Devotions

Guardian Angels

I was dreaming that a young man was calling my name. “Kathryn! Wake up!” With a start I looked at the clock. It was 3:00 a.m. I heard my daughter crying before I saw her standing at my bedside. “Mommy, I can’t breathe,” she managed to gasp. I grabbed the nebulizer, plugged it in, hurriedly put the medicine in the atomizer, flipped the switch and stuck it on my daughter’s nearly blue face. She was only three years old, but we had been dealing with her asthma attacks since she had been diagnosed at 18 months. This time so early in the morning, I couldn’t pray, I couldn’t control my own fear and I was unable to assist my daughter’s panic. “Breathe!” I screamed at her, which only made her cry harder.

She was not responding, and the only thing I could do was yell for her father to call 911. The paramedics entered our little house and deftly analyzed the situation. One took over applying the nebulizer, while another measured her blood oxygen levels and called the emergency room doctor. “We are not that busy tonight,” they informed me. “If your daughter had to have an attack, tonight was a better night for us to respond. You’re lucky.” I didn’t feel lucky, I felt ashamed at my inability to control her disease. I pondered what I had done incorrectly this time to cause her attack.

My little girl was slightly better as they strapped her onto the gurney and helped me into the back of the ambulance. We arrived in a few minutes. If it had been rush hour it would’ve taken ten times as long. Again, it was pointed out how lucky we were. The ER staff took her right in. “You know,” said the admitting nurse, “It’s a slow night so your daughter has all our attention. How very fortunate for you.” How could everybody insist we were lucky? My daughter has a life–threatening illness. In my misery I suddenly heard my little girl’s voice in conversation with a male nurse. She was pointing at a sticker he had on his name tag. It was a beautiful female angel, over–stylized and more beautiful than any fashion model. She asked him, “Why do you wear an angel sticker?” “Because so many people call us angels of mercy,” he replied. ”So all nurses are angels?” my little girl asked. He patiently answered, “I suppose you could say that we are angels, healing angels.” My daughter pressed, “Are doctors angels, too?” At that the nurse laughed. He said, “Sure, baby girl, although sometimes I think they forget.”

My daughter was silent for a few moments. Then she said matter of factly, “You know, my angel looks nothing like that.” “What do you mean?” he asked her. “Well, when I can’t breathe, my angel goes and wakes up my mommy. My angel looks kind of like you, big and strong, but he has a light that shines all around him.” The nurse turned and looked at me, clearly puzzled. I explained, “Yes, she has told me about her angel and who am I to question it?” The young nurse turned to leave, saying as he went, “I hope your angel is always with you.” My baby smiled sweetly and replied, “I hope your angel is always with you too.”

In my self–blame, self–pity and anger over my daughter’s plight I had forgotten about the angels God sends us. From the paramedics who came to my door without question, to the hospital staff who do their jobs, sometimes without thanks, to the doctor who released my daughter in fair condition, to the reality of the spiritual nature of my little girl’s guardian,

God’s angels were at work. They came without judgment to help, heal and love. Each person who helped us has their own life with their own load of troubles, but that night all of God’s chosen angels came together not only to treat my daughter but also to minister to me. I cannot thank them enough, nor praise God enough. “For He will command His angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways”(Ps. 91:11).

—Kathryn L. Rowe