In the Arms of Angels: True Stories of Heavenly Guardians - Softcover

Joan Wester Anderson has been a freelance writer and public speaker for almost thirty years. Her fifteen books include the New York Times Bestseller Where Angels Walk (Ballantine Books, 1993) and Where Wonders Prevail (Ballantine, 1997), and she is a popular guest on radio and television talk shows. The mother of five adult children and grandmother of two, she lives in Prospect Heights, Illinois.

Introduction
Make for yourself a new heart and a new spirit.
—Ezekiel 18:31 Minutes after a bomb exploded in the Alfred B. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995, an Oklahoma woman phoned her sister in North Carolina to share the terrible news. “Oh!” her sister responded. “Can you imagine the angels that were there!”
It wasn’t the kind of reaction one would expect in the midst of tragedy. Positive points of view, if there are any, usually emerge days or even months later, when dust has settled and ­­people have moved beyond those first shocking moments. But the woman in North Carolina was seeing past the immediate horror into a spiri­tual realm, where even the most terrible happenings can be turned into good.
A few days later, the sisters heard about a woman who had been preparing food for a funeral luncheon at her church, west of Oklahoma City, when the explosion occurred. She packed everything into her car to bring to the disaster scene, some twenty miles away, and as she drove onto an overpass, she had a view of the city. The hair stood up on the back of her neck. A gigantic cloud hung over the skyline, filled with hundreds of angels. She could clearly see them, all facing west, trailing long graceful wings, angels standing silent vigil over the ruins, confirming the revelation of the woman from North Carolina.1
A week after the World Trade Center explosions, word circulated that a trumpeter was playing at Ground Zero. A well-known photographer went to see for himself. In the eerie quiet of lower Manhattan, he could hear the notes as he approached a barricade. “The trumpeter stood in this urban canyon, illuminated by shafts of light caused by the smoke and dust.” Who was he? In a place of such intense security, how could a lone musician be allowed behind police lines? Looking through his lens, framing the unlikely stranger amid the rays, the photographer realized that this was the photo of a lifetime. “But I ­­couldn’t depress the shutter,” he said. He lowered the camera in defeat.
His colleagues reported the same phenomenon. Apparently, no one could snap a picture. “Maybe he’s an angel,” one suggested.
Mark Judelson, executive director of the Arts Council of Rockland, New York, was struck by this event and has written and performed a miniplay about it. Today he says, “I think the trumpeter was the angel Gabriel. With his music, he blessed this site of carnage and taught us to accept loss.”
Who could have imagined, a few decades ago, speaking of angels in such matter-of-fact conversations, allowing these heavenly beings into our lives as mysterious intercessors, cherished companions, dependable protectors? Since the early 1990s—when angels made somewhat of a popular comeback—books, movies, stores, and even Time and Newsweek cover stories have focused on them not as myth but as a unique part of God’s creation. Perhaps at this uncertain moment in history, they are needed more than ever. Peter Kreeft, an angelologist, author, and professor at Boston College has observed that angels “appear on the brink of chaos, or catastrophe, or at least the threat of chaos or catastrophe. They are spiri­tual soldiers in the great cosmic jihad, the spiri­tual war between good and evil.” Upon reflection, he says, it seems not such a strange idea. “Doesn’t there often seem to be an unknown, unpredictable, invisible factor in history, especially in times of physical or spiri­tual conflict, culture wars or spiri­tual warfare?” Perhaps the emergence of angels in the public consciousness during the 1990s was intended to be that “invisible factor,” a merciful heavenly preparation for the difficult events that were to come.
Terrorist attacks on American soil and subsequent war have ended our peaceful complacency, perhaps forever. Church ­scandals have betrayed not only children but also the faithful in the pews. Corporate greed and personal corruption have seriously affected employees, stockholders, and retirees. The lack of moral principles in government; the misuse of the Internet; impoverished children in the midst of a society sated with “stuff”; a drug culture connected to more than 60 percent of the crimes in America; an entertainment industry pushing the limits of decency. Consider too the unnerving increase in natural disasters—the floods, tornadoes, and wildfires that can ruin lifetimes of labor in an instant—or the appearance of new and deadly diseases. We who were taught to maintain control over every aspect of our lives have discovered that such control is elusive, sometimes even im­pos­sible. In the past few years, nearly every institution in which we have placed our trust has faltered or collapsed, and the sense of loss can be overwhelming. Some have described it as a huge national mourning, with undercurrents of fear and grief even at the happiest of times. Many are poised for additional threats, wondering if God has ­­simply abandoned us.
Yet this may be precisely the time when ­people can truly grow and change. Tragedy is a harsh refining process, but it creates new substance by tearing away the smug materialism and mis-directed goals that may have driven us in an earlier time. People who rise from the ashes of despair will inevitably make the world a better place, but it is not an easy process. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, the psychiatrist and author of the groundbreaking On Death and Dying, was perhaps the first to identify actual stages that ­people must experience and work through in order to ­­handle bereavement in a healthy way. These stages, whether personal or global, include shock and denial, acknowledgement and intense sorrow, a period of disorganization and confusion, and finally, accep-tance, moving on, and hopefully creating something positive out of the loss. Kenneth L. Pierpont, a pastor and director of the Character Inn Christian ministry in Flint, Michigan, says, “That is the way God usually works. He usually takes us through the valley of the shadow of death before we arrive at the table he has prepared for us. Some dark and difficult days are usually a part of God’s good plan. That was true for the Lord Jesus himself. That will always be true for each of us.”
Gospel musician Thomas Andrew Dorsey wrote the hymn “Precious Lord” while grieving the death of a loved one. “I am tired, I am weak, I am worn,” the song laments. As Dorsey faced his sorrow, though, he said, “the Lord healed my spirit. I learned that when we are in our deepest anguish, when we feel farthest from God, this is when he is closest, and when we are most open to his restoring power.” It can be the same for us.
As we travel this challenging journey, we are not alone. As we have learned, angels go alongside us. These marvelous beings, ­created at the beginning of time, are greater in power and might than any human—just two angels were sent to destroy all of Sodom and Gomorrah. Nonetheless, angels are concerned with every facet of our well-being; an angel even brought food to the prophet Elijah, advising Elijah that he would be of no use to the Lord if he was exhausted. Angels convey messages, warn us, and probably “run interference” with our consciences, prompting us to choose good over evil and strengthening us in times of temptation. Moreover, because they act only on God’s authority and within his plan for us, God has promised us their aid: “See, I am sending an angel before you, to guard you on the way and bring you to the place I have prepared. Be attentive to him, and heed his voice. Do not rebel against him for . . . my authority resides in him” (Exodus 23:20–21 NAB). What a great gift. How foolish we would be to disregard it.
Of course, an angel’s role is not always to lift our burden—recall that during Christ’s suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane, an angel was sent to strengthen him, not to take the anguish away. Sometimes angels ­­simply walk with us through our distress, bringing their glory and grace to bear on whatever hardships we face, helping us lift our eyes from the event at hand to the will of God behind the event. Perhaps what we need most in the present uncertain climate is the comfort of angels.
Stories about comfort abound. One hospital patient explains, “I felt a warmth come over me, as if angels were all around. In the midst of my fear, I was flooded with reassurance. Whatever tomorrow’s surgery revealed, I would ­handle it.”
Describing a chance encounter with an unusual street person, a teenager recounts, “His eyes were full of love. All my worry dis-appeared. I thought, If God loves me, then why should I be upset about stuff I can’t control, like bombs?”
Such episodes of care, reassurance, blessing, and love are balm to our shaken spirits as we come to understand that God’s promise is the only one worth counting on; his path is the true way to peace. Look back at the “coincidences” in your life with new eyes. Hasn’t God been with you every step of your journey, even though you might not have recognized him? Hasn’t he sent help and consolation in trying times, healed your broken heart, brought certain ­people into your life at the perfect moment? (Could some of those ­people have been angels in disguise?) Why should it be any different today than it was in biblical times?
The future holds excitement 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. The Rabbi Harold Kushner once observed that all the complicated structures we spend so much time and energy 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.”
As the ­people whose stories are in this book have learned, we need not fear the future, for we have God’s hand to hold. He has given us everything we need. Peace, hope, and comfort abide in his arms—and in the arms of angels.  Gage’s Girls
And he dreamed, and behold a ladder set up on the earth,
and the top of it reached to heaven: and behold
the angels of God ascending and descending on it.
—Genesis 28:12 KJV December 24, 2001, started out like any other Christmas Eve for the townspeople of Moncton, New Brunswick. Last-minute shoppers mingled with church- and partygoers, and despite the rainy weather, a sense of anticipation filled the air. Twenty-four-year-old Tobi Gabriel and her three-year-old son, Gage, were part of the happy throng. Tobi, a resident of Toronto, had driven to her hometown of Moncton to spend the holidays with her son and her mother. Sometime around two o’clock in the afternoon on this gloomy Christmas Eve, Tobi grew restless. She bundled Gage in a warm sweater and sweatpants, grabbed her coat, and headed for the door. “We’re going out to rent a movie, Mom. We’ll be right back.” Her mother, elbow-deep in food preparation, barely noticed.
Tobi and Gage never returned. At about eleven o’clock at night, Tobi’s concerned mother phoned the police. It was almost Christmas, and brightly wrapped presents for her grandson were under the tree. Where could Tobi and Gage be?
It was a ­little early for the police to suspect foul play. Tobi had many friends to visit and perhaps Gage had fallen asleep while in someone’s home and the adults didn’t want to wake him. Despite a now-freezing rain, there had been no accidents reported. Tobi should have phoned, but she’d turn up. Such “missing persons” usually did.
Early the next morning, Linda Belliveau of the nearby town of Lower Cove went out to watch for her parents, whom she expected for Christmas-morning breakfast. It was dark and wet, and even more so along this shore area of the Bay of Fundy. “I was glad I had left the lights on all night after I’d returned from Midnight Mass,” said Linda. The candles and manger scene were the only sources of illumination along the whole beach.
Despite the roar of the waves behind her, Linda thought she heard a cry, like that of a baby. Im­pos­sible. No children would be out on this frigid dawn. The cry sounded again, mournful and frightened. Linda says, “Somehow, I felt compelled to find out what it was.”
Linda hurried toward the sound. Ahead of her, alongside the shore, she saw a strange shape. As she neared it, Linda gasped. It was a car, lying upside down in the sand, just a short distance from the surf.
Linda realized that the car had probably plunged off the steep side of a nearby cliff, an area of highway known for being dangerous. There had been plenty of ice last night. She quickened her step. Surely no one could have survived. Yet she kept hearing that ­little wail.
Suddenly, she made out a small figure on the sand, crawling toward her. It was a tiny child, scooting along on his elbows and weeping inconsolably. “Honey!” Linda ran to him. “How did you get here? What happened?” His clothes were soaked, and she tore off her own coat to wrap it around him.
The child clutched her. “Mommy,” he whispered.
In the growing dawn, Linda saw what must be a body, floating face down in the water. It was this child’s mother. Was there any hope for her? Linda had been picking up the ­little boy, but she paused. “I’ll go and help your mommy,” she told him. But the child tightened his grip on her. “No!” he cried. “Don’t go there.”
She wondered what terrors he had been through during the night, what he had seen, how long he had been on this lonely, freezing beach. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” she asked.
“Gage Gabriel. I lost my ducky boots.”
“We’ll buy you another pair,” Linda promised as she lifted him up once more. “I’ll bring you back to my house and get you warm.”
She saw her parents’ car pulling up. She decided that her dad could take charge of the scene because from the way Gage was clinging to her, she knew she’d be going to the hospital with him. This was going to be a Christmas morning like no other.
Tobi Gabriel had died on impact. Preliminary investigations found that she had not been wearing her seat belt and that drugs or alcohol had not been involved. She had probably lost control of the car when she hit a patch of frozen sea spray. At least one passing driver had noticed skid marks on the road at about ten o’clock at night, but police speculated that the accident had occurred several hours earlier because Tobi had been visiting friends and had left for home with Gage sometime after six.
Questions lingered about Gage. It appeared as if he had been lying down in the backseat, asleep. Since the car had rolled over at least twice—and shattered glass had flown—­­shouldn’t he have sustained more severe injuries than a bump on the head and bruised hips? How had he suffered only frostbitten toes during an estimated twelve hours of below-freezing temperatures, wearing just a wet sweater and knit pants? Had he slept or been unconscious for part of that time? Had he stayed in the car or crawled along the beach? Linda was glad she had left her lights on all night. “Although he ­couldn’t tell us, I like to think that perhaps he saw Jesus and the shepherds and wasn’t so afraid.”
Perhaps even more miraculous, according to Sergeant Dale Bogle of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, was that Gage didn’t drown. “Usua...