This week I want to share a letter from a young woman, only 22, who wrote a while ago about her dismay and hopelessness as she struggled for spirituality — and what happened. Isn’t that often how it works? You are brought to your knees, and suddenly when all is lost, remember a moment that brings you to your feet again, sword in hand. I was giving a workshop once in Russia, where a young woman angrily told me that never in her life had she ever had a hopeful experience. She didn’t believe in hope or beauty or goodness or angels (Why was she in my workshop?). This was in the early days of Glastonost, soon after the fall of the brutal Soviet Union. Her entire life, she said was bleak, black, hopeless, horrible. Suddenly, during one of my meditations, she remembered, as a child, standing on the birch strewn bank of a lake, when suddenly the air, water, trees, were afire with light, song, hope, as if she were seeing into other dimensions. She left the workshop smiling.
The letter below begins by describing the writer, then praises my A Book of Angels (and I’m so happy to be praised that I repeat her gratitude here), and finally it tells the story of when she experienced an angel. Not the sight of one, but the extra-ordinary Signs. I have other stories of the Silence she speaks of and Time-Stop. I have experienced it myself, and it is like no other silence I know. Here is her story:
Hello,
My name is Natalina M_______. I was born into an Italian Roman Catholic Family, though my father is Scottish (hence the last name). He adapted into the (Catholic) religion and the lifestyle. I think I’ve always believed in God, and I’ve always been interested in Religion. I used to read the Bible like it was peak fiction when I was young (I guess, I still am, I’m 22 this year).
I recently graduated University in Canada with a degree in Religious Studies. It hurt me many times. The degree was like reading a list of all the bad things in the world, beside a much smaller list, of all the good, and I wasn’t sure it could make up for the bad like everyone said it would. I questioned not if God was real, but if he was worth worshipping. I wanted to know if all those men (and even women) who asked for forgiveness while raping, molesting, abusing and murdering innocent children and women and even boys/men would really get forgiveness. God certainly wouldn’t give them mercy, would he? He couldn’t.
I like to think I’m better now, but I don’t think so. I’ve tried to give love and was used, and I feel like there’s something wrong with me for not being lustful like everyone else my age.
I asked for “A Book of Angels” for Christmas. Even though I’ve graduated university, I continue to study religious concepts. Right now I’m particularly interested in the lore of ancient culture and the belief in a sort of magic—protective amulets, talismans, as well as the mythology of King Solomon and the demons he summoned to do his bidding—all of that led me here, to your book, to learn more about Angels. They play such a massive part in not just catholic (monotheistic) history, but all history.
Every few pages, I have to put the book down. My eyes fill with tears and I feel like there’s hope left. I must first thank you for writing it. For forcing it into the world, because how beautiful, to be reminded that there is hope, even if you don’t have it right now.
Secondly, I wanted to tell you a story. Because the moment I opened the book, I remembered the day I witnessed an angel save my sister.
My Grandmother, before she died of leukemia, claimed to see an angel waiting for her in the corner of the hospital room. No one else could see it, even though my mother was there. My mother told me my grandmother visited her in the house after her death as well, and I used to wonder why I’d never gotten visited. I wanted to see one too, an angel, or a ghost—anything. I didn’t need to see to believe it, I was just jealous, I think, in a childish way.
I can’t remember exactly how old I was, but my younger sister was probably around 6 or 7, so that would put me around 8 or 9. My grandfather lived a two-minute walk from our house, just outside the neighbourhood across a busy street.
In the midsummer, we were walking back from visiting him, and were quickly rushed across the street in the little break the cars had given us. There was no stop-light near by, or a safe spot in the middle of the road to pause and wait for traffic from the other direction like there is now.
My sister’s hat flew off her head, and she turned around to grab it without thinking. Her hand slipped out of mine ,and I turned—and then the time stopped. I’m not really sure how to explain it. . . . it just . . stopped. I swear it—a car would have hit her if it hadn’y. I didn’t really see an angel, not like the white dress, long hair, sets of wings and halo. Just the time stopping, and there was this sense of calm, a patience, and I wasn’t afraid.
I waited for my sister to pick up her hat, put it back on her head, and walk back over to me. We made it across the street safely, and then Time started up again, and the cars zipped by. I must note there was no noise either. At first I thought this was my memory failing me, but I don’t think so. Because the second she was safe, the sound came back, and I remember that sound, all the cars speeding down the hill. Over the noise, my mother scolded my sister for being so reckless. I don’t remember anything after that.
I care about my sister very much, to the point where an event like that would make me over-worried and angered as my mother was. How could she choose a hat over her own life? What a fool! But at the time, I wasn’t scared. I’m not scared when I think of it, either, it’s so calming. Such a gentle peace in the frozen picture of my memory. I should have forgotten it, I think, but I remember exactly what happened, exactly how I felt, and I’m still so positive that she would’ve gotten hit without the angel’s intervention. An angel stopped Time for her—for us.
I’ve never told anyone. I’ve never felt the need to tell anyone, I didn’t need justification or a second opinion. It was real to me.
Thank you for listening. And thank you for all your hard work.
Natalina M_____