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