Angels, angel stories, angel encounters, guardian angels

We're sorry, but this content is no longer available on Beliefnet. You may enjoy the following related articles: Crocuses from My Father By Joan Wester Anderson The Sunday Dad Stopped Drinking By Patricia Gaddis When in Doubt, Ask for a Sign By Carolyn Bowyer Good and bad acts have a "ripple" effect—they set off a chain reaction of consequences, both positive and negative. No act is an act in isolation. —John Ronner Ann McAllister Clark’s father had died recently, and she was still feeling the loss of his presence. She felt a curious sorrow that surfaced at unexpected moments. In part, this was because she and her father—while loyal to one another—had never been close in the way good friends are close. Ann had been a lifelong lover of books, had majored in literature in college, and had recently opened a used bookstore in her small town of Middleville, Michigan. Mr. McAllister, by contrast, was a lawyer, apparently disinterested in all but the driest of writings. But Ann’s sense of loss deepened shortly after the funeral, when she found her father’s college diplomas and realized with shock that he, too, had majored in literature at the University of Michigan. Why had he never told her, never alluded to a shared interest that might have bridged some of the gap between them? Ann felt cheated, almost embittered at the missed opportunity. One day while boxing his law books, she found a fine 1909 set of Harvard Classics, each volume bearing his signature. "Very lightly, I ran my fingers over the inscriptions," Ann says. "Touching them somehow made me feel his presence.' She discovered other excellent works, too, but the Harvard Classics were her favorites. Why hadn’t he signed any of his other books? Ann would never know. But the Classics made him seem closer. She would keep this treasured collection always. The family finished packing Mr. McAllister’s belongings, everyone took some keepsakes. They held a sale, then arranged an auction for the leftovers. "Not those," Ann cautioned the auctioneer’s burly sons as she pointed to the boxes containing the Classics. "Just take the law books. The rest will go home with me." But three days after the auction, she discovered that the set of Harvard Classics was not in the boxes she had taken. Every volume, each with her father’s signature, was gone. Ann fought down panic. You’re a former antiques dealer, she reminded herself sternly. You know how to trace sales records. You’ll find the books. But it was no use. The Classics had apparently been sold quickly, then again, and yet again. Hopelessly gone. probably gathering dust on someone’s top shelf halfway around the country. To her, the final link with her father was now forever broken. Swallowing her sorrow, Ann returned to her new project, the used bookstore. There were few customers, and she worried about whether she could keep going. Yet the store brought her a small measure of comfort, and she needed that right now. One quiet morning, an elderly man wandered in. He did not seem to be in the market for a used book. Ann noticed the perspiration on his forehead, the eyes slightly glazed. As a diabetic, Ann had occasionally recognized fellow sufferers; this man might be one. On the other hand, he might be mentally disturbed. Was she in danger, or was he? "Do you need help?" she asked. "Why do you ask?" he responded, somewhat belligerently. Should she call 911, and turn him over to others? No, she saw in him a vulnerability she could relate to. Surely she could reach out, just a little. "What can I do for you?" she asked again, gently, as if approaching a frightened deer. “I’m George, and I’ve just gotten out of the hospital,” the man explained. “I have high blood sugar—but I knew I was going to be sick before it happened. I see things that others cannot see.” Ann thought again about 911. Her visitor probably did have diabetes, but he was obviously delusional as well. “Do you have anyone at home to care for you?” she asked. “My wife. But she’s tired of all these things.” George explained that, the day before, on the drive to the hospital, the road had been strewn with beautiful flowers—like a sign that all would be well. But his wife couldn’t see them. On another occasion, his deceased mother had appeared at the foot of his bed, holding a small lyre. She had handed it to George to play, and he had done so, although he had never played any musical instrument before. His wife had slept right through it. There were other examples, too, lots of them. Ann wondered if George was running a high fever. People hallucinated during fevers, didn’t they? “George," she put a hand on his arm. “You’ve just gotten out of the hospital, and your blood sugar is out of whack." "So?" “So, I care about you. Why don’t you go home, have a light supper, take a warm bath, get into bed, and listen to some soothing music. Rest and sleep. Your body needs it.” “You don’t believe me,” George said. Then he smiled, and went out the front door. Ann smiled back. He had not taken offense, and that was good. But would he get home safely? Ann worried about George all evening. Perhaps she should search for him, or tell someone about him. But that might cause more problems for him, instead of soothing the ones he already had. Maybe she shouldn’t have gotten involved. Yet, wasn’t that what life was supposed to be about, watching out for one another? Finally, she decided that if she didn’t see George the following day, she would contact the police. Shortly after she opened the store the next morning, however, George arrived. A rejuvenated George, with pink, healthy skin and smiling eyes. “George!” Ann exclaimed. “You look great!” He explained that her concern had touched him, and he had gone home and done everything she suggested. “I don’t think I have slept that well in months. And it was all because of you.” She protested a bit, saying that she hadn’t done much, just what any fellow diabetic would do. But George had more to say. “I came in here yesterday because I knew you were lonely and worried about business picking up.” How had he known? Was it so obvious after all? “I wanted to help you,” George was explaining, “and you ended up helping me instead. So I’ve brought you a present. Some books.” Just what Ann needed—more used books that no one would probably ever buy. She tried to look enthusiastic and grateful as George went out to his car and carried in two brown paper bags. It was enough that he seemed more normal today. She could always get rid of this latest batch after he left. But when she pulled out the first few books, she saw that they were Harvard Classics, “George! I lost a set of my father’s just like these!” George nodded, as if he knew all about it. Ann continued to unpack the books, Amazing. The covers were the same as the lost set, maroon leather. Slowly she opened the first book. There was her father’s signature. It was impossible. Yet the set was complete, each volume bearing the familiar inscription. Her father’s final gift, returned as a result of her own compassion. She touched the writing, then lifted tear-filled eyes to George. “How?” But the question was too big, and George would only smile. “You see? I do know things.” George visited the store several times after delivering the treasured books. “I believe he was lonely and needed company,” Ann says. “I just let him talk.” But he never explained how he had gotten the books, and she never asked. Later, she sold the store to an employee, and now, along with a writing career, runs a rare books business on the Internet. But whenever Ann becomes discouraged or lonely, she remembers the blessing of that moment of discovery, her father’s unexpected message of love and connection, the awareness that what goes around truly comes around. And she touches the signature again. TEXT ENDS HERE -->