Mary Jean Handley was the Pre-K Sunday school teacher at my church when
I was 4. Mary Jean was tall and dazzlingly divine. She carried her 30-year-old ethereal body
with grace and her enchanting white blond hair accentuated her enormous, breathtaking
turquoise blue eyes. She sang soprano solos at church, as well as for most of
the funerals and weddings in town. Her voice was so clear and pure that when
she sang it sounded like something astonishing from the beyond. I knew she was an angel.
I didn’t tell anyone about my revelation until one Sunday night at my
grandparents as we sat around their large dining room table eating chili. I
took a chance and mentioned my discovery that Mrs. Handley was an angel.
Everyone laughed and laughed and laughed. In fact, they couldn’t stop laughing.
Finally one of them, I can’t remember who, informed me that there was no such
thing as an angel.
Besides feeling humiliated, I was crushed at the news and not
completely convinced. So I vowed to myself to carefully observe Mrs. Handley
for clues. I also promised myself I would NEVER share anything important with
my family ever again!
The first time I actually encountered angels was when when I was 17. I
had long given up trying to figure out if Mrs. Handley was a real angel.
Certainly, the people around me had been clear about their beliefs, which had
probably covertly influenced my indifference. I hadn’t given much thought about
the plausibility of angels for years. But, when I experienced it first-hand, I
could not deny the Truth.
The year before, when I was 16, my sister and I had flown to San
Francisco to drive back with our brother, who had completed his studies at
Stanford. It was the first time we had ever flown. In 1966 commercial airlines
were just beginning to become available.
Our excitement about flying was overshadowed by trepidation. Our
terror was not of flying, but the paralyzing anxiety that comes from doing
something for the first time. Our comfort zone was being extremely challenged. It
gave us a bit of consolation that we had each other even though we both knew
that, in a pinch, if something really happened the other would be of no help at
all.
We sat right behind the smoking section and I watched as a blue haze
rose up around us and swirled in the sunlight coming in through tiny windows
along the sides of the plane. Dust in the air floated upward toward the ceiling
and seemed suspended in mid-air.
We made it to California and were met at the gate by our brother. We
were never so glad to see a familiar face in our lives!
The following year—the year I met angels, I was flying solo to Rochester,
New York to visit my brother and his new wife. The information I was given about
the trip was sketchy, at best. All I knew was that I would have to change
planes in Chicago. That information was enough to keep my stomach in knots for
days. But I didn’t know anyone to ask who had flown before and might know how to
change planes.
On the day of my big trip my mother was late getting started, as
usual. We drove the 2 hours to the airport in Kansas City, Missouri in an hour
and a half at an alarming 100 miles an hour on narrow, rollercoaster-hill roads.
That alone would have pushed me over the edge if I hadn’t been so worried about
the trip.
My mother drove up in front of the American Airlines departure gates and
parked in a no parking zone. We literally ran
inside and the stewardesses kept the door open for me as my mother checked me in
without saying goodbye. I made my way to my seat at the back of the plane as
blank stares from other passengers followed me. My seat, 42 F, was in the
middle between an aloof young businessman in a navy blue pinstriped suit and a
little old white-haired woman with a sweet, friendly smile.
Once I was buckled in, the woman engaged me immediately in
conversation. I felt myself relaxing as she calmly shared, with tremendous
pride, about her 2 sons and their families. One lived in Chicago and the other
in New York City. She couldn’t wait to hug her grandchildren, who she hadn’t
seen in a year. She was staying 2 weeks. She had lived in Kansas City her
entire life. Her husband had died 5 years ago. “Oh, by the way, my name is
Mildred McCrumb.”
I was SO grateful for her uncomplicated chatter, her soothing voice
and her fairy godmother’s absolute love. I relaxed and sank into my seat. I even
dozed a bit and when I woke up we continued talking as if we’d always known each other. Then, as
pressure uncomfortably bore down on my ears, we landed with an abrupt bump and
the rough pull of centrifugal force. I was in Chicago and had to change planes!
My anxiety spiked! I tried to act as though everything was fine, but inside I
was petrified.
Mildred McCrumb didn’t walk with me down the corridor but I kept my
eyes on her like a hawk. With every step I stayed at her pace. Then I noticed other
passengers were stopping at a board on a wall that showed plane arrivals and departures
as well as gate information. I took out my ticket and searched for my flight
number, which I couldn’t find on the board. Then I looked for flights going to Rochester,
NY, but there were none going there. When I looked around, Mrs. McCrumb was gone.
The panic inside me was steadily building. I had always been
excruciatingly shy and felt a gazillion times more shy in Chicago that day than
ever before. How would I ever get up enough nerve to talk with someone? Would I
be able to ask for help? For a while I wandered aimlessly, trying to find my confidence.
I was overwhelmed by the fact that there were more people in the hallway than
in the entire town of Onaga, Kansas. I felt tongue-tied, terror-stricken.
Just then, I caught sight of Mrs. McCrumb again. She had her arms
around her grandchildren and they were talking a mile a minute. It felt comforting
to see her.
This gave me determination to ask for help. I didn’t want to miss my
next flight. I found an American Airlines counter with some women talking and
laughing behind it. I waited until they noticed me and then I asked them, tentatively,
if they could help me. They said they would try. I asked them how to find out which
gate was mine. They asked me where I was going. I told them. They looked it up
on large sheets of paper and said there were no flights leaving for Rochester,
NY. Then I asked the very difficult and embarrassing question. Hesitantly, I
got the words out...”Where am I?” They
looked at each other puzzled and then one said, “Why, you are in New York
City.”
My heart sank. Right next to the desk was a row of chairs that were
hooked together. I sat down quickly and heavily. I felt faint and my mind
seemed suspended while speeding too quickly to follow. No matter how hard I
tried to hold them back, large tears rolled down my face. Even if I’d had
enough money to buy a ticket, I had no idea how to go about getting one.
Suddenly, I looked up and there stood Mrs. McCrumb. She wanted to introduce
me to her son and grandchildren. Her son, who noticed I’d been crying, asked me
what was wrong. I told him my dilemma and he said he would help.
I watched him walk over to the American Airlines counter. After waiting
in a line and then having a long conversation with a young woman in a tight
blue uniform, he bought a ticket for me to fly to Rochester. That particular flight
left from Kennedy Airport and we were at La Guardia. He went off to locate my luggage
and when he joined us again he ushered us toward his car. He was going to drive
me to the other airport! This was the moment it dawned on me that I just might
be in the presence of angels.
When we got to the other airport he parked his car in the short-term
parking lot. Then, he got my bag from the trunk and we all went into the
airport. He found out which gate was for American Airlines flight 2674 to
Rochester, NY. Then they walked me down to the gate and sat with me until it
boarded and I was securely on the plane. As I taxied into takeoff position I peered
through the window next to my seat and saw they were all standing at the
observation window watching, waiting for my plane to take off. Angels.
