Do You Believe In Angels?

Christmas is a time when we are more apt to think of angels, but fewer people are conscious of their presence in our daily lives all year round. The many, many stories and accounts of actual "angel encounters" have convinced me of their constant ministering to us. Have you ever considered finding out your special guardian angel's name? Here is an account of such an endeavour by Hal Tynan.

What's In a Name?

After being in communion with my guardian angel ( or as some prefer, companion angel ) for some months, I decided I wanted to know her name. So in meditation as I lay in the cradle of my angel's wings, a name suddenly popped into my mind: " Trelis. "

I thought what a dumb name for an angel, and what the heck does it mean anyway? Well, a few days later I was thinking about it, and I realized that it was a real word. So I looked it up in the dictionary, and sure enough, there it was: ' "trellis", a cross-hatched wooden grate of the kind that you guide vines through, like in vineyards and such. ' Then I got it! I'm the vine and she's the grate, the trellis who guides me in my growth, my journey back to the place I never left.

What I felt was awe and tears of joy and a great big belly laugh. Yep, I thought, my angel is real, she's with me all right, right here and right now. And she's having a big laugh right now along with me!

Another story about angels present comes from Duane Brannon.

Saved By An Angel

I have a friend who was hiking in the Sierra Nevada mountains with his two daughters. One was about three years old. The other daughter was just a baby, under one year of age and was in a back-pack baby carrier on his back.
They were far from town or city and were walking around a reservoir filled with water. The three year old said that she wanted to go play in the water. He explained that the sides of the reservoir were steep and too slippery to stand on. The water was very deep and she did not know how to swim. His daughter understood and they walked on around the reservoir's edge. In less than a minute, the three year old tripped and rolled down the steep bank five to ten feet and into the water. She struggled and with each panicked move swept farther out into the water. My friend raced down into the water and stood reaching as far as he could, but the little girl was just inches out of his reach. She was quickly moving away from shore.
My friend stepped father into the water and with water up to his waist his feet slipped on the slippery reservoir bottom. His daughter again slipped just inches out of his reach. He took another step and the water came up to his shoulders. Just as he grasped his little daughter's hand, his feet slipped again, but his little girl clung to him. His head and his little one-year-old's head went under the water. He kicked with all his might, but couldn't get his head above the water. He felt they all three would drown and he desperately prayed, "God, help me!" He raised his right hand in a desperate stroke towards the shore and felt a strong hand grasp his hand. He was yanked with his two daughters up and out of the water, and up the ten feet to the flat land above the reservoir.
They were saved. He was lying there holding his daughters and quickly turned over to see who had miraculously saved him. No one was there. The shore was empty. They were the only people within miles. He knew then, that they had been saved by an angel. God had heard his prayer!

　
My own personal story about a guardian angel comes from a time in 1984 when I was alone raising 2 children and "financially challenged" driving a large, old Chrysler with worn tires. I had stopped to pray before leaving home as I had a lot of errands to accomplish while the kids were at school. There was a blizzard in the forecast and the wind and snowflakes had already started. I had to drive up a slippery, steep incline to deliver some papers to a friend before journeying on to grocery shop and stock up before the blizzard hit. I prayed that I would get up the icy hill without mishap, but sure enough the wheels slipped on the ice and the big car slowly lurched into the ditch on the far side of the road. My heart sank, but then a gentle peace descended into my car, and an inner voice seemed to speak softly. "Just relax and turn the wheels and drive out." I did just that. It seemed that the car lifted out of the ditch and drove on up the icy hill as if on a cloud. When I stepped out of the car at my friend's doorway, my feet felt as if I was walking on air. I knocked on her door and she immediately noticed my radiant face. I said, "An angel just shoved me out of the ditch!" She said without a moment's hesitation, "Oh, how wonderful!"

There are many, many books written about angels and if you are interested in reading about them some good books are:

A Rustle Of Angels: Stories About Angels In Real Life and Scriptureby William D. Webber, published 1994
Angels Among Us by Don Fearheily, published 1993In Search of Angels: A Celestial Sourcebook for Beginning Your Journeyby David Connelly, published 1994
Where Angels Walk: True Stories of Heavenly Visitorsby Joan Wester Anderson, published 1992
Angelic Healing - Working With Your Angels To Heal Your Life, by Eileen Elias Freeman, published 1994

(This is an older piece, this list of books will be updated to 2013.)

Colleen Weber

When I Was Wilburt

One More Story That Is Mine:

The year is 1892. My name is Wilburt and I'm sitting in the sunshine rocking slowly in a wooden rocker on the verandah of a rugged log home somewhere in the Smokey Mountains of Kentucky. The surroundings are slovenly, messy with dog bones and various bits of rope and tools lying about. An ugly dog lies in the grass and gnaws periodically on pieces of scrap and old bits of bone. His name is Gaper, because he gapes a lot. Nothing is cared for. I don't really much care about anything. My body is unwashed and grizzly. I scratch at a shaggy growth, dark greasy hair falling in my bleary eyes. I belch, burp, spit without noticing the saliva that drips from a partially paralyzed mouth. My tongue hasn't a lot of feeling in it. My teeth are stained black from tobacco and pipe smoke. I do feel the sunshine on my back and the sweat coming through my filthy shirt. My feet are bare and unsightly. My nails are long, cracked, and grey with grime. I like the company of the pitiful dog. It shits and whines and slobbers, but dammit, he's mine.

The home is mine too, and one small flicker of satisfaction resulting from that fact remains. It’s my verandah I sit on to rock, and I look down yonder to where the river turns and gleams jade green at the bend. Once when I was young and in better shape, there was a woman. She had long, chestnut hair that fell down her back or over bare breasts that brought a man's need strongly forward. There was one child, a little girl. They are both long gone. Only a memory of green eyes and smooth, tanned skin, a turned up, freckled nose, and brown, deliciously nippled, lavender scented breasts remains now. Sarah. That memory is kept in one special place in a mind dimmed with the sordidness that has become my life. Somehow I know it is my fault, this mess. But I don’t know how to fix it.

I have my gun which brings me my eatin’. Rabbits, geese, and ducks mostly. I tried skunk once, but wasn’t too inclined. And now I no longer care. There is the sunshine, and the dog, and my rocker which sooths me a little from my misery. Old Dead Eye Pete comes around now and again. Brings me my chewin’ tobacco. Slaps me in my sore shoulder even though I’ve told him a million times not to. The only touch I git though, better than nothing I guess. A far cry though from the darling I held in my arms when we were young, and I ravished her body with my need as she groaned with her own, soft moans that were the sweetest sound on earth.

It’s funny though, there are times that I don’t seem to be alone, and even though I’m old and I smell, I swear there is a lavender scent born on the wind sometimes, and I feel a soft caress on my cheek. I could swear I hear her whisper my name, real soft-like, “Wilburt”.

Ain’t much more to tell, now. I just sit and rock and chew and spit along with old Gaper. Sometime Old Pete will come around and I’ll be gone on to the Great Land somewhere off above that sunshine and I’ll be breathin’ lavender for sure.

Later, when there was just a lone, grey stone on the hill just up from the river, the wind blew the wild daisies against the rough granite. I came, all cleaned up now, and young agin’, with my smiling, lavender-scented missus holding my hand. I noticed the name carved, "Wilbur" and thought, "They coulda got it right, couldn’t they? Somebody shoulda got it right.   It was Wilburt, dammit. Wilburt! "

cailin raine

A Christmas To Remember

Here it was the first week of December and I had not even begun preparing for the festive season. Where had all my good intentions gone? There was a list on my kitchen table so long, that it hung over the edge against the wall, blowing in the furnace draft.

My daughter, Erin, needed a costume for her school play, scheduled for December 19^th, and so far all I had ready was a flannelette nightgown that could quickly be transformed into an angel dress. That would likely happen very late at night when everyone else was sound asleep, and I would go to my attic sewing room. Daily I checked my calendar and ticked off days for errands, but I never seemed to get past the chaos of barn chores, cooking, packing lunches, laundry, and my part-time job at the library.

My husband, Carl, had trudged onto the veranda last evening, having fulfilled his promise to bring home a fir tree for our living room. Now it was up to my son, Curtis, to set it up in the corner near the front window. Being an aspiring carpenter, he did not mind the job. But so far it sat forlornly on the wooden floorboards, dripping puddles that trickled over the steps. I could imagine the undecorated tree in the living room waiting desperately for its adornments while the mad woman of the house ran around with pastry on her hands.

Peering out my kitchen window, while shaping cookies on a cookie sheet, I could see Erin running towards the house. She had a bag full of material that she promptly dumped onto the floor, an array of gauze, netting, wire, and tubes of paint. Excitedly, she explained how she was going to make her angel wings, and I was delighted that that part of the angel costume would be taken care of.

The next week passed in a blur, while pies, candy, buns, stuffing, cranberry sauce and turkey slowly filled the freezer and cupboards. I rushed from the library to our house to the barn where it seemed that the only creatures who were not in a hurry were the animals. Our team of Belgians were large stallions who looked impressive when we decorated them before harnessing them to pull the big, red sleigh. This year there were quite a few bookings for families wanting to enjoy a Christmas sleigh ride.

On the evening just before Erin’s school play, Carl came through the back door looking worried. One of the Belgians was limping badly, and the vet needed to be called. Soon it became apparent that Ned was not going to be pulling the sleigh this year. I knew that Carl did not like to disappoint anyone, and I could see him thinking hard, trying to come up with a solution.

Late that night I tiptoed down the hall to sleepily crawl into bed beside my slumbering husband. The children had long since turned in, and I had finally finished the long, white, flannel gown which would adorn my daughter for her performance in the play. She had been secretive about her wings that just needed to be tacked on, but I left it up to her. I had enough tasks to be concerned with.

We arrived at the school auditorium just in time to squeeze into some end seats. The ancient Christmas story unfolded, and a very little mother held a baby doll in her arms, with many fuzzy critters surrounding them. A proud father stood behind the pair and then the whole group looked upwards at once. Soaring into the air above the stage, loomed an angel which hung suspended over their heads. Wings big enough for an airplane stuck out of her long white gown, and to add to my astonishment, they glittered in bright purple splendour! Giggles of amusement, and then laughter erupted throughout the audience, but Erin grinned gleefully from beneath a huge mop of matching purple hair. At the conclusion of the play, when the cast took their bows, Erin received a standing ovation.

Next evening was our first scheduled time for a sleigh ride; a neighboring family was entertaining guests from out of province. In all the rushing I had forgotten to ask Carl about Ned. Busily stacking the dishwasher, I took a minute to glance out the window to see what my husband was up to. Imagine my surprise when our four bejeweled donkeys pulled up beside the front veranda. Carl proudly held the reigns, with Curtis beside him, and I could not believe my eyes while the two pair of festooned animals pulled the big sleigh out the laneway. Erin and I collapsed in a fit of laughter at the sight.

Christmas Eve was approaching quickly! The tree had righted itself in the proper corner, thanks to Curtis, but no one had found the time to decorate. Another hilarious evening had passed with customers who were delighted with their exceptional sleigh ride. That mad woman of the house had collapsed onto the sofa, and was sound asleep. I think it was the quiet that awakened me! I opened my eyes, and huge snowflakes were softly falling, nestling on the window sill. Glancing towards the big fir in the corner, I was delighted to see it decked out in a glorious array of silver bells, garlands, small drummer boys, shiny reindeer, and little angels. I breathed a sigh of relief and whispered a prayer of thanks for my wonderful husband and family.

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and magically everything would be ready. That long list could be put away for next year! I chuckled to myself, thinking of those huge, purple angel wings, and the donkeys pulling the sleigh. My precious family had kindly let me sleep while they quietly decorated the big fir tree, and I felt truly blessed. Later on, I would look back on many Christmases, but this one was truly a Christmas to remember.

The Big "Ouch"

In loving memory of my “big” sister, Shirley Mae Helmkay ( Weber )
April 5, 1935 - April 22, 2010
　　
written just after Shirley passed on to the other side
　
One of my favourite movies from the past is E.T., The Extra-Terrestrial. E.T. was left behind from his space ship, and he entered the earthly life of the little, ten year-old boy, Elliot. With magic and imagination, E.T. taught Elliot that love and friendship are limitless.

Various and hilarious situations arose, and through all their experiences together, they formed a bond that would last forever. In the end, sadly, but rightly, E.T. had to leave and go to his real home in the sky. The parting was painful. Elliot had tears streaming down his face, and his last words to E.T. were “I love you so much.” E.T. had limited English vocabulary, but he knew one word really well. That word was “Ouch”.

When I was a little girl in the valley, and my big sister was coming home, we would all be really excited. She was gone a lot, and lived far away most of the time. Belgium was her home for 4 years; she left with Gord and wee baby Gary when I was an Auntie at 6, and they came back when I was ten. Chrissie was born in Belgium, and for a while after their return to Canada, both boys spoke French well. That day I was excited at school, and could hardly wait to get home to the farm. I could hear Shirley’s lovely, distinctive voice upstairs when I entered the kitchen, and two shy little boys stared curiously at me. Shirley asked me if I remembered her, and I thought, “My goodness, how could I ever have forgotten you?” She was, to use Dad’s favourite word, “elegant’ in so many ways.

Once when a bunch of us had been down at Grandma Short’s cottage on the Beaver River, just a few minutes south of the barn, both Shirley and I wanted to go on home to bed, because it had gotten late. It was pitch dark out, but we strode up the road together, and then found the house in utter darkness. Not a light was on. I didn’t know that Shirley did not like the dark. She didn’t want to go into the house. Surprised, I bravely said that I would go in first and check all the rooms, look under the beds, did so, and then announced that everything was fine. That seemed to make everything ok, and when Shirley later related that story to the rest of the gang, I was standing pretty tall. That was such a fun night, and I was so proud, because it had been just Shirley and me.

“Shirley” meant beautiful to me. She meant glamour and poise, and angel hair around Christmas lights. Shirley meant lots of candy canes at Xmas time, and an extra sparkle around every event. In these later years, Shirley meant an outstanding, dedicated love and utter devotion to her husband, Gord. Shirley, you did a fantastic job.

As I wrote poetry throughout the years, I was inspired when Shirley saved every piece, and filed them all under ‘Colleen’s Poetry”. I’ve never seen that file, but I know it must be tidy, and perfectly labelled. I wish I was half so organized. She seemed to get a real kick out of “Sexy Sixty” written for her on her 60^th birthday. Shirley mailed many letters, cards and gifts to me over the years, and was especially kind when I was raising children alone. Honey Bunny, was an exceptional and exotic looking bear sent to my daughter, Tanis, who cherished and loved it.

After Mom passed away, I sent Shirley some little mementos, jewelry and old-fashioned, pretty handkerchiefs, and she was so glad to receive them. She always made sure I knew that she appreciated those little acts of thoughtfulness. A cheery call from her on a Sunday afternoon brightened up my whole day.

All the memories of course are too much to write down here, but they live on and on and will never be forgotten. Listening to the lonely whistle of the trains going through Trenton was a sober moment.  Laughing because we each bought the very same outfit from Sears catalogue, even though we were miles apart, will always make me smile. I know that I was genuinely loved.  Right now there are many tears, Shirley, but we know that you have gone on to your real Home this time.

Shirley, this is my goodbye to you, not poetry this time, just simple words from my heart. “ I love you so much”. I can hear your cheery laugh, and “By Golly” I’ve gotta say, that Shirley, this one, is One Great Big “Ouch.”

I will miss you until we see each other again in that Heavenly Light!

Love from your little sister,

Colleen

Beginnings

The morning sun was lifting its yellow shadow above the horizon when Rodney’s mother peered into his room, to check on her little boy. For months Rose and Jack, Rodney’s Dad, had been thinking of adopting a little brother or sister for Rodney, when one special morning Rodney had returned home from his ramblings near their farm with a new addition to the family, in a little, brown, furry surprise package. Both parents had been immediately captured by the cute, tiny bundle, and Rodney had a play mate before either his mother or father had expected.

Dumpy was curly and wet when Rodney found him near the rural dumpsite, which was open Wednesday and Saturday mornings for all the residents in Kempel Township. He was walking along the gravel road which did not have much traffic, and had found the puppy whimpering beside its mother. She had been hit, sadly, probably by one of the big dump trucks that carried gravel from the gravel pit further up the road. Rodney checked to make sure she was not still alive needing medical help. Her stillness told him that it was too late for her. But he could help the little orphan by her side.

Now Dumpy kept Rodney company as he slept in his upstairs bedroom. Rose silently went on down the stairs to start a breakfast of porridge, toast, bacon, and scrambled eggs, while Rodney slept a little longer with his arms around his precious new friend. The wee dog opened one eye, listened to mother’s soft footsteps, and then nestled back underneath his master’s chin and breathed a contented sigh. Downstairs mother sat with her morning coffee and felt just as contented as she gazed out over the farm yard and fields, and watched the sun slowly rise to a firm ball of gold. It cast delicious sunbeams across the meadows, and lit up the golden rod and white carrot. It was lovely living this farm life, and she wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

Out past the laneway Rose could see Jack, already busy fencing along the roadway, making sure the pasture was ready for the calves which would be let out of the barn later today. Soon he would be coming in for his hearty breakfast, and they would enjoy some early morning time together as a family, wee Dumpy included.

A little later, when they were all sitting together for a scrumptious breakfast in the big kitchen, they watched through the huge window, the downy woodpecker lifting its little red-knobbed head against the bark of the maple tree. Rodney loved all of nature and enjoyed watching all types of wildlife, in the fields and nearby forests, and along the river which bordered most of their farmland.

Rodney’s thoughts drifted back to the day when he had found Dumpy, and he remembered how sad he had been to find the still body of his mother. He had slowly approached the trembling pup, and his heart had sank when he noted that the full grown collie was not moving or breathing. He steeled himself with the memory of his Dad’s solid advice.

“ We have to take care of the living, boy, the rest have gone on to a better place. ”
His Dad’s words had been spoken softly when great grandpa had passed on.

Rodney gently lifted the tiny puppy to his chest and stroked his fur. A huge dump truck was slowly driving out of the side road nearby, and they were all near the township dump. Nick, the driver knew Rodney and his family, and he opened his window. Quickly his eyes took in the sad scene, and he pulled the big vehicle over onto the shoulder of the road, and jumped down to see what he could do to help. Deftly, he checked the unmoving body of the mother dog, and his expression confirmed what Rodney already knew.

“Would you like me to drive the two of you home?” inquired Nick, and Rodney nodded in answer. Already the little dog had snuggled in under the boy’s chin and Rodney knew he could never give him up. The mother had no collar, and Nick suspected they might not find an owner who was looking out for the pair.

Mother was hanging fresh laundry out on the clothes line which stretched across the spacious, back yard when she saw Nick pulling in the graveled laneway. Nick hollered a friendly, “ Hello Rose!” and then turned a sympathetic glance towards Rodney. “ Let’s tell her what happened, son.”

The big man heaved himself down once more from the truck and found Rodney already scampering with the tiny pup towards his mother. Rodney stopped in front of Rose and held up the squirming and furry baby. Mother couldn’t help smiling as the puppy licked Rodney’s face thoroughly, and Rodney was grinning through his tears. Nick explained what had happened, and assured Rose that he would attend to the care of the mother dog, which deserved a tidy plot in the pet cemetery.


“Mom, I can keep him, right?” Rodney looked up at his mother with the sober wisdom of a seven -year-old, and knew even at his young age that the important adults in his life could not deny him this fabulous little creature with glossy hair and sad eyes. Mother smiled down at Rodney and reached to smooth his hair from his eyes. She quickly hugged the pair, and with nodding assent she asked, “ What’s his name, son?”

Rodney looked up at Nick, who stood with a serious expression on his manly, rugged face. “Well…” and he thought for a moment, then his face brightened and he beamed. “ Dumpy!” he exclaimed, having hit upon just the most appropriate name for the little fellow found near the dump site.

And so it was that Dumpy came to live with Rose and Jack and Rodney, and he learned to scamper around the huge farm without getting lost, almost always keeping an eye out for the boy who rescued him, the day his mama went away.

1st in a series of children's stories about "Dumpy"

Colleen Weber  ~  cailin raine

The River Of Life

I will introduce myself as a lifelong writer, from humble means, raised on a small family farm in the bottom of Beaver Valley. We will be getting to know each other, via the magic of online publishing, which for a lot of us, did not exist when we were kids. A lot of my writing transpires from my love of nature, which was vastly nurtured as I explored the Beaver River, and hiked the valley and the hills up to the escarpment face. Our group of youngsters from Kimberley and the neighbouring farms loved to explore, and we found a way to scale up the face of Old Baldy, with the help of a big, old maple tree. We would climb to the top of the tree, inch outward on the highest limb, and scramble onto a lower ledge of rock. From there it was easy to crawl on up to the top of the highest pinnacle. There you could stand at the outmost edge and breathe in the fresh, balmy air, and take in the sight of the whole valley laid out before you, far beneath the rock, and you could watch the silver thread of the river, gently winding its way along the valley floor. Memories such as these, inspired much poetry and many stories. Below is one example.

 

The River Of Life

Twelve is such a substantial age. You are still a child, protected and worried over, so that you do not have to do the worrying. At twelve, finally, you are able to look into the adult stage with somewhat of a glimmer of understanding of that baffling realm. I was, at twelve, beginning to glimpse the person I was becoming and I knew a poetess lurked there. I spent hours in the sun, and sported a deep, golden tan and no one was concerned about the ozone layer or sunscreen. I enjoyed the opportunity to spend endless days roaming the fields and examining the frog ponds in search of Mother Nature’s treasures, ones like the daddy bullfrog on his lily pad, governing his domain, his wives, his children and I would name them all. Tirelessly, I explored the hills, the ravines, the caves and caverns, creeks and ponds, and of course...the river.
The Beaver River was an entity in itself. It flowed serenely, at times cascading, musically playing its way down the valley floor where it meandered and curved itself into a stream of sparkling, blue beauty. Its magic drew us to her. We were drawn mindlessly to the rapids that sang in soprano and alto, a duet of playfulness and delight. Then just below a fallen tree, the eddies would spin in miraculous, forever motion.
When I was twelve, I had a crew of pirates at my command. We built and manned a raft of cedar logs roped together with binder twine from my Dad’s barn. It didn’t matter that the pirates possessed brown, girlish legs like my own, or that we all giggled and wore pigtails. We were, nevertheless, the bravest bunch in all the valley and certainly more daring than the boys who dove off the high board at Ezra’s Bridge, into the deepest hole of the river.
It was at the Beaver River that we proved ourselves. On the river we sailed our vessel and scouted for bandits on the banks. In the river we went skinny dipping and knew the freedom of just “being”. On the sandy banks of the river, we built a fort that lasted well into our teenage years.
When we were twelve, we swapped stories about the mysteries of life and did not yet care to give up any of our priceless hours of watching the skippers on the river, for more grown up pastimes like dating boys. We spent lazy hours on our tummies, watching the grasshoppers in the long grass, and thought that to pray alongside the praying mantis meant our wishes would surely come true. Tadpoles were captured, named, and then mercifully let go again at the edge of the stream. Families were left intact, and at night we counted the fireflies and the stars.
Now, when I walk those banks of the river, no longer so close to home, I still hear the magical voices lilting in the air. Pirates they are, you know, calling out when the bandits come near, giggling to cover up the self conscious stretching of t-shirts across budding, little breasts, but bravely clutching their long poles, manning the big raft, and dearly holding onto the last threads of childhood.

　

pen name ~ cailin raine