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<font face="verdana"><font size="3">Josh's Angel
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<br>My wife and I have been married for 48--nearly 49 years. We've been blessed with a good marriage, four wonderful children (two of each kind), ten beautiful grandchildren and a precious great grandson. They are all the joy of our live. The story I want to tell you is a true story about our grandson Joshua, who is 24 years old now. The incident happened when Josh was about two years old--maybe less, I'm not sure. But, it happened when he was at the age where he was just learning to walk.
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<br>It was shortly after lunch that day. Our daughter, Theresa, was over and she brought Joshua with her. After lunch, as I most always did, I went upstairs to brush my teeth and shave before I went to work. I worked the second shift at that time. Directly at the top of our staircase there is a window, and setting next to the window at the top of the stairs, we kept a large heavy exhaust fan during the warm weather, which we used when we went to bed. Close by the fan is the door leading into the bathroom. The fan was not running at the time since we used it only during the night. When I went upstairs, I went into the bathroom and shut the door behind me as I always did. I did not realize it at the time, but when I closed the bathroom door, Joshua decided to crawl up the steps to see me. As I said--I had no idea that he was doing this. However, right after I shut the door, I brushed my teeth and was going to start shaving. I don't remember exactly how long, maybe a minute or two--I'm not sure. However, for some reason I just decided to open the door and look out into the hallway. I had no reasons to because I hadn't shaved yet and I never opened the door until I was finished shaving. However, for some reason I felt that I should open the door. I did not hear anything that would prompt me to open the door. There was no reason in my mind. I just felt that for some reason I should open the door--something I had to do. Now, I can't explain that feeling--but it was there.
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<br>And so, I did open the door. I opened it just in time to see my little grandson, Joshua, on the next to the last step reaching for the fan to hang on to so that he could pull himself up to come and see his grandpa. As he grabbed hold of the fan, it started to tip towards him. I opened the door just in time to grab Josh with my right arm and the fan with my left arm--just in time to keep Josh from rolling down the steps with the big heavy fan on top of him. Had I been one second later--had I been a half-second later--I shudder to think what would have happened. Josh could no doubt have been crippled or perhaps it could have killed him. But I wasn't too late. I was just in time.
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<br>In the years that have past, Josh has grown into a fine young man. And I still often rethink that moment. I try to remember what invoked me to open the door--I still can't explain it. No, I can't explain it--but I am certain that it was either God or one of his angels telling me that I had better get out there. Either way, it was God intervening. There is just no other explanation.
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<br>I am well aware that anyone can make up a story such as this. It's easy to do and it sounds good. But let me assure you that if I were to make up a story, it certainly would not be about God and His angels.
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<br>"For the Scriptures say, 'He orders his angels to protect and guard you'." Luke 4:10 NLT
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<br>Rooftop Angel
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<br>The last thing I wanted to see that night was some teenaged guy in a baseball cap. But there he was, standing by the exit door on the roof. I looked away, trying to give off a vibe: Do Not Disturb. What did he want anyway? Guys weren't interested in fat girls like me. He wasn't scary or anything. He just stood there, staring into space. I'd never seen him before. What was he doing on my roof?
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<br>I often came to the top of the parking garage at night. It was quiet. I liked being alone up there, above everyone else, feeling the cold wind off Casco Bay blowing across my face. I felt safer, closer to the stars, closer to something better.
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<br>Sometimes I'd pray. All I could ever think to say was, "Help me." But after so many mixed-up years of crash diets and food binges I was beyond help. I simply didn't have faith in myself or in anything else.
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<br>That night I decided to jump from the roof. The unknown had to be better than anything I knew. I didn't have a future, and this was the only way to block out the past.
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<br>I had been a chubby kid. My brothers laughed at me when we went to the beach. They'd yell, "Watch out for the beached whale!" I didn't make many friends. I mostly kept to myself. Food was my secret comfort. Food never yelled at me, hurt me or called me names. Food was always there for me, something I could rely on. I kept this belief, yet somehow I hoped it would change once I was grown up.
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<br>I was grown up now, just out of college. Night after night on the roof I'd tell myself, "Rosemary, act your age." I knew I should take responsibility for my actions. No one forced the food down my throat. But I could not control my behavior. People wouldn't understand. "Come on," they'd say. "Get a life." But somehow I couldn't.
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<br>I stared down into the darkness and then up at the stars. This was it. It would only take a second. I stepped up onto the roof ledge. "No, no!" I heard. The kid in the baseball cap was by my side in an instant. "It's going to be okay," he said. I stood still. Dumbfounded. Angry. Get out of my face! I thought.
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<br>He reached out to me, but stopped. I didn't like to be touched and he seemed to know it. He shoved his hands in his pockets. His face showed kindness, concern. "Go home," he whispered. "It's going to be all right. Really, I promise."
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<br>I hesitated, but he kept his eyes on me. I glanced at the exit door. "Go on," he said. I took a deep breath and stepped down from the ledge. I walked slowly toward the door. I felt a sense of surrender, not in defeat, but in letting go.
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<br>I don't know if it was to take a last look at the stars or to thank the kid, but I turned back. I was alone on the roof. Where is he? There was nowhere he could have gone.
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<br>I stood there, trying to understand what had just happened to me. I knew I hadn't imagined the guy in the baseball cap. He was as real as the wind off the bay. But something had changed. The wind was still cold, yet I felt warm, as if someone had wrapped a blanket around me. The guy's words had been like that, warm and kind. I started to believe him. Maybe it was going to be okay after all.
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<br>The next day I went to Overeaters Anonymous and found people like myself struggling with food issues, body image and depression. Eventually I reduced my weight significantly. I've kept it down ever since. I didn't lose the weight, I let it go. It's gone, just like the past. I believe in the future now because of a stranger who helped me surrender to a faith I didn't know I had.
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<br>A Letter To God
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<br>Dear God,
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<br>Never let it be said that I won't admit it when I'm wrong or that I never apologize to people when I should. And I have been wrong about you. I thought you'd made a terrible mistake when my child was born and I said some pretty rotten things to you and about you. It seemed so unfair though. I couldn't believe that you'd given me this child as part of "the plan." I was sure you'd made a horrendous mistake and I'm sure you got pretty tired of me begging for a miracle in one breath and then turning around and saying all those mean things about you in the next breath. I'm truly sorry.
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<br>I thought my view of the whole situation was right and yours was wrong. I doubted your wisdom, and yes, I even cursed you for doing what you did. Inexcusable, I know. But you have to realize that when she was born, I wasn't nearly the person I am now and in those days you could have bet me a million dollars that I never would be capable of handling everything. (And even though I'm apologizing now, didn't you sometimes doubt your decision?) Anyway, you were right. This child has changed my life. She's made me be all that I'm capable of and more than I ever imagined I could be. She's made me see things would have overlooked before.
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<br>Take this compassion thing. Yeah, I knew what the word meant and I really thought I was back then, but I turned away when I saw a person with a disability and sometimes I even stared when I thought no-one was watching. What a jerk I was. My brand of compassion was more like pity for all that they weren't and I never saw them for all that they were. But.... I thought I was being truly compassionate. Thanks for teaching me that.
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<br>Then there was that tolerance thing. Sure I thought they should have equal rights and opportunities, but would I have gone out of my way to make sure that happened? Probably not. Now I live with a little person who I expect others to be tolerant of. Makes you realize how tolerant you really were before and helps you to understand where other people are coming from.
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<br>And the minority thing. Coming from a middle class white background doesn't even begin to prepare you for all the prejudices and oppression at you face when you become a minority yourself, via your child. Talk about a learning experience! It makes you empathize with all minorities.
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<br>Now I have to thank you for all the things you've taken away from me. Pettiness is one of them. When I think of all the things I used to worry about! What a waste of time and energy. But, I have to always remember how I was and how I am now. Those who haven't experienced what I've been through won't know the difference and with all I've learned, I have to remember how I used to feel when I deal with them and I have to remember to understand.
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<br>Monetary things are the next. I recently listened to a speaker at a conference and one of the questions she asked was, "If given the choice, would you choose 30 million dollars or peace and happiness?" I was in a room with close to 30 parents who had children with disabilities and not a one of them raised their hand for the 30 million. (Although I briefly thought that 30 million would buy some quality child care and help further the cause for equality.) However, I did realize that it wouldn't make my daughter see, nor would it replace things many other children needed. Ten years ago I would have been convinced that the money was my answer to happiness. Now it's secondary to what is really important.
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<br>I know now that all the times I accused you of deserting me, you were, in fact, carrying me just as the FOOTPRINTS poem says. I also know that the bad times are what helps me to grow, so I don't take them so personally now. But just so you'll realize that I'm still me and that I'm still going to need a little help, (and since I've apologized so nicely) could you give me a small miracle and make my little girl see? Well, if you can't, I guess I understand. Miracles might be in short supply today, but just for the record thanks again for letting me see. Amen.
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<br>Pat Linkhorn is the mother of two daughters with disabilities. Kimberly is 17 and has Autism and Krystal is 15 and is blind due to prematurity. Pat works as a mentor to other parents who have children with disabilities, helping them navigate the educational system.</font></font> |
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