had to be brave.” But how?

Sing a carol… The suggestion was already in her heart. She had recently performed a solo in church. She knew how to sing.
But this noisy shopping center was not church. “Oh, no, God, not me,” she told Him silently. “You remember how shy I am.. People will stare.”

Bring Christmas to the mall. Sing.

Kimberley sighed. It was no use. She knew that Voice. And hadn’t she asked
Him where Christmas was?

Softly she began to sing. “Silent night, holy night…” The couple in front of her, who had been filling out a photography order form, paused and turned around.

“All is calm, all is bright…” Kimberley reached for her youngest son and picked him up. What if they threw her out of the mall, for disturbing the peace?

You’re bringing the peace, the answer came. Sing.

The children behind her had stopped arguing. “Listen,” one whispered to the other. “That lady’s singing.”

The tips of Kimberley’s ears turned red. “Round yon virgin, mother and child…” she went on. Her sons would never speak to her again.

But…Was it her imagination, or did she hear another voice? And another? Yes, the couple in front of her was singing, their order form forgotten. Now the children behind her, and their parents, and the family next to them. Dazed, Kimberley realized that the entire section of the Santa Claus line had joined her. Even her own offspring.

It was true! Little risks could lead to wonderful things. And she was feeling better, her spirit soothed, her mind quieted. Maybe Christmas, and its eternal message, was simply as close as anyone allowed it to be.

Voices faded as the song ended. “Let’s do ‘Angels We Have Heard on High’” Kimberley suggested to the people around her. It was her eldest’s favorite carol, and her dad had always liked it too.

It was going to be a wonderful Christmas.

It was a hot July day in 2003, and Susan Archie was in her back yard, looking at the big tractor her husband used when he cut the lawn. He had always promised to teach her how to drive it, but with all the outside chores in their rural home in South Carolina, he hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Right now he was working in front, but the back lawn needed cutting, and the tractor didn’t look all that hard to drive, Susan mused. She did know how to stop, and go, and it would be one less chore for him…

She checked on her six-year-old son, Joshua, who was riding an old lawn mower that his dad had adjusted to go very slowly, so Joshua wouldn’t get hurt.

Their son was enthralled with all things mechanical, and probably knew more about the tractor than she did. Nevertheless, she would be extremely careful. “Stay over there, Joshua,” she called to him. “I’m going to cut the grass on this side.”
Up and over and into the seat before she had time to reconsider. The wheels on the tractor were up to her nose, and the cutting blade was seven feet long. It all looked potentially lethal…. She wouldn’t think about any of that. Plenty of women drove tractors. She turned on the ignition, and the engine sprang to life.

One pass along the outside of the grass, turn, and then another pass. Susan was doing just fine. Joshua had approached once, yelling something, but she couldn’t hear him and had waved him away. Now he was back on the safe side of the lawn. Or was he? Suddenly Susan realized that Josh was not where she’d thought he was. Frantically she looked around. There he was, off the lawn mower, running right alongside her! “Josh, get away!” Susan stepped on the brakes.

“Mom, you’re not cutting it right!” she heard him shout. Then Josh attempted to jump onto the tractor. In a horrified moment, Susan’s feet came off the pedals, throwing Joshua off. He slid beneath the tractor, and the huge wheel rolled over—and stopped—on his stomach and chest. She could only see his head, sticking out from beneath the machine. “Josh!” Susan screamed, trying to turn off the engine. Her husband came running from the front yard. “He’s under the wheel! I’ve killed him!” Susan leaped off, as her husband cut the tractor’s power. Both parents rushed to Josh. As if in a dream, Susan noticed that her son was now lying on his side, with the wheel off of him, and had somehow avoided the blades. “I’ll get him out!” Susan’s husband said. She ran for the phone in the house. To this day she does not remember her feet ever touching the ground.

The shock of the unbelievable scene stayed with her as she phoned the paramedics. Why hadn’t she been more careful? The wheel could have cut off his air supply—and had the blade done damage she hadn’t yet seen? God, God… Her heart seemed ready to burst.

Since the Archies lived so far into the country, Susan asked the paramedics to meet her and Josh at a country store several miles away, rather than waste precious time giving them directions. She ran back to the yard. Her husband had somehow gotten Josh out from under the tractor, and he was lying on the ground. Stunned, she realized the six-year-old was conscious and breathing, and there was no sign that he had been cut by the blade. “I’m okay, Daddy, it doesn’t hurt,” Josh was protesting.

“Lie still, Josh, and don’t talk,” the adults told him as they carefully carried him to the truck. He couldn’t be okay, Susan thought. She had felt the huge wheel go over him. His lungs must be crushed, and as for internal injuries….she didn’t want to think. Would Joshua die because she hadn’t learned to drive the tractor? From her cell phone, she again called 911 to update the ambulance, and then called her mother to alert her church’s prayer chain. Word immediately went out over the hills and hamlets. There was power in prayer. But could it save Joshua’s life?

The truck sped down the country road. Before they even reached the country store, Susan saw the paramedics pull up. They had apparently decided to airlift Josh to a larger hospital, because the Lifeflight helicopter set down in the parking lot just a few minutes later. Susan and her husband would have to drive, since there wasn’t room in the helicopter for them. “As they were getting ready to put Joshua in the helicopter, I kissed him and told him that I loved him,” Susan says. “He told me again that he was okay.” She watched the plane take off, asking angels to encircle it.

Then as she and her husband pulled out of the parking lot, Susan noticed that the lot was almost full. People….people she knew, and some she didn’t, all alerted to Joshua’s condition, she realized. They had come to the store to offer silent support, just to let her know they were praying. Tears streamed down her cheeks. God, God….

Susan prayed all the way. And when they finally entered the emergency room, the first voice she heard was her son’s. “My mama wasn’t cutting the grass right,” he was explaining to someone.
“That’s Joshua!” she shouted. “Where is he?”

Physicians checked every inch of Josh, and ran several scans. They discovered that his liver had been almost cut in two, his lungs were bruised and two ribs cracked. Yet aside from bloodshot eyes due to the pressure of the tractor, Joshua looked almost the same. It was almost unbelievable that he did not have more serious injuries, Nor was he in any pain. “I want to go home, Mom,” he kept telling Susan. “I feel fine, honest.” A very lucky little boy…

Yet Susan knew it was far more than luck. From the moment she had asked for prayers, they had come. The first gathering in the parking lot led to visits, people dropping off notes at her house, and phoning the hospital, leaving messages of hope. Others wrote letters from faraway places, people from all faiths, all assuring her that they were praying for her son’s healing. Again, she remembered the moment of the accident, and her bewilderment that Josh had been run over while lying on his back, and yet when she reached him, he was on his side, with the wheel completely off.

“He seemed completely normal,” Susan says. “Despite his IV, he was hungry, and after the first night, he actually roamed the hospital halls, looking for something to do.” The liver mended without surgery.

Josh went home in less than a week, and has had no ill effects. One night shortly after his release from the hospital, he and Susan were talking about the accident. “Did it hurt when the tractor ran over you?” she asked.

“I didn’t feel it run over me,” Josh says. “God was with me.”

God, and a team of angels to lift the wheel, summoned by prayer.

You can purchase a copy of Guardian Angels from Loyola Press or from Amazon.com. You can also buy it from me for $15 plus $4 for shipping/handling. Send a check to Joan Anderson at PO Box 127, Prospect Heights IL 60070 and let me know to whom I should autograph it.

For two books, add $5 for postage; for 3 copies, add $7 for postage. For 4 or more books, add $9 for postage. Orders, of course, can be mixed—see the other angel books available from this website.