Before I could respond, Marie opened the book and began reading, and I was swept away in the story of how Corrie ten Boom had remained faithful through her trials. Her continuous obedience to the commandments had brought great joy in the face of adversity.
At the beginning of my own journey, I’d questioned the worth of adherence to the commandments. Especially when there seemed to be little hope left. What good had obeying the commandments done for me? I’d asked in my car on that deserted freeway exit.
Now I knew what I had been given for keeping the commandments all these years—my husband, my children, a knowledge of the truth and by extension a knowledge of God’s deep love. The assurance of eternity.
This illness had given me a completely new perspective. Life really was full of opposites. The more suffering I experienced, the more joy I felt in precious moments that I’d once taken for granted. Time with my children, time to feast on the scriptures, time to know my Savior. Every second counted.
Little things like watching a butterfly, seeing a baby bird peer out of a nest, or breathing in the fresh smell of the cleansing rain on the soil took on the meaning they were meant to have when God first created the world. An e-mail from a grandson made me laugh and smile. Brody’s plans to send in his mission papers made me proud. Marie’s decision to tell the truth filled me with joy.
Joy.
“Hey, Mom.” Brody came in, looking slightly flushed from running up the stairs. “Look, it’s a postcard from Houston. Do we know anyone in Houston?”
“No, I don’t think—” Then I remembered Betty Jones, the pancreatic cancer patient I’d met at my second chemo appointment, the woman who had helped trigger my understanding of what it meant not to look back like Lot’s wife.
I swallowed hard, unsure what to expect. Had her cancer returned? Was she enjoying her family? Technically, if she had succumbed, that meant I had that much more of a statistical chance of being the one to survive. But the reality was that we weren’t even competing in the same race. Each race, each struggle for life belonged to the individual patient. So far all the pancreatic patients I’d met were at the beginning of diagnosis, had died, or were receiving palliative care—which meant making them comfortable in the short time they had left. Betty was the only one I knew personally who had walked away.
I said a little prayer in my heart.
“Is everything okay?” Brody’s face was drawn and pale. There was a tightness around his mouth and a hardness in his eyes that reminded me of the old Marie.
“Yes. It’s from a lady I met, that’s all.” Suddenly I wondered if he’d read it. If he looked upset because of the contents. I quickly scanned the tiny, flowery script on the back of the card.
Dear Angela,
How thoughtful to leave your address. I hope you are doing well. I feel that you must be since I have such an urge to write to you and have finally found the time. As my daughter is expecting again and having a difficult pregnancy, I have been very busy these past months with my grandchildren. It seems I came at exactly the right time. That is not all—I’ve begun dating. Yes, at my age! Silly, I know, but I am having a lot of fun. Remember, don’t look back. There is no changing the past. We must go forward doing only the best that we can.
Sincerely (and healthily) yours,
Betty Jones
I was crying with relief before I knew it, and Brody reached for me. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
I hugged him. “No, no. It’s good news. Look, honey.” I shoved the card at him. “This is a woman I met. She has—no, had—pancreatic cancer. She’s doing well. She’s healed!”
“She is? But I thought—” He stopped, looking more like a guilty five-year-old than a young man soon to leave on a mission.
Bless his Internet-reliant little heart. Despite all his scriptures and his faith and endurance, Brody believed the statistics he’d read on the various websites. Even with the good news about the surgery, he didn’t believe I had any chance to survive.
“She’s alive. She’s dating.” I laughed through my tears.
He read the card, and I watched his face regain its color. He threw back his head and laughed.
I knew then that my son had—at least for today—reached his endurance limit, the point where he could no longer be strong. But the Lord had sent Betty Jones to lighten his burden. Today Betty was strong. She was his angel.
I was strong today, too—strong enough to carry his load. Tomorrow or next month, maybe Brody would be ready to pick it up again, and mine along with his own.
I sat at my loom, too exhausted to move. I wanted to leave this place to be free to do my own will. The cut on my calf sent fire up my leg in an agonizing, endless pain. “Please, Father,” I mouthed, “help me.”
The woman at the loom beside me cried out. I hurried to her side, casting a frightened glance at the Lamanite guard on the other side of the pavilion, his back toward us. “Is it the baby?” I asked.
“No,” she said, though her hand went instinctively to the swell of her stomach. “I am weary. I fear I cannot work.”
“Rest when he is not looking,” I said. “I will weave with all my might and place my cloth on thy pile. Thou art not alone.”
She looked at me, tears shimmering, her head bowing in thanks.
New strength rippled through my weary body, and I returned to weave much faster than before, my own hurts forgotten. I glanced once more at the young woman, and at that moment I knew who she resembled—Becki, my daughter’s troubled friend.
Chapter Sixteen
I awoke later that week on Saturday morning, stretching, a ray of sun angling through the blinds and into my eyes. I wasn’t the only one awake. Dean stood by the window in his pajamas. His hand was on the blinds, but he was looking at me. The expression on his face made me want to cry out and to laugh with joy at the same time. I felt his love and support and worry as though they were tangible things like a hug or the banana sandwiches that had kept me alive over the past months. My angel.
Dropping his hand, he came and slipped into the bed beside me, pulling me into his arms. I lay with my head on his shoulder feeling for the moment a quiet contentment and a profound gratitude that he was mine forever.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked.
I knew he was really asking how I felt. “Yes, and I feel good. Maybe we’ll work on the yard today.”
He laughed, knowing that meant he would work and I would supervise from the porch swing. He squeezed me more tightly.
On Monday I would have the surgery. Dr. Snell said I’d lose about forty percent of my pancreas, my entire gallbladder, and the first part of my small intestine, called the duodenum. Part of the vein that carried blood to my liver would be replaced with a vein from my leg. Even if they succeeded in getting out all the cancer, I planned to follow up with more chemotherapy, intravenously and by mouth.
I felt hope again, though that very hope sometimes sliced me to the core of my soul. More than anything I wanted to be here for my children. For Dean. I loved them so incredibly much, and I couldn’t imagine them going on without me, though of course they would, if they had to.
I was doing everything the doctor had told me to do. Plus I was exercising—when I felt well enough—eating right, and trying to stay positive.
“We could stay right here in bed all day,” Dean suggested.
“Ha, you’d get bored.”
“I’ll never be bored of holding you.”
He began to cry. My angel crying. I wiped his cheeks and kissed him until he had no choice but to smile.
“Angela, I love you.”
“I know,” I told him. “I love you, too. It’s going to be okay.”
How misguided we were to feel that time was slipping between our fingers when in reality we had all eternity. We had to remember that.
I didn’t want to die, but I wasn’t afraid of dying, either. Not anymore.
If the surgery didn’t go well or if the cancer came back years later, I wouldn’
t despair, and I wouldn’t let my family despair. Instead, I would put my whole trust in my God. He knew me and my situation and would send His earthly angels, and heavenly ones unseen, to support me and especially my family. He would make them strong.
He would send friends, teachers, and loving companions to sustain and guide them as He had when I had become a motherless child. I would look down and pray for them and await our joyous reunion. We had been sealed in the temple of the Most High God, and no one could take that promise from us.
Still enfolded in my husband’s arms, I lifted my heart to the heavens. Thank You, I prayed, for this knowledge. I appreciate the opportunity to be closer to Thee, and to learn to be strong. I promise not to look back with longing and regret like Lot’s wife. I will walk with faith the path You have chosen for me. And I’m so grateful for the blessings You always give me in return.
In the Bible, Sarah had resigned herself to never having a child, yet she was given a miraculous blessing in the Lord’s due time. Her miracle touched millions of lives, including my own. Through her I had come to believe that my own personal miracle would occur in the Lord’s due time—though not necessarily in this lifetime.
I planned to live my life to the fullest, however long I was granted. One year, two, five, twenty, forty, it made little difference in the eternal scheme of things. For I had learned that whatever their circumstances, God always, always, sends the gift of angels to His children. These angels come in all sizes, shapes, colors, and gender. They are everywhere in our lives. Some we can see, some we can’t, some we only read about, but each brings the love and comfort of God to the hearts of those who most desperately need them.
In the time I had left on this beautiful earth, I still had a part to play in reaching out to others—beginning with Marie’s friend Becki. Not that I would abandon my daughter to her, but maybe Becki simply needed an angel to guide her home, as I once had in my youth. Maybe I could help her grow into a beautiful, faithful woman like the one who had sat weaving at the loom. I would help her and any others I could find.
I, too, would become one of the Lord’s angels.
We hope you enjoyed The Gift of Angels. For your enjoyment, we have included a sneak peek of the author’s novel A Heartbeat Away, followed by a bonus preview of A Greater Love. If you have enjoyed The Gift of Angels, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated. A list of all books by Rachel Ann Nunes are listed in the About the Author section after the bonus previews. Thank you!
THE END
Preview
Chapter One
You think it’s never going to happen to you. I know because that’s how I was—untouchable. Bad things only happen to someone else, usually to someone you don’t know very well. Take a really sick child in your neighborhood, for instance. Their family has to deal with problems every day, but you just catch a glimpse of the wheelchair at church, or see the parents reddened eyes as you run across them in the grocery store. The only thing you’re required to do is to ask how they’re doing, not really looking at them, but staring in the direction of their right ear so you won’t make them feel worse.
If anything remotely bad ever did happen to you or your family, it was always something the doctor could fix with fiberglass or a pill. My little sister broke her arm twice and both times chose a fluorescent pink fiberglass cast. Besides my mom’s occasional bout of sinusitis, that’s about the worst thing that ever happened to my family.
At least it was until the year I turned thirteen.
I had my whole life before me then. I dreamed of going to college and becoming a heart surgeon. Of marrying and having a half-dozen children. I wanted a nice house with a swimming pool and someone to do the cooking. (Hey, I could afford that if I became a heart surgeon.)
All those dreams ended in a blinding flash. Well, the dreams didn’t exactly end, rather they changed.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
My name is Kristin Marshall, and it was the September after the summer that bunch of kidnappings were in the news. I’m sure you remember the one. I used to jerk awake in the middle of the night and see my mom tip-toeing into my room to make sure I was okay. I never told her that sometimes she nearly scared me to death because I thought someone had come to take me away. I knew seeing me there in bed gave her peace of mind, so I kept quiet.
Dad said there really weren’t more kidnappings, only a lot more awareness from the newspaper because of the way two girls in two different towns had been stolen right out of their bedrooms. Mom said we needed an alarm in case someone tried to get into our house.
“Oh, Mom, nothing’s gonna happen,” I once told her. “We’re too old. Even Jacky’s too old. She’d kick a kidnapper right between the legs. Don’t worry so much.”
My mother heaved a great sigh, the irritating kind of sigh that said I knew as much as a newborn baby did, or even less. “Oh, Kristin. You think it’s so easy, but it’s not. Jacky’s only eight, and a kidnapper would be much stronger. Take that little girl in the paper last month. She kicked and screamed and it did her no good. He still got her into the car.”
I didn’t listen. It wasn’t my job to worry—they could do that. I knew nothing would happen to us. Parents can be worrywarts, if you know what I mean, and my mom was the queen of worrywarts.
On a Friday after school in mid-September my older sister, Meghan, and I asked our Mom to take us to the Rec to swim. Rec means the Orem Recreational Center, but we just call it the Rec like it was a train accident or something: the Wreck. Mom said she had to leave our van at the shop to see why the engine light was on, and if we didn’t mind going with her there first, Dad would pick us all up there and drop us off at the pool. We were lucky because eight-year-old Jacky and Benjamin, who’s ten, had gone home with our cousins after school. Mom never let the little kids go without her to the pool, even if we were with them. That’s kind of funny because we all swim real well, with all the lessons we’ve had—even Jacky. She swims like a dolphin. But like I said, Mom’s a worrywart. She says someone has to be.
Meghan was excited because some of our neighborhood friends would be at the pool. Especially a boy named Wade Burke, who was a senior in high school this year. When he’d moved in last year, he wasn’t much to look at, but this year he’d suddenly shot up and filled out. He was tall, dark, and handsome, according to Meghan. I guess she was right, but I didn’t like the jock type. All they cared about was sports and nothing about science or books. I loved books. It didn’t matter what they were about. Though science texts and adventure romances were my favorite, I read all kinds of literature. Meghan loved only the romances. In fact, she read them so fast, she was always books ahead of me on any series we were reading together.
“Do I look all right in this new swimming suit?” Meghan asked from our bathroom. She had bought it on sale at Walmart at the first of the summer, but it had been a little too big then. “It doesn’t make me look fat, does it?”
Meghan would have to gain twenty pounds to be anywhere near fat. She’s even skinner than I am. Despite her being two and a half years older than me, we’re basically the same size except she’s an inch taller. “You look fine,” I told her, trying not to roll my eyes.
“You’ll be nice to Wade, won’t you?” she asked me as she spread zit cream over an almost invisible pimple.
“I don’t mind Wade. It’s that weird friend he hangs out with. What’s his name? Jaybird?”
“Just Jay. And he’s nice.” Meghan patted her blond hair that reached almost down to her waist.
“What a dumb name.”
“Maybe, but I think he likes you.”
“Ugh, where can I throw up?” But her words gave me a warm feeling inside. Much as I would never admit it to Meghan, Jay was my make-believe hero in the adventure romance novel I was reading. He was a junior, though, way old too for an eighth-grader. Then again, there were only three years separating us, and I
liked to remind myself that my dad was four years older than my mom.
“I wish I had more up here,” Meghan tugged at the top of her suit. “You’re almost as big as me and I’m older.”
“Hardly.” I rolled my eyes before escaping from the bathroom. If I didn’t leave she’d be on about how she wished her eyes were as dark blue as mine and that her hair was lighter. My little sister Jacky and I have hair the color of sunshine, as my dad always said, and blue eyes as deep as the night sky. We liked to joke that we were twins born five years apart. To Meghan’s disgust, her hair was darker, like the color of gold. I thought it was beautiful—and a darn sight better than Benjamin’s dirty-looking blond. Meghan didn’t agree. As soon as she gets a job, I bet she’ll buy colored contacts and dye her hair.
When we arrived at the shop, Mom opened the van door. “Good afternoon, Big Ned,” she said to Mr. Lyman, our mechanic. She tucked her short, golden hair behind her ear and smiled like she was really happy to see him.
He reached out his large hand. “Hello, Angie. Good to see you.”
What a name—Big Ned. Sounded like the mafia guy in my adventure romance book. But he didn’t look like one. He had a grizzled beard, and was tall and strong-looking as a bear. Reminded me of a mountain man, not a guy in a suit with bodyguards. I asked Mom once why they called him Big Ned and she said he had a son named Ned. I wondered if they called his son Little Ned. I didn’t think he’d like that much. I wouldn’t.
Just then Dad came in the shop and they began to talk about when the van might be ready. Meghan jumped out of the van, grabbing her swim bag, filled to the brim with her curling iron, hairspray, and who knew what other junk. I didn’t budge. Mom and Dad knew Big Ned from the old neighborhood when I was a baby. After discussing the van, they would move on to other things.
My eyes returned to my book. The heroine was posing as a maid to try to free the hero, who in my mind resembled Jay. Even though it was just a book, my heart pounded in fear for them both. I read as fast as I could to see what would happen.
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