This story, "My Special Angel," will be in The Reassurance of Angels, one of the books in the series COMFORT FROM BEYOND

"My Special Angel"
Mary M. Alward

April 16, 1966 was the happiest day of my life. That is the day I married my childhood sweetheart. We had been friends since the third grade and had always assumed that one day we would marry and raise a family. Our dreams had come true.

Over the course of the next three years, we lived in a dream world. We loved one another from the very depths of our souls and treated each other with respect, kindness and compassion. We never thought of ourselves and always put each other first. There was nothing we would not do for each other.

During the years of our marriage, we were seldom apart. We had common interests that ensured that we enjoyed each other’s company. We would walk to the store together, holding hands, just to buy a loaf of bread. As well as being husband and wife, we were lovers and best friends.

After three years of marriage, I discovered I was pregnant. We were both delighted. We spent hours in the stores, picking out clothes, furniture and accessories for the newest addition to our family.

Our daughter Michelle was born on a bright, sunny day in February. Our area had been hit by a heavy snowfall the week before and the world was white and beautiful. It seemed to me that this was an omen. Our family would have a bright future.

For the next ten months we nourished our daughter, watched her grow, learn to walk and say her first words. My husband’s heart soared the first time she looked at him with her big brown eyes and uttered the word "Daddy." The world had never been so perfect.

Christmas was a time of great joy. We dressed Michelle in a red Santa suit and hat, played Santa and watched with joy as her eyes lit up at the sight of her first Christmas tree. We lay together later that night and reminisced about the day. We were ecstatic and talked of Christmases to come.

In the wee hours of the morning on December 31, my world came crashing down. I awoke to find my husband sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching his chest and crying out in pain. Before I could throw back the covers and get to him, he began screaming. He stood, pushed me to one side and staggered into the living room. I followed, fear gripping me, as I asked over and over what was wrong. He never answered. His screams rebounded off the walls of the small room and almost deafened me. Suddenly, he fell face downward onto the hardwood floor. Then…silence.

The deadly sound of the silence seemed to fill the room even more so than the screams of a moment before. I scrambled for the telephone and called an ambulance. It seemed an eternity before it arrived. I later learned it was actually a little over four minutes.

After I made the call, I dropped to my knees beside my husband. I shook his shoulder, rolled him onto his back and called out his name as tears ran down my face and fell onto his. There was no response. As the ambulance pulled into the driveway, siren wailing, I already knew that he was dead.

The next few days were a nightmare. I picked out his casket, made funeral arrangements and stood by his coffin shaking hands and accepting the sympathetic words of family and friends. I felt no emotion whatsoever at the time. It was if I had turned to stone.

At the cemetery, my father stood beside me, his hand on my shoulder in a gesture of comfort. I knew he was in a lot of pain. He and my husband had gotten along splendidly. I couldn’t bring myself to comfort him. When they began to lower my beloved husband’s casket into the ground, I began to sob deep, gut-wrenching sobs that seemed to tear away my soul. As far as I was concerned, my life was over. Not only had I lost a husband but also my lover and best friend. It had all happened
in the blink of an eye. I leaned against my father’s chest while he smoothed my hair with his hand and crooned words of comfort. I remember wondering at the time how the world could be so cruel.

Over the next few weeks, I went through the normal grieving process. I was angry with my husband for leaving me, angry with God for taking him and angry at the world in general. I didn’t have the opportunity to go through the denial process. My husband had died right before my eyes and the reality of it was not to be denied.

For three weeks, I barely slept a wink. Each time I drifted off, my husband’s screams revisited. Then I would awaken, hoping it was all a bad dream, and trembling uncontrollably. I couldn’t eat, lost weight and wished that I had died with him.

During this period, I had stayed at my parent’s house, refusing to set foot into my own home. I couldn’t bear the thought of entering the living room where my husband had died, and I was afraid the bedroom would echo his screams of pain. I ignored my infant daughter, locking myself in the bedroom of my childhood where I remained for hours and turned a deaf ear to my mother’s pleas to come out and join the family.
Though I continued to wish I had died with my husband on that fateful night, I never once contemplated suicide. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was a good indication that I was going to make it.

After a month, my father told me that I either had to go back to the house to live or give the landlord notice that I was moving. I understood the logic of this but wanted nothing more to do with that house. I wrote a notice to terminate my tenancy, asked Dad to deliver it and begged him to sell everything in the house with the exception of
our personal belongings and a few momentos. At first Dad protested but finally he relented. He thought I should face my fears so there would be closure. Again, I refused.

Dad made arrangements to meet a used furniture dealer at the house and one day just after my daughter’s first birthday went to take care of things. It seemed as if he was gone for hours and my imagination ran wild. Had something happened to him? In my sorry state of mind, I felt that house was cursed.

When I heard Dad’s truck pull into the driveway, I breathed a sigh of relief. All of the reminders of that terrible night would now be gone. I would never have to step into that house again.

Dad entered the house looking haggard and drawn. He took off his coat and hat, hung them up, took a small package out of his pocket and handed it to me. He told me he had found it in the mailbox at the house.

The return address on the envelope was that of the jewelry shop where my husband and I had purchased our wedding bands. I tore it open, curious as to what was inside. When I dumped the contents, I found an angel pendant about a half-inch high on the finest gold chain I had ever seen. Embedded in one of the angel’s wings were three birthstones. An amethyst represented my daughter, a blue sapphire for me, and an emerald for my husband. I looked at Dad. He shrugged. Apparently he knew nothing about it.

It was then I realized that there was still something left in the envelope. The letter inside was addressed to my late husband. It was a letter of apology, indicating that though the jewelers had promised Christmas delivery, there had been a delay and they were giving him a partial rebate. A check was enclosed, along with a hand-written card from my husband. The note read: "This special angel is to keep our
family close. When you wear it, always know that I am near."

As I read it, I could feel my husband’s presence and almost see the smile on his face. I fastened the chain around my neck, knowing that he would be beside me always to guide me through the trials and tribulations of being a single parent. Peace enveloped me and in that moment, I knew that for his sake and that of my infant daughter, I must get on with my life.

Luckily for me, Dad had ignored all of my requests. The furniture was still in the small house where my husband and I had lived, loved and laughed since the day we were married. The notice that I had told Dad to give to the landlord was still in his pocket. Michelle and I were going home.

The very next day, I bundled Michelle into her bunting bag and took her back to that house. I made a decision to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming a published writer. That fall, I enrolled in a writing course. After many years, my writing finally started to sell. How proud my late husband would have been.

The grief didn’t leave overnight. Sometimes, I would awaken in a cold sweat, frightened and lonely. When this happened, I would hold my special angel between my fingers and rub it gently. Always, peace would envelope me and I would fall into a relaxed sleep.

I lost my special angel some years ago. At first, I was heartbroken. Then, I realized that I no longer needed her to depend upon for peace and comfort. My only hope is that she brings peace and comfort to whoever found her. She will always be my special angel and I will never forget the gift that my husband sent me from beyond the grave. It truly was a gift of love.

This true story will appear in The Reassurance of Angels, one of the books in the anthology series COMFORT FROM BEYOND. This hardcover book will be published by Guideposts Books. If you have a true story that might fit in this new series, please send your story to me, Phyllis Hobe, at:

P.O. Box 214
East Greenville, PA 18041

or email me at cfb@netcarrier.com

If your story is accepted, you will be offered a fee and sent a permission request to sign. We are asking for first rights. Either way, you will be able to sell the story elsewhere after we have published it.

For more information about the types of stories we need, please check out the submissions page. Thank you.