Well, those of you who have received Joann’s latest letter know that Joann had her gall bladder out last month, and one day while she recuperated, Joannie (her daughter) was driving their delivery truck packed with corn that a local food bank had given them, when a cable caught on the truck and pulled it over. Angels must have surrounded her because she was not seriously injured, and the truck can hopefully be fixed rather than totaled out.  (Maybe the angels were telling Joannie to slow down?)  Daniel (Joannie’s son) was left in charge of the entire ministry as the women recovered, and this past week he left for Boston for an intensive pre-med program.  He will be taking his entrance test for medical school at the end of this month.

I’m exhausted just reading about the problems they have there, but this is the kind of work where you can see the results.  Items brought in that morning are usually gone by dinnertime, and because Joann has lived there all her life, she knows who is truly needy.  There are special needs at special times too, things many of us would never think of.  For example, the druggist in town will accept any leftover medications, and give them to sick people.  There are foster kids being released from the system who have nowhere to go.  Women fleeing abusive husbands are in need of immediate safe shelter.  Where do the Cayces put the donations they receive for giveaways?  (Answer:  In a gym our gang helped them purchase a few years ago; now they have a food pantry and “store” available at all hours.)

During the next few weeks, the people in Thornton will be attempting to get the children back to school.  They will need all the usual school supplies as well as light-weight clothes and underwear (at least for now).  Coats will come later…  It’s a never-ending process.  Thanks and hugs for the good job all of you do, whether in your own communities or in Thornton.  I know that the angels are dancing with joy and appreciation.

And now for our story:

Our last story (about angels sometimes coming in the guise of butterflies) generated a lot of responses.  Obviously, many of you have experienced this wonderful little sign, so I thought we’d do one more:

Kim Wencl lost her 20-year old daughter, Elizabeth, in September of 2003.  Elizabeth was a student at the University of Minnesota and a fire broke out in her duplex. She and two of her roommates died of smoke inhalation.

Losing a child at any age is probably the most devastating blow that anyone can experience, and this family was no different.  “As we began the difficult task of planning her funeral,” says Kim, “my Mom, Liz’s grandmother, was insistent that we needed to release butterflies at the cemetery.  We all thought it was a great idea, but no one knew where to find butterflies … not even the florist.”

Kim’s mother would not be deterred.  She went on the internet and found a company in Florida that could supply butterflies.  She ordered them and they arrived in time for the funeral.  (“I considered this to be somewhat of a miracle as well,” says Kim, “because my mother is elderly and on a very good day she can barely remember how to use a computer.”)  Yet despite her deep emotional turmoil, Gram was still able to follow through.

After the funeral and the graveside service, Liz’s family released the precious little collection, expecting them to fly away.  But they didn’t. Except for a few, the butterflies hovered around the mourners. “Many landed on us, or fluttered over the casket and the large funeral sprays that lay on it,” Kim recalls.   “One butterfly landed on Elizabeth’s sister, Anna, and it stayed on her … it didn’t want to leave.  Everyone sort of gasped as the significance of it set in.”

Since the cemetery is within walking distance, the following day Liz’s grandmother went over to visit the grave.  As she stood and stared at the overturned earth and all of the flowers strewn upon it, she thought, “Liz if you are ok, please give me a sign.”

After a few more minutes, Gran began to walk back home.  Soon—and almost expected—two butterflies flew up right in front of her, seemingly out of nowhere.  It was Liz, her grandmother knew.  All was well.

“Elizabeth is always present in our lives,” Kim says today, some seven years later.  “She has let us all know in so many different ways.”

God does not abandon his children in our times of grief.  He has promised that He will send us whatever we need to endure, and He does.  Even butterflies.

I was working on my latest writing project, a book about angels, and having strong doubts. It was August, 1991, and there hadn’t been much national interest in angels in many years. I had some heavenly stories to share, but would anyone want to read them?

The doorbell rang and the mailman handed me a small package marked “Fragile.” It was from a fellow author in Canada, which seemed strange, since we only wrote at Christmas, and never exchanged gifts. Her card read, “I think God wants you to have this.” I opened the box and stared at a little angel figurine in a red dress. No one had known about my writing project, yet my friend followed a heavenly nudge, and the signal was clear: “Keep going!” WHERE ANGELS WALK ended up on the New York Times best seller list.

It didn’t take long before readers began sending me angels. Statues, of course, but also angel soap, picture frames, pins, shawls…with the growing interest in angels, crafters were finding new outlets for their designs and “angel stores” were opening. “It used to be that angels were only available at Christmas,” one woman wrote, “but now they’re becoming an industry!” I discovered that there was a national group called Angel Collectors Club of America (ACCA), founded in 1976, to celebrate the enjoyment and existence of angels. (A second club, Angels of the World International, similar in interests, was getting started, and I joined both) In addition to an every-other-year convention, both organizations broke up into smaller geographic groups, and scheduled local meetings when possible.

Many collectors had begun as I did, receiving a gift of an angel for a special event, then wanting another, and another…. But it was not uncommon to meet people who had been collecting since they were children. (These were the Champions—people who, if not restrained by their families, would have built room additions to display their angels!) These folks were occasionally featured in local newspapers, surrounded by their heavenly hosts, which brought new members into the folds.

Unlike many collections, angels are so diverse that almost everyone can find something to enjoy. I noticed that some members focus primarily on specific types of angels, such as the birthday series (one statue per month) or a popular set of boy angels, each playing a different sport. One woman collects angels with red hair, and others concentrate on cats or frogs! As well as figurines, specialty collectors look for vintage angel cards, buttons, cookie tins and jewelry (the thrill is in the hunt.) Angel fabric is also popular. “I couldn’t resist it even though I don’t sew,” said one woman, holding yards of angel-embossed lace. Chances are, she’ll find a fellow collector who wants it.

The majority of ACCA members, however, have eclectic collections rather than sticking to just a few categories. Looking around my office right now, I see two angel mobiles, some framed art, a Victorian lady and a doll from Kansas whose wings are made out of straw. My shelves are filled with angel books, as well as glass and paper ornaments for decorating at Christmas. Such diversity is the norm.

A typical collection among ACCA members will range from a few hundred to a thousand or more items. Usually, they cannot all be displayed at the same time. Julie Henrickson, ACCA’s current Activities chairperson, rotates her angels for whatever holiday is approaching. “I have angels for Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter, Halloween and Thanksgiving,” she says. “There’s enough to be always putting different ones out.” Sue Vecchiarelli, vice-president of AWI, keeps hers displayed permanently in a “huge curio bursting at the seams.” Members share poetry, book reviews, recipes, and garden tips, and search for items needed to complete a project—all angel-related. There is also the Halo newsletter, which keeps us informed about events, new products and members who need prayers and Get Well cards. And when ACCA members raise money, it’s donated to their official charity, The Make-A-Wish Foundation.

I probably should have kept an orderly record and description of each angel as it joined the others in my house, as a true collector does. But no matter how many I have, that first little sculpture from my “earth angel” in Canada will always have the place of honor. Like the heavenly messengers, it changed my life.

ACCA $20 annual dues

Pauline Neff, VP

mandpneff@q.com

AWI $20 annual dues

Sue Vecchiarelli, VP

suzvecang@yahoo.com

For a Mom who loves to laugh, a copy of my latest book, MOMS GO WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD might be the perfect Mother’s Day gift. Just click on www.amazon.com, and type the book title in the long space.

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?”

With the seasonal blast of flu viruses—and many doctors’ offices still without the vaccine— is there anything we can do to avoid getting sick?  A few nights ago, the TV news featured a rabbi explaining that hugs had been discontinued at his synagogue for fear of members passing the virus to one another.  He was followed by a minister recommending that his congregation use fist bumps to greet one another instead of shaking hands.  In some Catholic parishes, dispensing wine in a common cup at communion time has been halted for the time being, the newscaster informed us; a practice carried on during both the Black and Bubonic plagues.  The whole thing sounded pretty serious.  It’s one thing to wash one’s hands frequently or take other precautions when out in public.  But somehow I’ve always considered church a “safe haven,” even from germs.

Not so. When we went to church this past Sunday, it sounded like an infirmary.  Coughs predominated but sneezes, especially the really LOUD ones, were running a close second.  (This is where I start to sound like a little old lady with her pointer finger up):  How can we avoid passing flu bugs around?  if you have anything resembling a cold, STAY HOME. Yes, even from church.

Do we really think that God will be upset with us if we miss being in his holy presence out of love for our neighbors?  Is a “good” Christian measured by the length of time she spends in public prayer?  Am I sick, but not sick enough to stay home from church?  We all know the answers to these questions, and maybe it’s time we cut ourselves some slack, especially during this upcoming winter.

And here’s another way:  Aren’t angels our protectors?  And if they can shield us from automobile accidents or get us out of the way of that falling tree, perhaps God has also given them the power to wrap their wings around us when the danger is microscopic-sized.  The next time someone coughs on you, envision your guardian angel putting up a barrier between you and the sick person.  Then avoid crowds, enjoy chicken soup and give thanks.

—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.

On the other hand, that could be an advantage: My mind would be a complete blank (nothing surprising there!) and I would have no preconceived notions. I went to the movies.

As far as action films go, Angels and Demons did not disappoint. It’s quick-paced (on the order of the Indiana Jones series), with an implausible but interesting storyline and plenty of mystery. Unlike many movies in this genre, its twists and turns were relatively easy to follow. Although fans have complained
about plot changes—director Ron Howard appears to have skipped or revised a great deal of the book—none of that bothered me.

The film is beautifully crafted, almost like a travelogue. The musical score is incredible, so appropriate in every scene. The majesty of Rome, the Vatican, the sweeping aerial views of St. Peter’s Square—they thrill the senses and make you feel right there. The Vatican did not allow filming inside, so in addition to sets, producers used animation to fill in the gaps, and that was accomplished perfectly.

However, I did note a subtle but definite anti-Catholic position here. Negative comments about the church are simply tossed around without any challenge to their truthfulness. I was also offended by the typical Hollywood manipulation of a “good guy” expressing moral beliefs early in the story, then—in an all-too-familiar device—being revealed as the “bad guy” at the end. What does this imply about faith? Yes, I know it’s fiction, but still…

The Vatican newspaper recently dismissed the film as “harmless entertainment,” while commenting that it “has little to do with the genius and mystery of Christianity.” And I think that’s where the movie really disappointed me.

As a devotee of angels and their positions in the heavenly kingdom, I had hoped to see them in a real role here, perhaps interacting with the characters, announcing a miracle or gracing us with some significant truth.  Instead, unless I missed it, they only appeared in the form of statues at Rome monuments chosen as dumping grounds for murder victims—an undignified and pointless function. The “Angels” and “Demons” of the title really didn’t have anything to do with the movie at all.

Angels and Demons opened to lackluster reviews, and although it will likely be a financial success, revenue has already started to slide downhill. I believe that with a bit of mysticism, much more could have been accomplished.

One major note: The murder scenes are grisly and not acceptable for grade-schoolers or sensitive teens. This is most certainly not a family movie.

—Just wanted you to know that little Isaac Frank, the boy we prayed for after he was severely burned, continues to improve.  “He has three scrapbooks filled with lovely mail sent from your readers,” says grandmother Mary Frank, “and he is laughing again.  The love everyone showed him has brought back his happiness.”  Thank you, Earth Angels.
And now, our story:

One of the situations that causes tension for all of us is our attempt to control our lives.  We seem to feel that the tighter we hold on, direct and attempt to fix, the better things will be.  However, God would obviously like us to lean a bit more on Him, to surrender and follow his lead.  It’s not always easy to determine just where He’s leading us, but when we humbly ask for help, it’s amazing what can happen. Helen Scheid of Rochester, Minnesota, knows this very well.

Helen has her PhD in Psychological Measurement and Evaluation (wow!) and has been a consultant and a director of her own company, one that provides examinations and licensing for schools and state boards.  A corporation wanted Helen’s professional advice to help their board of directors choose among three bidders for a project. But the board members didn’t know what questions to ask, nor how to evaluate the answers when they got them.

It was a rather routine situation, and Helen felt she could help.  She was familiar with the corporation, and with the three organizations whose bids they were considering.  “I knew the strengths and the weaknesses of each, and I felt certain I could help them make their own good decision,”  Helen says. “That’s what an effective consultant should do.”

So far, so good.  But as the evaluations and discussions proceeded through the first day, Helen sensed that one of the three organizations was already being favored.  By the second day it became clear that the directors were divided into two camps—those with a preconceived plan in favor of that bidders, and those who wanted to weigh the evidence before making any decision. “I tried to steer a neutral course between the two, directing their attention to facts and data and the implications of alternatives,” Helen says, “but by lunch time, there was a stalemate. The directors were no longer treating one another with ordinary courtesy and respect; the velvet gloves were coming off. What was I to do?”

Lunch was brought in to the conference room to expedite the agenda. Tension had taken away any appetite Helen had, so she excused herself to go for a walk.  And on the path, she prayed. “Dear God,” she said, “I’m in an impossible situation. I really don’t know what I can do about it. There is a lot of friction and hostility in this group, and some of it has a long history that I really can’t deal with. I know they have to make a decision, and they have to make it now. But no one wants to compromise, and everyone wants it their own way. I have to go back to the meeting now, God, but I’m leaving it in your hands to show me what I can do to help them resolve this.”

Instead of hanging on even tighter to an imaginery sense of control, Helen had asked God to take over.”I was still a little anxious about what I should do,” she says, “but I also felt that I didn’t have to worry.”  She went back to the meeting, and the discussion resumed.

Surprisingly,as the afternoon progressed, the tone of the meeting changed.  Somehow, the directors found ways to accommodate the differences that had overwhelmed them in the morning. By the end of the day, there was complete consensus on the decision to be made, and the morning of the third day could be spent in working out the details of its implementation.

“I know that nothing I said or did in the meeting contributed to the outcome, but I’m equally certain that what I did outside the meeting had a direct effect,” Helen says. The company chairmen drove Helen to the airport, and she decided to share what had happened.

“I was wondering what had changed everyone at that meeting from the morning to the afternoon of the second day—and now I know!” the chairman said.

It’s not always easy to relinquish control.  But when we invite God to direct us, amazing things happen.

Before the last crate was unpacked, excited friends and relatives began arriving, all eager to inspect our “bargain.” Guided proudly by the children, they swarmed through the premises, crashing into each other in the narrow hallways and exclaiming over the out-dated kitchen. “What marvelous possibilities!” one loyal friend enthused. “How….interesting,” murmured another, but what could one say about a house whose most interesting feature was the bilious mustard color of its complete interior?

Soberly, Spouse and I assured each other that we would take our time, look over the house very thoroughly and begin our renovation with one room at a time. “Even if we complete just one area each year,” we promised faithfully, “we’ll do it right.”

A few weeks later, Spouse staggered downstairs wearing a dazed and shocked look. “I have inspected this entire barn from stem to stern,” he whispered hoarsely, “and there’s not a square inch that doesn’t need something.” His glassy-eyed expression hinted that this was not the moment for me to launch into my rhapsody about the “stunning view” or the “endless potential.” Clearly, we had to begin.

As our first project got underway, we found still another area in which we were incompatible. My idea of “doing a room right” involved tuning in to the Home and Garden Cable Channel for a few demonstrations, choosing a color scheme and tossing some plants around. Spouse’s idea of “taking our time” was to plaster a crack every third Tuesday. It soon became taken for granted that I would capably manage my share of the decorating while at the same time diapering the baby and, keeping up with groceries and emails. However, when Spouse began a project, I was expected to stand by as resident surgical assistant, handing him various tools, racing to the hardware store for missing materials and keeping kids and hamsters at a respectful distance.

Somehow we muddled through our first few projects, and collected some unexpected dividends in the process. Spouse assembled an impressive array of tools, some of which he actually learned to use. When asked by new acquaintances what my hobbies were, I could respond airily, “I paint,” neglecting to mention that my most creative endeavor to date was the inside of the linen closet. The children also added to their stockpile of memorable moments.

“Remember when Dad took down the kitchen cabinets?” one son mused recently.

“Yeah!” exclaimed another. “Wasn’t it cool when the ceiling fell down all around us?”

Living in this house has taught me the true concept of eternity: the work will never be finished. And yet, surveying the yard, I am reminded that Mother Nature redecorates the entire outdoors each year, and she doesn’t get discouraged. Surely I too can be patient as our house slowly buds, little by little blossoming into its own shiny spring.

There is just one problem with this theory, I admit, as Spouse calls, “Who left the lid off my primer paint?” As far as I know, Mother Nature never had a husband.