Angels in Action: Stories to Inspire by Diane Williams

For Lossie Daniels

my anchor, my mother

Acknowledgements

I owe many people thanks for completing this project. To begin with, I would like to thank Jane Gately for her patience with reading and retyping all of my revisions, her organization skills, and for her quick and efficient dictation talents. Thank you for creating my article and book tracking spreadsheet. And most of all, thank you for your candid heart-to-heart comments regarding my writing.

Gladys Olson, thank you for proofreading my manuscripts, for your many suggestions that expanded my writing scope, and for being a much-needed audience with a different voice.

Over the past decade, I was blessed to work with many talented and dedicated Azusa Pacific University students. Thank you for sharing your creative ideas, suggestions, time, patience, honesty, and fresh feedback every time we met. Also, thank you for braving inclement weather. Lastly, thank you for your companionship and for giving me the opportunity to reveal to you the life of a freelance writer.

Members of the San Dimas Writer’s Workshop, thank you for your scrutiny of my writing, all the bold critiques, command of the English language, and the contribution of your life experiences to improve my accuracy and details. Also, thank you for insight to help me appeal to senior citizens.

Thank you to my daughters, Nikkia and Tiffany, for giving me my space and letting me work in peace, for supporting and escorting me to my writing groups, and, most importantly, keeping my writing true to life, because they know my story so well. And Tiffany, thank you for picking up my research materials from the library.

A warm thank you to all of my generous care providers for their consistent hard work, making sure my environment and my workers were comfortable.

Susan Trudeau, thank you for all your wonderful lettering and assistance with education on the printing world and obtaining my business licenses.

A special thank you to University of La Verne marketing professor, Dr. Janis Dietz, and her students on the BEAM (Balancing Every Aspects Motives) Team for working on my marketing plan.

God, thank you for giving me the experience, courage, and wisdom to share with others.

Introduction

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up…I can’t…I just don’t have it in me…I can’t.”

Angels in Action demonstrates how I, the author, have turned away from these self-defeating thoughts and turned to Luke 17:21, which reads, “The Kingdom of God is within you.” I urge you to act on these words for they are true. I know these words personally, because when defeatism struck me, I etched them into my heart until I learned to trust, believe, and act on them.

Now whenever life presents me with an obstacle that I must face, I pray and get out of God’s way. I believe I can overcome any obstacle through prayer, and this book details some of my most exciting victories. These seventeen stories are about battles won through prayer, powerful miracles, astonishing healings, authoritative revelations, and my own personal physical and spiritual transformation.

As a volunteer prayer counselor for many years, I have witnessed the power in people around the world who phoned in to the Guideposts prayer ministry. I have seen amazing results for so many souls seeking help. We are all unique and have our own obstacles, problems, and challenges to face, and even those of us who are apparently without problems will inevitably face one someday. Whenever life presents us with an obstacle that we must face, the question to ask shouldn’t be “Why me?” but instead, “How do I call into action the angel within me to address this roadblock?”

Angels in Action demonstrates how I called on the power of my Creator to bring about positive changes in my life. These stories show a woman living without the knowledge and strength of a spiritual relationship, finding a power greater than herself, and then, through grace and the power of the Holy Spirit, was transformed into a healthy and whole individual.

Through these stories, I trust the reader will gain a renewal of perspective and learn how to view obstacles in life as God showing His face in order for us, His children, to build strong, unshakable foundations. This book was born to serve ordinary people seeking to do extraordinary things.

I personally invite you to experience seventeen highly reflective lessons in seven key areas of my life: financial, spiritual, emotional, relational, physical, and familial. I trust that my writing will provide you with hope and enable your spirits to soar to unexpected heights. Angels in Action is the fruit of my life. Each story illustrates a Bible verse and concludes with a spiritual reflection. Scripture is from the NIV unless otherwise stated.

I would appreciate your thoughts and comments, but I would also like to hear about your challenges and how you overcame them. Please visit my blog mindofagoddess.wordpress.com or email me at writerworks@gmail.com and share your stories!

—Diane

Last Call for Alcohol

Immediately after graduating with a BA in social work, I had my sights set on helping troubled youth. I was armed with a clear vision, high energy, and a strong ambition that helped me land my first position as a social worker in a foster care and adoption agency. My mind was full of new ideas on how to save children, and I believed this position was the place for my journey to begin.

One morning, a social worker invited me to join her for a drink to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday. Although I do not drink, I did not hesitate for a moment; I gladly accepted the invitation. I had been at the agency for about a month, and it was important for me not only to bond, but I also craved the acceptance of the administration and my co-workers.

There I was, at ten o’clock in the morning, sitting amongst a large group of social workers having a glass of sweet wine. We had been mingling for only a few minutes when someone suggested continuing the celebration at lunchtime. Immediately after the break, I dashed out the door to complete my two home visits in the area. I hurried through the visits and raced back to the office. About ten of us headed down to the local restaurant for the gala birthday luncheon.

The server arrived at the table to take our drink orders. I planned to order a soft drink, but instead I ordered a mixed drink along with the ladies. The server brought me my first piña colada in a beautiful glass filled with a cream-colored liquid, an umbrella, and a slice of pineapple on the side. It was so delicious I had another. At the luncheon, I learned that my co-workers celebrated everyone and everything—there was always a party; and whenever there was a party, they partied all day. At three o’clock the office staff and administration presented a gift to the birthday girl. There was more wine, and I drank some of it. Neither my office mates nor I did any more work that afternoon; instead, we talked, learning about each other.

After work that day one of my colleagues and I walked to the lounge for happy hour. We spotted the group ordering drinks at the round table. I sat and listened to everyone’s order. I kept telling myself I wasn’t a drinker, but I wanted to fit in. I loved this job; in fact, this was the job that was going to lead me along the road to where I could make my mark on the world. They ordered cognac and so did I. Sipping my drink and chatting with my co-workers, it seemed they approved of me. Then, another social worker ordered a round of drinks for everyone for a toast to the birthday girl. I drank another glass of cognac. This cognac tastes so good! Now I understand the reason Jared, my husband, loved to drink, I thought to myself.

Eventually, I stood to go home, but my head spun and my eyes blurred. I thought my new contacts needed adjusting. Finally, I reached the restroom and cleaned my lenses, but my sight was still blurry. Then, I remembered reading about how lemons cleansed the system. Luckily, the produce market was next door. When I got to the store, I went straight for the produce. I picked up a lemon and carried it to the clerk, remarking about its size. It was huge. The clerk shook his head and told me it was a grapefruit. Then he pointed me in the direction of the lemons. I bumped into the lemons and knocked them over, spilling them all over the floor. The clerk approached me, asking if I was okay. I nodded, and he handed me a bag of lemons and ushered me away.

My head felt like someone was dancing on it. I returned to the agency to eat a lemon and rest before driving home, but the pounding was furious, a rapid fire of drumbeats. I couldn’t sleep. I was miserable. Finally, I phoned Jared and spilled out my heart about today’s drinking.

“Ha!” he laughed aloud. “You’re drunk.” He smirked at me under his breath, “Isn’t this funny? My wife the nondrinker wants her alcoholic husband to pick her up.”

In between his hilarious laughter, he assured me he was on his way. I hung up and laid my head on the desk, closed my eyes and begged for sleep, but my head kept pounding.

After an hour and a half, Jared arrived. He held me close as we walked to the car. On the ride home, Jared told me that alcohol coupled with not eating goes straight to the head. He assured me that I would be all right as soon as I ate. He stopped at White Castle and ordered some cheeseburgers. At home, Jared helped me into bed and tucked me in. I promised him I would never criticize him about his drinking ever again and then drifted off to sleep.

Early the next morning I awoke and there was no more drumming on my head, but my eyes were still blurry. Jared drove me to the eye doctor. I was immediately taken into the examination room. I explained about the blurriness. The doctor looked into my eyes and said, “My, my, my, someone had a fun party last night.” He immediately popped out my contacts and switched them around; placing the right lens over the right eye and the left lens over the left eye. Just as quickly as my blurriness disappeared, so did the shoes I was saving for when the doctor said, “That will be seventy-five dollars, please.”

I went home, pulled my Bible off the shelf, and sat alone quietly at the kitchen table reading Psalms. I reflected on this verse: “Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty” (Psalm 91:1).

My real issue became abundantly clear. I had sabotaged myself under the false belief that I needed approval from my co-workers. So, did my colleagues accept me? Of course not! They had not seen the real me. I had buried myself with alcoholic beverages. My colleagues had seen a lie, a misrepresentation of myself all because I hadn’t accepted myself. I was a frightened young lady, so fearful of being worthy, of graduating to a life of adult responsibilities; a life I had no previous experience with. My self-esteem was so low; I craved approval from a bunch of strangers. All my insecurities had been on display for them to see.

It was ironic that I inflicted all this suffering on myself to avoid rejection. Yet, I had rejected the most important person in the world—myself! I realized I had no power; God was my source, and He made me perfect the way I am. I didn’t need to drink to fit in. Some people drink and some do not. We are “His treasured possession,” says Deuteronomy 7:6. Learning to forgive and to accept one’s self is the greatest compliment or gift an individual can give to their Creator.

Reflection: Go within and ACCEPT YOURSELF...therein lies your power. To accept yourself is to honor God. He made us for his purpose.

Try God

“Heh...heh…” is the crying sound that jolts me awake. I struggle, using my mouth, elbows, and hips to remove my sheet; and then, leaning on the headboard, I manage to stand.

“Neh...neh…neh,” my three-month-old baby begins a hysterical cry.

“Move, leg, move!” I shout, dragging one foot at a time. I limp as quickly as I can toward her crib on the opposite side of the room. Fifteen minutes later, I reach my beautiful baby girl. I look into her tear-filled brown eyes and whisper, “I love you.”

At the tender age of twenty-six, I had given birth to my first child. My health was failing due to rheumatoid arthritis. Even though I took one medication after another, the doctors had given me no hope. My feet were swollen to the size of bowling balls.

I spent every day in excruciating pain, and relentless hours pleading, negotiating, and praying, “Lord, please remove this dreaded disease from my body. My baby needs me.” I believed my daily pain would have to leave me some way. The more I thought of my daughter, the more I had to believe there was a prescription for change. In the midst of my thoughts came a knock at the door. I didn’t answer it, hoping they would go away. The knocking continued, so finally I responded, “Who is it?”

“Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

My impulse was to tell her to go away. Instead I found myself saying, “Wait a minute. I’ll be right there.” It took me a long while to drag my feet to the door. I held the door ajar and there stood a well-groomed, middle-aged woman with an attaché case in her hand.

“Hi, my name is Helen. I am a Jehovah’s Witness, and I was sent to your neighborhood to talk to you about the things of God. May I come in?” She had such a jubilant manner, if it had been any other Jehovah’s Witness I would have declined. Her smile and cheerful introduction put me at ease.

“Come in and have a seat. I’m Diane,” I said.

“You have a very lovely home,” she remarked moving through the front door. I nodded with appreciation. As I closed the door and slowly limped to the living room, Helen’s eyes followed me. When our eyes met, she inquired about my limp.

“I don’t mean to be nosy, Diane, but it took you quite a while to answer the door. What’s wrong, honey?”

“Rheumatoid arthritis,” I responded.

Helen walked over, put her hands on mine, and, looking into my eyes, replied, “God is a healer, and He heals His people.” I sighed deeply before I ticked off the long list of remedies I had tried and the disease had only exacerbated.

“Have you tried God?”

I stuttered. “Um…”

“Do you know the Lord, Diane?”

“No.”

“Would you like to know the Lord?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“I can teach you about God and His healing power.” Helen had my full attention. I listened intently, hanging on to every word she spoke. “God can deliver you from this dreaded disease called arthritis.”

Helen gave me a brief overview of the Old and New Testaments, telling me to focus on the New Testament because it gives an account of God’s healing power demonstrated in the healing scriptures.

“I can’t tell you when God will heal you, but He will do it. But you too are going to have to believe Him, that is why it is important for you to read the Bible daily. Pray every day and ask God for guidance.” She left her phone number, reminding me that I could call her at any time for any reason.

I agreed to meet with her twice a week and started to read the Bible daily. Several weeks went by and subtle changes appeared. The weight of worry and doubt lifted. A joyous feeling lived in my soul. My whining and self-pity lifted. I had an abundance of energy. I forgot a disease was living inside me except when I wanted to use my arms and legs. As time passed, it became effortless to follow the map Helen had outlined.

Soon though, I became so desperate for a cure I considered treatments that were a little off the radar. I heard about an alternative health care facility called Heal Thyself Nutrition Center. I made an appointment and drove over, wondering what I was getting myself into. After filling out paperwork with the receptionist, I was escorted to the office of Ted the nutritionist, and I sat down opposite him. Immediately he began waving a long chain with a charm on it back and forth across my face. He chanted softly, “Relax, relax.” I did my best to cooperate, but I must admit that I was thinking, This guy is a quack! Still, I was desperate, so there I sat as Ted waved the charm before me and chanted, “Relax, relax, relax…”

I began to slip into some kind of trance. In that tranquil state, I heard Ted’s gentle voice describing how my blood, colon, joints, cartilage, minerals, and immune and digestive systems combined to produce disease in my imbalanced body.

“Your body can be put back in balance, but only you can do it,” he said softly, looking deep into my eyes. “Diane, this is the prescription you will follow for the next twenty-one days,” he said. “First, make and drink raw fruit and vegetable juices.” As he spoke, I viewed the list of fresh juices—spinach, wheatgrass, collard greens and carrots—each combination sounded more disgusting and inedible than the last. I tried to refrain from grimacing.

Ted continued the outline of my daily treatment routine. I was commissioned to pray, read the Bible, and meditate for thirty minutes between four and five in the morning. Next, I was told to drink a vile concoction of hot water, garlic, cayenne pepper, and olive oil. Then I had to exercise, practicing yoga and deep breathing.

Ted said, “It is each individual’s responsibility to access God’s healing power. Here at the center we do that by teaching our participants three steps using the holistic approach—we seek to cleanse the body, the mind, and the spirit.”

The diet, meditation, and prayer seemed completely unreasonable to me. “How could prayer and meditation fix my arthritis?” I asked in disbelief, “You want me to believe that God and juices are going to heal me?”

Ted smiled and nodded.

“Why can’t I eat produce?” I asked. “I’d much rather eat collard greens than drink them.”

“Two basic reasons,” Ted replied. “First, the body needs a lot of nutrients when it is out of balance. In addition, liquid reaches the bloodstream expeditiously, flushing out the toxins. The quicker we excrete the poisons, the sooner we rebuild the body and renew the mind and spirit, bringing the integral parts into harmony and becoming healthy, whole, and complete.”

I was still skeptical. “All that sounds well and good,” I said, “but…but…I’m used to eating and I don’t know God that well. I’m scared I’ll die. I have to eat!”

“Trust God and not only will you be alive, you will be living in a healthy body,” Ted said.

During my orientation I learned that food was not the only thing of which I would be deprived. There would be no television and no radio, except the spiritual, faith-oriented and inspirational messages; no telephone calls, except in the case of emergencies; and no visitors.

“Let’s start your healing process now. The longer you wait, the longer it will take you to be healed, and I know you want to be out of this pain and agony,” Ted said.

My inner voice said, “Try God and do it now.”

Every day I prayed, “God, is this what you really want me to do? If it is…help!” Attending my weekly seminars, I was constantly reminded to embrace God—I visited him in nature by going to the beach, listening to the ocean, and going to the mountains for long walks and solitude.

I followed this program tenaciously; I did everything Ted asked, including drinking bitter herbal teas. The first day was fine. The second day I was very hungry—water became my meal between juices. By the fourth day, the hunger was unbearable. I prayed and asked God to take the hunger away. To my surprise, the hunger disappeared almost immediately.

I didn’t recognize myself for those first six days. The exhaustion, frustration, and irritation turned me into a short-tempered, raging woman that even I didn’t want to tolerate. By the seventh day, though, I noticed that I was beginning to be energized. As the days passed, I noticed that people were constantly giving me compliments on my skin, hair, nails, and attitude.

After the twenty-first day, the swelling, pain, and stiffness in my feet and legs had abated only slightly. Unexpectedly, my perspective changed, and I no longer reacted to my situation in the same way. When people said or made negative comments, it did not affect me. The ladies at work used to tease me about my orthopedic shoes. “Those shoes must bring you comfort ‘cause they sure don’t bring you beauty.” These comments used to hurt so much that I’d find myself crying in the bathroom, wanting to hurt them back so much that I would avoid them for the rest of the day. But after my twenty-first day in his program, their words just rolled off my back. During my time with God, I learned to focus on what God saw; He saw their heart instead of their appearance. I Samuel 16:7 says, “But the LORD said to Samuel, ‘Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The LORD does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.’”

I knew a complete healing would come eventually even if my symptoms didn’t fully leave me. In the meantime, I had changed. I had an unyielding zest for life. I experienced an abundance of peace, joy, and happiness. I felt as though God was my unconditional friend, I floated in His love all day long. I had developed my first relationship with God. People were drawn to me like a magnet, eager to be my friend. Everywhere I went, people would approach me, complimenting me and commenting on my radiance, my serenity. They wanted to befriend me. They asked me what was I doing, and I would share my experience.

My faith was unshakable. I believed I was in paradise, living a life of total bliss.

I embraced my new lifestyle wholeheartedly. I sustained the path I’d set out on. I increased my Scripture reading, and Helen came over more frequently. At the end of a year, Helen became persistent I become a Jehovah’s Witness. I declined and our spiritual relationship began to dissipate, but our friendship was enhanced. Helen felt my biggest miracle was the day I decided to join Marble Collegiate Church.

Speaking of miracles—I got a few I hadn’t thought to ask for. The animosity I had felt toward my employers evaporated. My boss promoted me to a leadership role, which afforded me the opportunity to implement and design projects from inception to completion. I quit two of my three jobs, but I experienced a supernatural financial increase. Money was showing up from both known and unknown sources. I was able to begin giving financial gifts to charitable organizations.

I experienced almost constant physical and emotional pleasure, and the feeling was truly phenomenal. Most importantly, my faith was stronger than ever.

Approximately two years later, I was jumping off the bed as if I were sixteen years old again. I felt like a spring chicken. There was no ache, no pain, no swelling, no stiffness, and no fatigue. I was so happy I cried a river of joyful tears.

I walked into the office one day and Andrea, my co-worker and friend, stopped in her tracks, looked at me with her eyes stretched to capacity, and dropped her folder to the floor. She was shaking her finger as she pointed at my feet.

“Oh my God, you’re wearing heels!” Andrea burst out vociferously. “Your beauty is astounding…are you cheating on your husband?”

“Absolutely not!”

“I haven’t seen you look this great since…since…never! Please, tell me what you’re doing. I want some!”

“Try God.”

Andrea had an inquisitive look on her face, so I briefly explained about my transformation.

“Stop!” she interrupted. “You’re crazy. For twenty-one days you had no solid food and you didn’t die? You got lucky. Don’t try that crap again,” she lectured on and on.

I finally understood why the nutritionist said, “Go and tell no one.” But I knew Andrea was saying these things out of love, so I invited her out for lunch that afternoon.

I practiced my spirituality and diet for twelve years and I was symptom-free. My arthritis was in remission and my joints were agile. I had no pain, I felt strong and energized, and I was glowing.

Then one day, I relocated to California. Shortly after, my sisters moved in and began preparing the same food we ate growing up: lots of beef, pork, and fried chicken. Little by little I began eating with them. I had completely given up eating fast food, but I found myself consuming much more of their food than I needed. They teased me about my juices and my diet, which was seafood, small amounts of poultry, and a lot of raw salads. They called my food bland.

My sisters, who are a lot younger than I am, would go out at night while I stayed home. When they returned we had long conversations. It was not long before my bedtime became later and later and my rituals of praying, mediating, and Bible reading became less and less. I began to let days go by without doing yoga, which stretched my joints and kept them flexible. Instead I joined the gym. I started doing aerobics, which added stress and weakened my joints. I did not swim nor did I take my usual dance classes to stretch.

I actually believed that the disease had been healed and would never return. My television and social life changed. I began talking on the phone for hours, trying to help my friends solve their problems. I had one friend who was constantly telling me her troubles; she was always depressed. I thought I was helping by being available any time she wanted to talk. Sometimes we would chat on the phone until it was time for me to go to work and drop the girls at school. Now I was sleep deprived and nutritionally deprived. My church attendance took a drastic decline. I rested in bed instead of in God’s presence.

I reverted to my old habits and my old lifestyle, and the old aches and pains came back with it. Immediately I ran for the juices, but didn’t return to the Heal Thyself Nutrition Center because I had relocated across the country. Without the spiritual guidance from the center, the nutritional diet did not help me. At the time I did not realize this was a big mistake. I soon learned whether you know it or not, mistakes can change your life. I really did not know I needed to continue eating the bland food, juices, practicing the presence of God, and working out in order to keep my healing. The doctors said I was in remission. Sometimes you stay in remission the rest of your life, and for others it is only a short while.

There are many prescriptions for altering people’s health. For some it is medication, and for others it is surgery. For me it was a holistic lifestyle. Regardless of the medication or regimen, once you have accepted your “prescription for change” and it has changed your situation, stay with it forever. “Ambition is the path to success. Persistence is the vehicle you arrive in,” says Bill Bradley, a retired NBA coach. I’m hoping people can learn from my experience without making the same mistakes I did.

Reflection: Go within and TRY GOD...therein lies your power. Seek God first. Let Him guide your path to healing—He can make you whole.

Texas to California

I had been feeling adventurous for many years. I lived in New York, and I loved living in New York, but it was the only place I had ever lived. I wanted to experience life somewhere else, specifically the West Coast—California was my hoped-for destination.

I discussed my desire to move to California with my then-husband, and he disagreed. His arguments made sense, but the idea remained in my mind. I kept believing that one day I would get the opportunity to experience life in California.

In 1987 the marriage problems my husband and I had been having finally resulted in separation. I took our separation as my opportunity to explore a new life. Although my inner compass was guiding me to California, I opted for Texas. It seemed more affordable, and I had a friend and a relative who resided there. I shared my plans with my mother, and she assured me that she would take care of my girls for one school year while I adjusted to my new environment.

At Dallas Fort Worth International Airport, I scanned the room for a curly-headed, light-complexioned, medium-built lady named Fanny. She was a personal friend of one of my closest friends, and we had spoken on the phone a couple of times. She had agreed to have me as her roommate for several months until I got settled. She promised she would show me around Texas, assist with my job search, and introduce me to some people. Finally I spotted Fanny, wearing denim shorts and a matching ice-blue shell. I nearly ran over to her, eager for my new life in Texas to begin.

On the drive to her home in Oak Cliff, Fanny kept reminding me that she needed me to pay my share of the rent on time, every month. I assured her it would not be a problem. She probed further. “How are you going to get around? I hope you know I can’t take you,” she said.

“I’m not expecting that of you,” I told her. She’d made the fact quite clear during one of our phone conversations, anyway. But I repeated my plans for getting around. “I’ll take the bus, a cab, carpool, or walk.”

“What?” she barked. “This is not New York! Public transportation is terrible! I told you that on the phone, Diane... Don’t think I’m going to pity you and let you drive my car.”

“Why are you acting so paranoid?” I was bewildered.

“I’m sorry, Diane. My boyfriend and I broke up last night,” she explained. “And my last roommate stiffed me.”

“They betrayed you, not me.”

Fanny smiled at my gentle reminder, and began pointing out sights and landmarks, mentioning the differences between New York and Texas. The architecture astounded and enthralled me. The tall buildings, the houses, and the beautiful landscape were all creatively designed.

Finally we approached Oak Cliff, composed of small homes, trailer parks, and numerous apartment buildings. She pointed out local shops, bus stops, the supermarket, and the library.

As we pulled into the carport, I noticed a tall, handsome man walking toward the car. Fanny introduced him as Pete, her neighbor. He offered to carry my bags and assured me I could call on him if I ever needed anything. I thanked him and he left.

Fanny had to run some errands and then she was off to work. She worked the graveyard shift and wouldn’t return until eight the next morning. A bit leery of Fanny’s moods, I didn’t unpack too many things. I went for a walk instead, and when I spotted a church in service I stopped in.

After the sermon, I went back to the apartment. Once again, a small inner voice was uttering, “It’s time to move to California.”

Around nine that morning, Fanny charged through the door with a bundle of newspapers under her arms. I was in the kitchen looking through the phone directory while I sipped my herbal tea. Fanny stormed toward me and gave me a cold stare.

“Aha! You’re not looking for work!” She spat out her chiding words quickly, like she was in a hurry to get them over with. “My boyfriend is moving in tonight. I need you out by one this afternoon. You claim you have money, so getting a place should be no problem.” She pushed the directory I’d been perusing away from me and slid the newspapers in its place. Swallowing my last sip of tea, I picked up the directory and put it back in the drawer.

I walked over to my purse and pulled out some crisp new bills. “I was waiting for you to come home,” I told her. “Thank you for picking me up at the airport and giving me a place to stay last night. I prorated the rent, and I hope this small token is enough to cover some of your expenses.” I smiled as I placed the money in her hand. Fanny’s posture changed as she watched me walk toward the front door.

“Wait,” she shouted. “I’ll help you move. That’s the least I can do.”

I paused and looked her in the eyes. “God woke me up this morning and told me that today was moving day. I went through the directory and made a few appointments with a couple of realtors, and your friend Pete packed my bags in his truck.” Fanny was like a stone statue, standing there with her feet cemented to the floor, her eyelids drooping and her bottom lip hanging.

“Pat said you live by faith,” she mumbled. “Is this what she meant?”

Lovingly, I bade Fanny goodbye.

I moved into a lovely one-bedroom apartment in the suburbs of Dallas and I flew back to New York, picked up my daughters, and we all returned to Texas. After enrolling the girls in school, my attention focused on employment. I opened a 24-hour day care.

One morning, I was driving my New York car on the interstate and glanced over at the man in the lane next to me. He yelled out his car window, “N*****, go back to New York!” I was stunned. I had never had racial epithets shouted at me by a stranger without any apparent reason. The number of racial outbursts I experienced mounted. One night someone wrote the words in bold letters on my car: “N*****, GO BACK TO NEW YORK.” I wasn’t gripped by fear, just concern and uncertainty. My continuous discomfort fuelled my doubts about living in Texas.

But I’d also made several friends, and my day care business was booming. Yet my uneasiness lingered. The small voice was getting louder, and it kept telling me to trust God and move to California. Finally, I surrendered and a peace came over me. I gave the parents of my day care a two weeks notice and phoned my mother to update her on my plans.

I had a furniture sale, packed, shipped my valuables back to New York, picked up my mother at the airport, and mapped my route to California. Arriving in California a couple weeks later, we rested for a day before I drove my girls and their grandmother to LAX. I kissed them, and waved goodbye as they embarked on their flight back to New York, where my girls would be staying with their grandmother while I adjusted in California.

I drove to Inglewood, where my friend from college had invited me to stay with him and his family until I found my own place to live. I found employment immediately. I felt like a fool for having trusted my will instead of the Lord, my inner compass, who has never led me astray.

Reflection: Go within and FOLLOW YOUR GUIDE...therein lies your power. Your inner guide is the road map God gives you for your victory.

Touch with Caution

It was Friday. As a supervisor at a boys’ group home, my last task before the weekend began was to give out the allotted allowances. I hurried through the process of having each boy come through my office to pick up his cash so I could leave on time for the girl’s night out my friends and I had planned.

Although I stood just over five feet tall and weighed 105 pounds, I generally held the boys’ respect in group settings. Still I was a little nervous. Many of the boys had been bouncing around from foster home to foster home most of their lives. Now that they were teenagers and had been involved in petty crime, drugs, and gangs, foster families were no longer an option. They were referred to our group home where they were being prepared for emancipation.

To add to my anxiety, my co-worker, Rob, had called in sick, so it really was just the boys and me. Pulling out the books and the cash box, I began to call the boys through. I was down to the last one on the list and so far everything had been going well: They came in, I handed them their money, and they left. My mind was focused on my dinner plans. And then in walked Andy.

Although Andy was only thirteen, he weighed more than 215 pounds, and stood approximately six foot seven. But this was one kid I didn’t have to worry about—or at least that’s what I thought.

The other guys in the home constantly teased Andy because of his size—small head, huge chest, thick hips, and bird legs. They scoffed at his indolence. Andy’s butt imprint was permanently stamped on the left side of the living room couch, where he spent most of his free time watching television and eating junk food. If the remote control was just a few inches out of his reach, he would ask someone to pass it to him rather than move.

While Andy’s therapists had documented his serious psychiatric problems, he was well behaved and usually followed the rules. The staff, including me, would go the extra mile for him. We gave him an abundance of time and attention.

He was still afraid of the dark, and sleeping was a monumental challenge for him. Many nights Rob or I would read him a bedtime story and give him a special night-light and warm milk to lull him to sleep. A back rub was also sure to do the trick. I had discovered he responded favorably to touch. Although we attended to his physical needs, we were most concerned with his isolation from his peers.

Whenever the staff decided to take the fellows on excursions, everyone participated in the planning except Andy. He never had a suggestion or a request. The only reason he went on trips was because of the rule that no child could be at the home alone. Andy never complained. He found a seat, usually next to me, and watched the others, just as he did when the boys played sports. On weekends when the boys were given passes to leave the facility, Andy never used his. He didn’t have any friends, and his family never visited; the staff was his only social outlet. We spent our weekends engaging him in games, jokes, television, and conversation. In spite of his movement away from the other boys, the staff was unwilling to give up, unwilling to let him continue to be disconnected from boys his age. Whenever there was a new admittance, we would try to employ Andy as his buddy. The result was fruitless; Andy would inevitably retreat within himself.

On this day, when Andy walked in and sat down with a silly grin on his face, I knew things weren’t going to run as smoothly as I had hoped. While it was usually a struggle to get two words out of any of these boys, Andy started off the conversation by complimenting my dress and asking me if I had a date that night. With a quick response, I gave Andy his allowance. He looked into his hand and counted the money. “Mrs. Williams, where is the rest of my money?” he asked.

I explained, “You broke Jeff’s fishbowl, and the rule is you must pay back ten percent of your allowance until the property is paid off. You owe five dollars more, so we will deduct ten percent until that five dollars is paid.”

His demeanor changed. He stood up, slammed his hand on the desk, and yelled, “You will give me all my allowance!” He banged the desk again.

“Calm down, Andy,” I said. “You know the rules.”

“I don’t give a damn about any rules. I want my money!” He pushed over the filing cabinet, making the papers fly out.

I stood up, astonished. Fear gripped me. This wasn’t the Andy I knew—I had never heard him swear before. I took one step toward the door. Andy leaped in front of me, slammed the door shut and locked it. He threw the desk over and demanded his allowance.

Attempting to keep my composure, I said in a quivering voice, “Andy, let me call Dr. Bell. He sets the criteria for our house. If you want the rule changed, I would like you to speak to him.”

He ripped the phone out of the wall and threw it across the room. “Give me my money!” He locked the windows. “You will not leave this room until you give me all my money!”

I heard the Holy Spirit whisper, “Touch him.”

I wanted to touch him. As a matter of fact, I wanted to annihilate this belligerent juvenile delinquent. As he towered over me in my locked office, all I could do was pray, but a persistent gumption prompted me to massage his shoulders as I had done so many nights prior. Reluctantly, I touched Andy’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” he said gently, but didn’t pull away.

The Spirit reiterated, “Touch him.” My heart melted and I was overwhelmed by tremendous compassion. Somehow I managed to face him, look him squarely in his eyes and placed both hands on his neck; his muscles were tight. Slowly circling his body, I made slow even circles from right to left on his shoulder, and then let my hands glide down his back as I continued to stroke, press, and massage deeper.

“Mrs. Williams, don’t touch me. You cheated on me!” Startled, I dropped my hands to my sides, turned to stare directly into his face. He went on, in a trembling voice, “I thought you liked me. I thought I was special to you. It was all a lie!” He kicked the papers on the floor. “I don’t like it when you massage the other kids. I hate it when you touch them, especially Paul. Every night you read Paul a story and massage him until he falls asleep. That’s not fair! You told me I’m your special young man…and now you treat everyone else just like me.”

Shuddering, I backed away, confused. It was true. The signs were there, but I had ignored them. Scenes flashed through my mind of him putting his arms around my shoulder, not slapping it on like the other kids, but gently. He would rub my shoulder and say how he would protect me. I had ignored it. I didn’t think that it would come down to this. I should have dealt with this before the situation escalated, but now I had to face it. My stomach knotted. How had I allowed him to get so attached and so hurt?

Trying to relax, I pictured myself sitting down at my desk and calmly working it out—if not now, then never. Andy was no longer the monster that had torn apart my office; he was a bruised child. Still, I couldn’t gain my composure; I was too frightened even to pray. Fear took control of me as I ran past Andy, who was now innocently weeping, and out the door. I made the call and he was taken away.

I cancelled on my friends that night. I was convinced that the misunderstanding had hurt him so deeply. Instead of going out, I began to educate myself on how to handle this type of situation—how to respond to a kid who misconstrued agape love for eros love. While agape love is powerful, dynamic, selfless, and sexless; eros love involves passionate, sensual longing. I learned how important it is to distinguish between the two loves by setting parameters.

I called a meeting with my staff to discuss the issue and set up a “rap session” with the boys to air the subject in an attempt to eliminate misunderstandings and avoid future situations.

I will never forget that day. I will never forget Andy. I never saw him again, and I cannot help but wish on that day, in my office, I had had the knowledge and the courage to sit down with him and counsel him, to bring him some kind of closure.

Reflection: Go within and SET BOUNDARIES…therein lies your power. Even selfless love needs boundaries. God sets boundaries to protect us. Therefore, we need to set boundaries in order to protect ourselves as well as others.

Pray and Get Out of God’s Way

With immense trepidation, I parked myself at my kitchen table, hunkering over the checkbook at my right hand and miserably staring at a stack of bills at my left. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t figure out how to pay my monthly expenses with money I didn’t have. That would require a miracle worker—and I certainly wasn’t one of those. In reality, I was $300 short—the rent was due on Monday and with a sinking feeling I realized today was Wednesday. Things looked bleak.

Then a wonderful thought came to me. Some months earlier my friend Bill had been going through a real rough patch financially. I had been doing okay at the moment so I happily loaned him $500. I trusted that he was good for it and had never mentioned it again. I knew he would repay me when he could. I also knew that things had been going a little better for him recently, so maybe he could repay me. The $500 would pay the rent and help with a few of my other bills. It would be like manna falling from heaven.

I dialed Bill’s number immediately, thrilled that my worries might soon be over. With a cracking voice he managed to answer, “Hello?” I instantly knew something was wrong.

“Bill, it’s Diane.”

He sighed. “I got a phone call earlier this morning. My mother passed away in the night.”

“Oh, Bill,” I said, “I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I was just packing. I have to catch a plane this afternoon.”

I said, “I should let you go.”

Bill asked, “Why’d you call? Did you need something?”

I couldn’t ask for the money, not now. “I just called to say hello. I was just thinking about you, that’s all. I’m so very, very sorry for the loss of your mother. I know how much you loved her.”

“Thank you, Diane,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “I’ll talk with you when I get home in a few days.”

I was about to hang up when he said, “Diane?”

“Yes?”

“Could you call Joan for me?” he said. “Please ask her to pray for me and my family as we go through this trial.”

“I will,” I said. “Take care, Bill.”

I hung up. “His mom is dead! My bank account is dead!” I said aloud. I popped out of my seat, ran to my bed and beat my pillow. Not only was I defeated but also guilt ridden, I felt less than a penny about focusing on my own needs while Bill was going through this awful sadness. But facts are facts—and that rent deadline drew ever closer.

I looked up Joan’s number. Bill had good reasons to want me to speak with her. Among my friends no one better understood the power of prayer than Joan. Frequently people who had gone to her for guidance, shared their life changing ways—long lost spouses uniting with the family, addicts winning over their addictions, and many other life changing miracles. After I passed on to her Bill’s prayer request, which she promised to fulfill, I explained my own dilemma. Before I knew it, we had talked for more than a half an hour.

“Tell me about your own prayer experience,” Joan said.

I didn’t know exactly how to respond. I had long been a Christian and of course I prayed now and then—doesn’t everybody? But prayer experience—I wasn’t really sure what she meant by that.

Joan said, “Prayer isn’t just something we do at bedtime—asking God to bless our family members, or hoping to get a raise at work, or a better grade at school—it’s a dialogue with God to ask him to invoke his power into us so that our situations can change. So our lives can change. Prayer establishes the plan of God. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” I said, but I really didn’t.

Joan continued. “Our prayers are most effective when we pray and get out of God’s way,” she said. I thought hard about that. I wanted what she had. I listened closely, willing to do whatever she said so that I too could have this personal ongoing encounter with God. As she continued to describe her process of effective scriptural prayer, I began jotting down notes. I was going to follow her instructions to the tiniest detail.

Just before ending our call, Joan assured me again that she would pray for Bill and his family in their dark hour. Then she told me to get started with my new prayer knowledge. I hung up after promising her that I would and thanking her sincerely for her help.

I walked out to the patio with my Bible, incense, and a candle. I set up my prayer shrine and immediately began putting the process into effect. I felt like Nehemiah, coming to the Lord after a long hiatus from my Christian disciplines. The prophet prayed, “Let your ear be attentive and your eyes open to hear the prayer your servant is praying before you day and night for your servants, the people of Israel. I confess the sins we Israelites, including myself and my father’s family, have committed against you” (Nehemiah 1:6).

I wasn’t sure how to start this conversation with God, so I decided just to be honest about my troubles. “Lord,” I prayed, “Although I’ve attended church for many years, I have to admit, I haven’t developed a relationship with you. I just sit in the pew, sometimes listening and other times napping. I feel a bit guilty coming to you, not knowing you, yet expecting you to favorably respond to my needs, but you are the only one I can turn to. Please help me draw closer to you. I need your help now.”

Tears began to flow as the words poured from my mouth, releasing the guilt from my heart. As I prayed, the Lord increased my boldness. I was transformed through prayer, just as Nehemiah had been. Nehemiah 1:11 tells us, “Lord, let your ears be attentive to the prayer of your servant and to the prayer of your servants who delight in revering your name.” I thought of another verse—one that seemed especially pertinent under the circumstances: “So I say to you: Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you” (Luke 11:9).

I looked it up in my Bible and read that verse over and over. Feeling desperate, I asked, begged, and pleaded with God to find me a job. I had to make at least $300 to pay my rent by Monday. I had exactly five days.

The sudden ringing of the phone startled me. It was the secretary from a temporary agency. She gave me an assignment that would earn me a hundred dollars before the end of the week. I was delighted and amazed at the promptness of God’s response. After hanging up the phone I said a quick prayer, “Thank you, Lord, for the hundred dollars. I need another assignment for two hundred more.” Deciding to give God a helping hand, I took out a stack of business cards from various agencies that might have work for me to do. One by one, I phoned them all, asking if there were any positions open, but they all had the same answer—there was nothing available.

I wasn’t quite sure what to do next. In order to keep moving more than anything else, I decided to run a few errands. My first stop was the supermarket where I proceeded to the produce aisle and grabbed a few bunches of bananas, some grapes, and a bag of apples. While I was waiting in line, a young lady walked up behind me.

“You seem to be in a good mood,” she said.

I almost laughed out loud. “Far from it,” I said. “But I’m making the best of it.”

She held out her hand. “I’m Edna,” she said.

I shook it. “I’m Diane. It’s nice to meet you.”

We continued to chat as we moved through the checkout line, out the front door, and into the parking lot.

“Well, it’s been nice talking with you, Diane,” Edna said. “I’ve got to walk down a couple of blocks to the bus stop.”

“You don’t have a car?” I asked. “Let me give you a lift home.”

“I’d hate to be a bother,” Edna said.

“Don’t be silly,” I replied. “I’d be delighted.”

Thanking me, she put her bag of groceries into the backseat and slid into the passenger seat. Just as I started to pull out of the supermarket parking lot, I noticed that the gas gauge was pointing perilously close to empty.

“Oops,” I said. “I’d better stop and get some gas or neither one of us is going to get home anytime soon.”

Edna laughed and said, “Well, I can show you where all the bus stops are.”

Luckily, within a few blocks I spotted the gas station. I unfastened my seat belt and was getting out of the car when Edna touched my arm. “Take this money and add it to the gas bill,” she said.

“Oh, please,” I said. “There is absolutely no reason for you to do that, but thank you anyway.”

“Stop being proud and take the money,” she gently insisted.

We looked at each other for a long moment and then we both laughed. I hadn’t told her about my financial problems, but somehow she seemed to sense them.

“All right then,” I said. “Thank you very, very much.”

I pumped just enough gas to get me through the next couple of days and then strolled over to the cashier. There I unrolled the money Edna had given me. I stared at it in shock. In my hand I held a five-dollar bill—and a hundred-dollar bill!

I scurried back to the car and held the hundred-dollar bill out to Edna. “You obviously gave me the wrong bill,” I said.

She smiled and said, “No, I didn’t. God told me to give it to you, so keep it.”

I was awestruck into silence, and didn’t question her anymore. The entire trip to Edna’s house, we talked about God. Before we parted, we exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep in touch. Driving away, I felt as if I had been visited by an angel.

I praised and thanked the Lord all the way home. I was reminded of Daniel when he praised the Lord for answered prayer saying, “I thank and praise you, O God of my ancestors: You have given me wisdom and power, you have made known to me what we asked of you, you have made known to us the dream of the king” (Daniel 2:23). I praised the Lord in this instance, but not just for His glorious attributes. I praised Him not just because He is Lord and deserving of all honor, but I praised Him that day for answering my prayer. I was gracious. Psalm 9:11 commands us to “Sing praises of the Lord, enthroned in Zion; proclaim among the nations what He has done.” I was praising the Lord for what He had provided.

When I entered my apartment, my roommate, Shari, was sitting in the living room watching television. She muted the TV.

“Well, what are you so happy about?” she asked.

“You won’t believe it,” I said and eagerly told her about my new friend Edna.

Shari’s eyes opened wide and her mouth dropped open. “Girl,” she said, “stop lying.”

I took the bill out of my purse and showed it to her. She examined the bill closely.

“This is real,” she said. “Wait a minute, is that really the way it happened?

I nodded, grinning.

Shari leapt off the couch and ran toward her bedroom.

“Where are you going?” I called out.

She said, “I’ve got to get my car keys and my purse and get over to Ranch Market to see if God told somebody to give me a hundred dollars.”

Nearly all day Thursday, I was on my knees praying, petitioning God to let one of the agencies call to give me work, but the phone didn’t ring. By Friday morning, I was rationalizing and making promises to God. “If you help me this time, I promise I will stop worrying.”

I called Joan. “God didn’t answer my prayer and I did exactly what you told me to do,” I said. “I guess the process only works for you or other believers. God doesn’t like me, a lukewarm believer.”

Joan said, “God is hiding from you.”

I said, “Why in the world would He do that?”

“He hides so you may seek Him,” Joan said. “The more you seek God, the closer you draw to Him. Diane, God shows His face through scripture. You must approach each scripture full-heartedly.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon reading through scriptures, trying my best to do as Joan advised. Then I looked at the clock and noticed that it was past five. No calls. And now, no one was going to call.

I phoned Joan again. “Joan,” I said, “I’m following the process, but…but…”

“But what?” Joan asked.

I said, “It’s after five and the agencies are closed.”

“What agencies?” Joan asked, sounding rather perplexed.

I explained what I had been doing for the last couple of days and she chuckled. “Honey,” Joan said, “you asked God for $300 to pay your rent on Monday. Remember the most important part of the process is to ‘Pray and get out of God’s way.’ He doesn’t need you to tell Him how to solve the problem.”

“But I was just doing everything I could to help things along,” I said.

“I think it’s apparent that your trust is in the agencies,” Joan said. “You believe that’s your source. No, no, no, honey—God is your source and the agency is only the vehicle if God so chooses.”

She continued. “Do you remember Proverbs 3:5-6? We are promised, ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.’ Whenever your mind brings the problems to the surface, saturate it with scripture. It changes your heart. Thus, quote them consistently until they are etched in your mind, permeated within your heart, and convicted in your soul.”

I hung up the phone and drifted off to sleep meditating on Romans 12:2: “Do not conform to the pattern of this world but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—His good, pleasing and perfect will.”

Bright and early Sunday morning I awoke feeling extremely energized. I sprang out of bed and dashed to the track field. The morning air was cool and the sun felt good on me as I jogged around the track, praying and worshiping. Edna and I had arranged to go to church together, so after my run, I showered and dressed and headed for her place, arriving there at a quarter after ten. We spent the whole day together at church, attending the morning, afternoon and evening services. I prayed, meditated on the scriptures, listened to the sermons, sang the hymns, and tried not to worry about losing my apartment for not paying rent.

Late in the evening, I dropped Edna off and went directly home. As I pulled into the driveway, I glanced at the illuminated clock on my dashboard. It was 11:45. I had $200 and I needed one hundred more by the deadline—tomorrow morning.

I was distraught by discouragement and worry, but I repeated my reassurance scriptures, and gradually they washed the worry away from my mind. Thoughts of the sermons I had heard that day were penetrating my mind along with the scriptures. I thought back to my conversation with Joan. I did as she suggested. I repeatedly prayed and quoted scripture with earnest conviction, putting the word of God on my lips. I pondered for a brief moment and reflected on Joan’s explanation of forgiveness, which was vivid in my mind. I could almost hear her voice as she explained, “If, by chance, your answer doesn’t come, examine your heart for grudges, ill will, malice, anger, resentfulness, bitterness, and unforgiveness because those negative emotions block your blessing. Cast them out!”

God tells us in Mark 11:25-26, “When you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive him, so that your Father in heaven may forgive you your sins.”

I sat in the car and asked God to help me forgive each and every individual who had disappointed me. I sat there for a long while. While praying for forgiveness, I felt a vivid sensation. It was as if a load was lifted off my back. Somehow I felt lighter, freer. Smiling to myself, I unfastened my seat belt and stepped out of my car experiencing the power of freedom for the first time in my life.

Approaching the front door, I noticed crumbled paper on the ground. I thought, This is odd. Both Shari and Gary are two of the most immaculate people I know. What is this trash doing here? I bent to pick it up, and I noticed the color green. It was five twenty-dollar bills.

I was stunned. Who dropped this money? I thought. I rushed into the house. Both of my roommates were still awake and in the living room.

“Did either of you drop any money outside?” I asked.

They both stared at me as if I’d grown another head.

“What are you talking about?” Gary said.

“Money!” I almost shrieked. “Did you drop any money outside?”

They both shook their heads. Each of them thought I had completely lost my mind.

“Are you sure?” I said.

Shari laughed, “Honey, if I’d lost any money, I’d remember it.”

I felt myself almost swelling with joy. I ran to the phone. Sure, it was late—but I had to call Joan.

Reflection: Go within and HUMBLE YOURSELF…therein lies your power. Know that God is your limitless source and He’s working for us. Pray and stay tuned for God’s unexpected provisions.

AH-CHOO!

Perspiration poured down my face—I’d just driven from New York to Los Angeles without any air conditioning. As a matter of fact, the engine, the transmission, the brakes—just about everything in this twelve-year-old wreck was barely working.

After seven months of navigating the LA freeways my automobile was in serious need of repair, actually replacement. However, I pulled into an auto shop and waited for the mechanic to check out my car, I prayed, “Lord, please let the price of the repairs be reasonable.”

About an hour later, the mechanic approached me with a serious look on his face. The estimate to repair the car into descent working order was $5000 for both parts and labor. I decided to leave; I needed to think.

Driving onto the freeway, I calculated my options: I could either use the $5000 for repairs or use it as a down payment for a new car. My mind shifted back to reality when my car started to slow down. A foul odor oozed from under the hood. No problem, I thought, it just needs more transmission fluid and I have plenty in the trunk. Turning on my hazard lights, I began to pull off the freeway. Because I was in the far left lane, it was difficult to get through the heavy traffic while the car moved slower and slower.

“God,” I yelled, “slow these cars down so I can get off the freeway!” Before I could finish my sentence it came to a halt, right there in the middle lane.

“Oh God, I’m sorry for yelling at you. Please forgive me,” I prayed.

I was scared and cried hysterically as I looked in the rearview mirror at the approaching traffic. Fear gripped me and I braced myself, reciting affirmations, “Believe and you’ll receive! Let go and let God! Keep the faith!”

Instantly, a gentle breeze encircled my body. The fear and anxiety dissipated from my mind. A powerful force was compelling me to move. Confused, I looked around but saw no one. As I reached for the door, I felt lifted out of the car and soon found myself on the shoulder of the road, far away from the car. As I wondered how I’d gotten there, a cable television truck slammed into my car, shoving it across two lanes, where it rammed into a pole not far from where I stood. My car’s rear end was crushed; oil and transmission fluid poured from the mess.

The driver jumped out of his truck. “Are you all right?” he asked. I assured him I was fine. “I am so sorry!” he said. “I didn’t see your car until I hit it. I tried to slow down, but I sneezed and my foot dropped heavier on the gas. I think I totaled it.” He walked around looking at my car, transfixed.

After exchanging information, he called the police to report the accident and a tow truck to pick up what was left of my car.

The cable truck driver commented, “Lady, I don’t mean to be rude, but I just smashed your car, and you are not screaming or yelling. Is there something wrong with you?” I shook my head no.

Then he asked, “So why are you so calm?”

“Why worry? It’s only a car,” I said. “I’m just glad I wasn’t in it when you hit it.”

The man shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and walked to his truck. Finally, the tow truck arrived and the driver took me home, leaving the remnants of my car in the driveway.

“Who knocked the heck out of your ride?” asked my roommate’s friend.

“A guy driving a cable television truck,” I replied.

“Thank God it was a cable company. They should have good insurance. You won’t have any problem being compensated for your car. Do you want me to take you to a rental car company?”

I looked at him, rather perplexed. “No,” I responded, “but I would be most appreciative if you would give me a ride to work tomorrow.”

He laughed. “You’re in California now, not in New York. Back there, if you have an accident, you can use public transportation to get to your job. Here in California, your vehicle is your only transportation. In other words, no vehicle, no work, no income. The cable company’s liability carrier will provide you with a rental car for as long as it takes them to settle your claim.”

I followed him to his car and an hour later I was driving a new Nissan. I found a telephone booth and called my friend, Edna.

“Where have you been?” she asked, sounding more than exasperated. “I’ve been calling you on and off all day long.”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I pick you up.”

Excitement thrummed through my veins. I felt a new life unfolding as I drove to Edna’s. I pulled the car to the curb as she watched from the front porch.

“Whose car are you driving? Where’s yours?”

“Can I answer one question before I go on to the next?” I asked, laughing. “To answer your first question, this is a rental car.”

“Rental car?” she repeated, still confused.

I retold the story of the accident, “Edna, I was so frightened. I was yelling to the other drivers for help, but car after car passed me by. Finally I yelled, ‘God, please help!’ and in that instant, the blessings began.”

Edna thoughtfully questioned, “Blessings?” then stated, “Yes, this is truly a blessing from God—to rescue you from the freeway and from that dilapidated old car. I hope you thanked the guy for sneezing!”

Reflection: Go within and SURRENDER…therein lies your power. Changing your perspective changes the situation. Now you are allowed to accept God’s will as the outcome.

Be Still…

California fit my imagined version of heaven. The beautiful palm trees, the vibrant flowers, the warm comfortable weather (I went swimming in January), the entrepreneurial spirit, the space, the wide freeways. My city was a convenient distance from the beaches, the mountains, the desert—I could be at any one of them in less than an hour.

But about seven months into living in Los Angeles, in the most spectacular state I have ever lived, I had to admit that I needed help.

I’d found myself strolling down the aisles at the library, not looking for anything in particular. I didn’t fool myself into believing that there was a book on those shelves that would solve my problems—I had too many of them. To me, it seemed I had more problems than the library had books. I wandered up and down the aisles, feeling as though I were about to burst into tears.

How had I gotten here? How had everything gone so terribly wrong?

It all started months earlier, on a freezing autumn morning in New York. I had been feeling restless for quite some time, and I knew I desperately needed a new direction in life. But where could I find it? I rolled out of bed, dropped to my knees, and prayed to my God for direction.

“Dear Lord,” I whispered, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go. I feel like my life has no purpose. But I know that’s not true. I know You have a plan for me—but please, God…can’t You tell me what that plan is?”

And He did. I felt the thought so clearly in my mind that it almost seemed as if I’d heard God speak the words aloud: “It’s time to move to California.”

This was not the answer I had been expecting.

It’s not that I’d thought moving to California was such a bad idea; I’d visited with a friend a decade before and had loved the entire experience. I’d had a strong feeling that one day California would be my home.

But right now? Moving to California now just didn’t make any sense. Uprooting my entire life in New York, traveling the entire breadth of the continent, going to a place where I knew no one and had no home or promise of employment? No, this time God definitely didn’t seem to know what He was talking about. For the first time in my life, I distrusted what He told me.

So I put it out of my mind. I had a busy day ahead of me, anyway. I had to take my two daughters to school and then put in a full day’s work. Through it all, I tried to concentrate on the business at hand. God’s direction was definitely on the wrong track this time—how could He have made such a mistake? I tried to concentrate on my work.

But the idea wouldn’t go away. Not that moment, hour, day, or week. It was riding me closer than a New York City Yellow Cab.

Then one day I thought to myself, What if God is right? What if California is exactly where I’m supposed to be? I decided to take the idea seriously. As strange as it sounded, if God wanted me to move across the country, then that’s what I’d have to do.

I was watching television as I packed up all of my belongings for the move, when an offer for a gift from the Crystal Cathedral caught my eye. On impulse I picked up the phone and dialed the number that flashed on the TV screen. A cheery operator took my call. When I gave her my address, the operator told me that she was planning a trip to New York. And, before I knew it, we were chatting away—I guess it was a slow day for her.

When I shared the news that I was about to head to California, the operator’s amiable tone changed; she immediately and fervently set out to change my mind.

“You’re making a mistake,” she said. “Jobs are scarce, unless you have friends in high places. The people are phony and cold, and everybody thinks they’re a star. They can’t drive. The freeways are outrageous, it’s a zoo midday and a parking lot at rush hour.” She ranted on and on, describing in gruesome detail all the things she hated about California. She made moving there sound like an invitation for disaster.

By the time I hung up, I was worried. Why would God want to send me to such a place? Maybe I had misunderstood Him. Maybe this move was my will and not God’s. Maybe the Lord had used the operator to set me straight. She sure seemed to know what she was talking about.

So I’d changed my mind. I’d done a little research and convinced myself that there were no jobs in California. But there was plenty of work in Dallas, Texas.

The following week, that’s exactly where I was.

I found a serviceable apartment in the suburbs, moved in, and immediately started my job hunt. My first rude awakening was discovering that I had to do the same amount of work as I did in New York for less than half the pay. That struck me not only as unfair, but absolutely degrading. I prayed to God for better job opportunities, but the results were mediocre.

I was never happy in Texas, never at ease. And the whole time I was there, I kept hearing that inner voice that continued to say, “It’s time to move to California.”

It took me a long time to finally submit to that voice. Too long. After four months, I was discouraged, dispirited, and several thousand dollars poorer. I decided to make the move.

Once the decision was made, I moved quickly. The days flew by in a flurry of packing, shipping, and making arrangements. At the end of two weeks, my daughters and my mother piled in the car with me and I drove us all to California. Two days later, my mother took my girls back to New York. She realized that, as a newly separated mother, I needed some time to get back on my feet, and promised to keep the girls for one school year while I settled in California and prepared a home for my family.

Luckily, I discovered that a friend of mine from New York now lived in Los Angeles.  I contacted her and convinced her that she needed a roommate—namely, me. I found a job almost immediately. At last I began to think that God had been right all along. I had a pretty nice place to live and an income. Things could only go up from here, right?

Wrong.

My boss seemed to be a very nice man. Knowing I was a recent arrival from the East Coast, he asked me if he could be my “tour guide” of the wonders of Los Angeles. Grateful for the offer, I accepted. We had a great time seeing the sights, and I thought I had found a good friend. Unfortunately, he thought he had found something else. On the heels of our platonic sightseeing tour, he asked me on a date. I know that it’s never a good idea to date someone you work with—and it is definitely a bad idea to date your boss—so I politely declined. He asked again, and I refused that second request too.

The following week, he called me into the office and ordered me to clean out my desk. Just like that, I was out of a job. I tried to reason with him, but he clearly just wanted me out of his sight. If I wasn’t interested in him as a romantic partner, then he wasn’t interested in working with me.

And then it got worse.

When my roommate found out that I was unemployed, she ordered me out. (Some friend, huh?)

I had no job, no home, and no prospects.

What I did have was growing anxiety. It was April and I had only two more months to find an apartment before it was time to go to New York to get my daughters. I felt helpless and hopeless. And I was also outraged—angry with God. After all, I had moved out here on God’s word and this is the way He treated me? The nerve!

But then I calmed down. I knew in my heart that I hadn’t really been listening to Him. How could I when I no longer trusted Him? My own counsel had gotten me nowhere, and it was time for change.

Which is how I ended up wandering around the library. I really had nowhere else to go. I didn’t quite know why I was there, but I continued to stroll around, not really reading the titles on the books, just thinking and praying. Then one book caught my eye. The cover was so faded that I couldn’t read the title, but there was something about the binding that was attractive to me. I pulled the book from the shelf and smiled. It was the Holy Bible.

I sat down in a comfortable chair and began flipping through the pages—from chapter to chapter, from book to book. But I saw nothing that could be of any help to me. I barely understood anything I was reading, and I certainly didn’t find anything that could have any personal application to my life and my problems. In frustration, I shut the book and closed my eyes.

After a moment, I opened the Bible at random and saw these words among the evocative poetry of the Psalms: “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

There it was. It was exactly what I needed. I didn’t know why, but a peace flooded over me. My heart and mind were no longer confused. I trusted Him and placed my life’s challenges in His hands.

I was angry with myself for being in this crisis in the first place. It could have been avoided, if only I had listened to God months ago when he woke me in the morning to tell me to move to California. Instead, I had trusted a stranger over the phone. The subsequent move to Texas had nearly wiped out my bank account and, worse, it had thoroughly demoralized me. I vowed to myself that would never happen again. Now and forever, I would trust God unequivocally.

In need of some spiritual support, I met up with my friend, Edie, and told her all about my week. I had lost my job, my apartment, and my car (in a wreck with the cable truck). Everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong. I couldn’t sleep, and every single part of me wanted to pack my bags and go back to New York.

Edie did her best to comfort me. She reminded me that maybe all this would turn out to be a blessing in disguise. I certainly liked the sound of that, but I found it a little hard to believe. Still, Edie was just what I needed at the moment, with her encouragement and her loving personality. I asked her to come with me to look at an apartment I had seen advertised in the paper, a cute condo in La Verne. Edie was doubtful and tried to talk me out of it. She said it would be nearly impossible for me to afford to live in such a nice and expensive area.

But something told me that this was the right path. My heart echoed with the verse, “Be still and know that I am God.” I had thought about that verse a lot since stumbling across it that day in the library, and my meditations had gradually made me aware of the emotional as well as the spiritual impact of trusting God. I tried to explain all this to Edie, but she only shook her head.

“You do know there is a difference between faith and foolishness,” she said. “And God doesn’t deal with the latter.”

Regardless, she prayed for me until we arrived at the complex, where a large man introduced himself as Matthew the landlord. He led us around the complex, describing the outside amenities, and then showed us the unit. Matthew unlocked the door, and as soon as I stepped in, I knew this was my new home. I loved it instantly. It had a personality of its own, cozy and quaint with its picture windows, sunken living room, and built-in shelves. The kitchen was even equipped with modern appliances.

Delighted at my response, the landlord suggested that we go into the living room to take care of the paperwork. Edie and I sat on the couch and Matthew gave me some papers to read. I skimmed through the words, barely reading them, until I saw something that made me stop cold in my tracks: the total move-in amount was a whopping $3000. I didn’t have $3000. My mind raced with negotiating strategies, but I couldn’t think of a thing. I simply didn’t have enough money to move in. I was so close to this perfect apartment, and it was going to be denied to me.

Matthew asked if I had any questions. I opened my mouth to respond, but the words were stalled by the wall of terror building in my throat. My inner voice reminded me, “Be still and know that I am God.” So, I closed my mouth and remained silent.

Then the landlord asked, “Is there a problem with the move-in amount?”

I wanted to answer, but I could only think, God, I need your help. “Be still and know that I am God” persisted in my spirit.

The big landlord began twitching in his chair. He scratched his head and looked at me with a half-baked smile. He said, “Okay, okay. If you don’t have the entire $3000, don’t worry. Can you give me half?”

I didn’t answer. Again, I heard in my mind, “Be still and know that I am God.” The words nudged my spirit, and this time I trusted God completely. There was absolutely nothing I needed to do or say.

The landlord squirmed in his chair and continued reducing his offer. By the time he got to $500, it was quite evident that he was frustrated, even insulted by my silence. His big smile had long since disappeared, and now in its place was an angry frown. He stared at me, perplexed, and his large face turned as red as a fire engine.

My silence had infuriated him. He leaped out of his chair and growled at me with a frustrated tone, “Lady, what do you think this is? I’ve been bending over backwards, but enough is enough! No more offers. You know what? When you said you didn’t have a job and there were some blemishes on your credit, I thought, ‘Well, at least she’s honest.’ So I was willing to negotiate to do you a favor. But now…”

There was nothing I could say to him. Everything he said was true. I could completely understand why he was so angry. But it wasn’t up to me to change his mind. I had to be still.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you were broke?” Matthew asked. “You sit there so complacent, not saying a word. Do you even understand what I’m saying?”

I simply looked at him in silence. He paced back and forth, putting his hands in his pockets and then taking them out. He looked at me and then looked away. He did this several times and each time he did, I saw the fire in his face fading little by little.

Finally, he took a deep breath. He pulled up a chair in front of me, sat down, and looked directly into my eyes. He said calmly, almost as if he were resigned to something, “Years ago when my wife and I were dirt poor, someone took a blind chance on us. That made all the difference in our lives—it was our start. I guess it’s time for me to pass the blessing on.” He reached forward and handed me the keys. “The place is yours.”

That day I learned that trusting God can take on different faces; sometimes silence is all that is required. All I had to do was close my mouth and watch God at work—to be still and know that He is God.

Reflection: Go within and LISTEN…therein lies your power. Allow God’s advice to come to you—be at peace and He will tell you what to do next.

Matthew2

It’s Christmas…unlike any Christmas I have ever known. No ice, no snow, no galoshes, no ski suits. Jasmine, Tiffany, and I are in our shorts and T-shirts. The streets are filled with people with bright faces and free spirits. I’m on the West Coast, three thousand miles away from all of my relatives, except for my two lovely daughters. No grandma, no aunts, no uncles—no husband.

As I decorate the fichus tree in clear lights and spread the cards along the wall to form the letter C, my mind is occupied by what is apparently an impossible task—somehow find enough money to purchase two brand-new bicycles. Perhaps, I think to myself, next month I can pay only half of the rent. But a second thought enters my mind and I realize how ridiculous the previous notion is.

So, I do the only thing I can do. I kneel near the fichus tree, visualizing two brand-new bicycles. I imagine I can hear my girls squealing with delight as they see their wondrous Christmas presents. I see them riding their bicycles around the living room, laughing with pure pleasure. I’m so happy I don’t bother to reprimand them for riding their bikes in the house. I can hear their young voices filled with excitement as they beg to go outside and ride their bikes up and down the sunny streets. Their excitement makes them forget breakfast. I can see them racing through the door in their pajamas. I see myself assisting Tiffany down two flights of stairs with the bike, and Jasmine in front yelling, “Come on, come on, come on! I’ll race you!”

It’s a wonderful thing to visualize and I take almost as much pleasure in it as if it were actually happening. But then, inevitably, reality rears its ugly head. The Christmas account is empty. The move from New York to California wiped out my savings account. I could just as easily buy each of my daughters a new house, as a new bicycle. This is going to be the worst Christmas ever.

As soon as the negative thoughts enter my head, I do everything possible to banish them. I haven’t disappointed my girls yet and I’m not going to start now. There’s only one more option, so I drop to my knees again and begin to pray, “Father, you said in your word, Matthew 7:7, ‘Ask and it will be given to you.’ I’m asking. Please, Lord.”

Silence.

I hear nothing.

I’m not satisfied and I begin to nag, “What should I do, God? Will you help me if I only pay half of the rent?”

I don’t get a response.

With a sigh, I stand up and get back to the tasks at hand. I have decorating to finish and a holiday menu to put together.

A week passes. Though I pray every day, God doesn’t seem to reply. Oh well, I think, he has more important things to think about than my desire to give Christmas gifts to my daughters. We’ll just have to have a Christmas without gifts this year. The girls will understand.

It’s six o’clock in the morning and I’m getting ready to go to work when the phone rings. Who in the world could be calling at such an hour?

“Mrs. Williams?” a voice says. “It’s Matthew.”

Oh no! My landlord. I shiver a bit. It’s as if he’s reading my mind. I’m still contemplating paying him only part of January’s rent and getting the bikes. I struggle with this because I was raised with the conviction that, no matter what else you have to do without, you always pay your rent. If you don’t have food you still pay the rent. As I’m contemplating all this, I hear my grandfather’s words from when I was a child: “It’s easier for someone to give you a sandwich, than to give you a roof over your head.” Nothing is more important than keeping a roof over your head, and I know to neglect paying rent to buy some bikes is just plain foolishness.

“Good morning, Mr. Matthew,” I say, somewhat timidly.

“Listen,” he says. I press the phone closer to my ear and hear paper shredding. “That is the sound of your December rent check.”

My mouth drops open.

Matthew says, “My wife and I decided we didn’t need the money and wanted to give your family a gift. We couldn’t decide on what you might like, so we decided to tear up the check. The rent’s on us this month. Merry Christmas!”

Reflection: Go within and VISUALIZE…therein lies your power. Ask and expect the blessing to be there. Everything isn’t always as it seems. Sometimes you have to believe that the unseen will be seen.

The Merit of a Mentor

When a seasoned writer agrees to help a novice writer, a mentoring relationship is born and the concept of “iron sharpening iron” comes to life. As a mentee, not only did I learn the basic mechanics of dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s, connecting sentences, and structuring essays; I also learned unexpected lessons—I learned to use courage to bolster my power and live out my dream of becoming a writer.

Today is the day. I woke early to prepare for the interview. A friend had referred me to the owner of a local newspaper for a position as an entertainment reporter. I was interviewing for a job I desperately wanted, but at the same time I didn’t believe I could adequately fill the position. To bolster my courage, I played “I Believe I Can Fly” on the stereo while I searched for the perfect outfit. I raced back and forth, from the dresser to the closet. Standing in front of the mirror, I saw myself wearing a black pinstriped suit with a white blouse and black tie. “This looks good, but maybe it’s too strong of a statement for a small local paper,” I muttered to myself. Flinging the suit on the bed, I tried my navy blue suit. Too much like a uniform. After digging through the closet, I found my beige suit. That’s not going to work.

I threw the suit and myself on the bed, tears pouring down my face. I clenched my fists and hit the pillow as I yelled, “This job is for writers! If they test my writing ability, they’ll probably toss me out on my ear. How humiliating and how embarrassing would that be? I can’t write. I can’t do this job. Who am I kidding?”

My mind mediated on the words of my first college English professor. “You are not a writer,” he said as he returned my first assignment with a huge, red F across the front. No one had ever given me such an F. Not ever. I was in total shock. Throughout grade school and then later in high school, I was commended for my writing. It was my dream and I thought I was good at it. To make matters worse, the professor approached me at the end of class and candidly told me I had no talent and suggested I change my major immediately if I wanted to eat in this lifetime. Distraught, I fled to the registrar’s office and changed my major to sociology.

Now I had the opportunity of a lifetime waiting for me, and I was haunted by those words, which marked an indelible imprint on my mind for the past twelve years. I had thought writing was my mission, but now I was seriously thinking of not going to the interview.

Fortunately, in the midst of my self-deprecating thoughts, the phone rang. It was my friend, Betty, inviting me to meet her for lunch at Starbucks. Thankful for the diversion, I accepted the invitation and went to meet her. While waiting for Betty, I stood in the extremely long line, pulled a book out of my purse, and began reading.

Unexpectedly, a voice behind me said, “Now isn’t this funny. We are the only ones reading amongst all these people, and we just happen to be standing next to each other. Is that a coincidence or what?”

Thinking he might be flirting with me, I ignored him until I saw his sparse, silvery hair and thin, frail hands, and bright smile—I relaxed and we exchanged pleasantries. Next we compared the books we were holding, and then we discussed common interests and began sharing little things about our lives. One special moment came when he started to tell me how much he loved the Lord.

“Gee, that must be why you look so radiant. My God, you look like an angel!” I exclaimed.

He laughed and informed me that his favorite pastimes were ministering to people and writing about the Lord. In turn, I explained that I had wanted to be a writer all my life. As a child, I wrote scripts and songs for my friends to perform whenever they were bored. I wanted to do something other than play ball or gossip. As I grew older, I was encouraged by teachers to write more and cultivate my talent. Increasingly, I dreamed of becoming a writer. He assured me that by not pursuing my passion for writing, I was not practicing the presence of the Divine—the essence of my being. He explained that God is my source, and if I believed that I’d been commissioned by God to write, then I must write. Otherwise, I would continue to have the restless spirit for writing that I had suppressed for years. Then I asked, “If God gave me this desire, why is it such a hard skill for me to grasp?”

Dr. Wilson defined my obstacles, saying that my first critical professor and my fear of failure were stumbling blocks in my path. I will never forget the power I felt when he placed his hand on mine and quoted a Bible verse, “‘God is not human, that He should lie, not a human being, that He should change his mind. Does He speak and then not act? Does He promise and not fulfill?’” (Numbers 23:19). He continued to speak to me, saying, “Honey, when God places a desire in your heart, he will make a way for you to achieve it.” Then, smiling, he asked, “So what are you going to do to pursue your writing?”

I told him about my impending interview—and how I was considering not going. I don’t think he even heard me. Instead, Dr. Wilson offered to be my editor.

“That is, if you want me to be,” he added.

Dr. Wilson’s skill, patience, and insight were exactly what I needed. With a doctorate in English, he acted as an instructor, writer, and meticulous editor in an effort to assist me in the craft he knew so well. He encouraged me to be a fearless writer through the continuous use of the writer’s tools to improve my craft and gave me the courage to bolster my confidence in the skills I already possessed. Now he is my mentor and one of my favorite friends. This resulted in me going to the interview and receiving the job.

Coincidence? Anything is possible I guess, but that’s not how I see it. Sure, there might be doubters who would deny that God had his hand in this—that my friend just happened to be late for lunch; that I just happened to meet someone who was skilled (a professional, no less) in exactly what I needed, and who would not only encourage me, but would also be a mentor and a friend. The end of my story is really just the beginning. I am now ready to fulfill my lifelong dream of being a writer, thanks to the merit of a mentor.

Reflection: Go within and BELIEVE…therein lies your power. Dream your dreams, believing God has given you everything and everyone you need to succeed. After all, He gave you the dream.

Who Locked the Door?

Can you imagine lying in bed, watching four intoxicated strangers come into your home? I was a thirty-seven-year-old divorced mother and unable to walk. Arthritis had stiffened my joints, and I had to give my daughters most of the responsibilities that required the use of my limbs—I needed them to be my arms and legs. This responsibility included helping with the dishes, laundry, and locking the doors at night.

Just before dawn one August morning, I was lying in bed praying. In the midst of my petition I heard someone turn the knob on the front door. From my bed at the end of the hall, I silently watched as four men entered my home.

They stopped in the living room, and started talking to each other in halting, slurred whispers. “Slim, that jam was weak. The chicks were stuck-up.”

“I got a few numbers and I’ll use them as soon as I wake up. I’ll educate you fellows on scoring with the ladies before we go to the next party,” Slim chuckled as he dropped to the couch. The chatter became dull and vulgar.

“Good morning,” I called out in a joyful voice. The men were nonresponsive. The second time, I bellowed, “GOOD MORNING!”

“I wish Van would tell his woman to shut up. She’s hurting my head with that noise,” said another one of the men in a loud baritone voice.

“Man, that is not Van’s lady.”

“Van, put your woman to sleep!” the baritone yelled.

“I just told you that is not Van’s woman,” the other one said slowly. He stood up carefully, turning his head to look around the room, “And this is not Van’s house. We better get out of here!”

He went over to the man on the couch and began shaking him hard and yelling, “Man, wake up! We got to get out of here—this isn’t Van’s house.”

“Leave me alone!” the other shot back.

“Look, dawg, this is the wrong place. Get up!” he shouted.

“Go to bed, man. The booze is making you hallucinate,” the second voice stuttered.

“Slim, we got to drag these two fools out of here,” a third voice said.

I lay on the bed, watching the two men stagger as they dragged their friends out. As they closed the door, my daughters Jasmine and Tiffany came running into my bedroom.

“Who was that?” they screeched together.

“Van’s friends, apparently,” I answered calmly.

Still in shock, the girls asked excitedly, “What were they doing here?”

“They wanted to sleep,” I said.

“What! How did they get in?”

“I didn’t hear the doorbell,” Jasmine insisted. “Oh, Tiffany, you let them in?”

“No, I thought you did!” They looked at each other and then at me.

“Who opened the door for them?” Jasmine demanded.

Still calm, I said, “They opened the door for themselves.”

Jasmine raced to the door with Tiffany following close behind. Jasmine inspected the lock and concluded, “The lock isn’t broke.” She swung the door open swiftly, inspecting it on both sides. “Nothing wrong here.”

Tiffany checked out the living room and kitchen. “Everything’s fine here, too,” she reported.

“But Mom said she saw them come in. Tiffany, did you forget to lock the door?”

“No, you must have forgotten to lock the door. Mommy told you to lock the door!”

“No, she told you.”

They paused, looked at each other and asked, “Who locked the door?”

For weeks I had been attempting to explain to the girls the value of securing our home. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine four drunken men stumbling inside our living room for five minutes would help Jasmine and Tiffany learn the importance of being responsible for locking the doors.

Reflection: Go within and BE VULNERABLE…therein lies your power. Your vulnerability allows God to enter and teach you lessons.

Parenting God’s Tough Lessons

Did you ever want to disobey God? I have. I had been undergoing physical therapy for three years, ever since crippling chronic arthritis took residence in my body. During that time, my daughters, Jasmine and Tiffany, had to take on most of the responsibilities of our household, and I must say they did a good job of it—usually. Through the combination of physical therapy and prayer, my improvement had been slow but steady.

On one particular day, I arrived at physical therapy first thing in the morning, just after the girls had gone off to school. Early on in my illness, these sessions were pure agony. I had noticed in the last few weeks, however, that I was getting through my exercises with a minimum amount of pain. I was encouraged and so were my therapists and doctors.

At the end of my session, I got spectacular news: my physical therapist told me I could start driving again. I hugged her and squealed with delight. I particularly missed being able to drive my car.

My first thought was to surprise the girls by picking them up after school. Truth be known, Jasmine and Tiffany had not been getting along very well recently. I knew this was just a phase sisters went through, but it still disturbed me. Because of my illness and the absence of their father, who had walked out on us a year earlier, I believed that we had to pull together more than normal. We couldn’t afford to be torn apart by petty squabbles—we had to be there for each other, without question.

The previous night, the two were arguing about something monumental in their lives and Tiffany called her older sister “a social outcast.” I didn’t think that such a relatively mild insult would make Jasmine so angry. Jasmine was fifteen and felt very grown up and superior to her eleven-year-old sister.

The next morning, I instructed Jasmine to walk over to Tiffany’s elementary school in the afternoon so they could take the bus home together. I could see the scowl on her face, but she promised she would.

As I drove up to Jasmine’s school to surprise her, I noticed she was not walking toward Tiffany’s elementary school, but instead was sauntering away in the opposite direction.

I pulled up alongside my daughter and rolled down the car window.

“Oh, Jasmine,” I called in an even voice.

She couldn’t disguise the shock on her face.

“Mom! What are you doing here?”

You couldn’t blame her for being surprised. After all, just this morning—as every morning for the past seven months—she had left me home in bed.

“I told you God works miracles,” I said. “Now, the question is, what are you doing here?” With a gesture, I motioned for Jasmine to get into the car.

“I’ll ask you again,” I said, disheartened. “Where are you going?”

“To the mall,” she said in a small voice.

“To the mall,” I repeated. “Is that where your little sister goes to school? At the mall?”

“Well, ah…” she stammered.

“Jazzy, what were the instructions I gave you this morning?”

“I know, Mom. Pick up Tiffany from school and come straight home.”

I glanced at her, nodded my head and silently prayed, God, what am I supposed to do with this child?

Jasmine and I drove in silence over to the elementary school where I spotted Tiffany on the playground. I could have wept with relief. Tiffany ran over to the car.

“Mom, you’re driving!”

“Therapy’s starting to pay off.”

“Great! Now you can pick us up from school,” she said. “I’m tired of waiting for Jasmine every day. She takes too long to get here.”

Now that I had Tiffany, I knew I needed to deal with Jasmine’s disobedience.

I prayed silently, asking God to help me to discipline her. The response was quite appalling. Immediately, I questioned the tyrannical nature of God’s instruction, yet I maneuvered away from our usual route and headed off the main street. A biblical passage, II John 1:6, popped into my head: “And this is love: that we walk in obedience to His commands. As you have heard from the beginning, His command is that you walk in love.”

I knew I had to obey.

“Where are we going?” Tiffany asked from the backseat.

“I’m taking your sister some place where she can be on her own,” I said evenly. Turning to Jasmine I said, “Since you do not want to follow my directions, I have decided to let you be an adult.”

Jasmine was too stunned to respond. I pulled over to the curb, reached into my purse and pulled out a coin.

“Jasmine,” I said. “Here’s a quarter and your freedom. Go and be an adult.”

Jasmine couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, fear in her eyes.

“I know you’re only a child, but I need you to take more responsibility. I’m not able to be there to look out for you, as a healthy mother would be. You girls cannot act like other teenagers, being rebellious and defiant. I have to be able to trust you.

“If you don’t want to be here, then you are free to go. Get out and decide what you want more: to be a responsible teen or an adult. It’s your decision.”

Jasmine began to cry.

“Please, Mom…I’m sorry,” she said. But I refused to listen. Reluctantly, Jasmine got out of the passenger seat. When she closed the car door, slowly I pulled away shaking uncontrollably. I yanked my right hand from the steering wheel and grabbed my heart. I thought it had fallen. I questioned my actions and began praying the moment Jasmine left the car.

Oh, Lord, please be with her and keep her safe, I prayed. Know that her mother loves her enough to teach her a hard lesson.

Tiffany started crying when she realized I was really going to leave Jasmine.

“Moooom, why did you leave Jasmine on the street?” Tiffany wailed. “Aren’t you going back, Moooom?”

“You want to go with her?” I asked.

“Nooo, Moooom,” Tiffany said, now crying harder.

I kept driving, but kept my eyes glued to the rearview mirror, keeping Jasmine in sight for as long as possible. I was heartsick about making my little girl feel so frightened, but I was convinced this would turn out to be a good lesson for both of my daughters; after all, I obeyed God.

I decided to drive a few more blocks, thinking that would be long enough to give Jasmine time to think. Then I would drive back and pick her up.

But instead, Tiff and I returned home.

The phone rang. It was Jasmine. Her voice was still thick with tears.

“Mom, I want to come home. I’m across the street,” she said. “Your therapist brought me.”

Inside, I rejoiced that she was safe.

“We have a responsibility to each other,” I said, “and we will discuss it further when you get here.”

When Jasmine walked up to the house, both Tiffany and I greeted her at the door with smiles and hugs.

We all sat around the table that night recounting the events of the day.

“Mom, I was so scared,” Jasmine said. “I had never been in that neighborhood before. I didn’t know where I was or what to do. I started walking in the direction of your car. I was so angry and confused. I just kept walking, block after block. At first, I just thought you were mean. Then I thought you were crazy.” Jasmine started to cry as she remembered her frustration and hurt. “I couldn’t figure out why you would treat me this way.”

I took her hand.

“You girls need to be much more responsible than other children,” I said gently. “I need to make it clear to both you and Tiffany that because of my physical situation we need to be able to trust one another for everything. It’s important for you to follow my instructions. If you don’t, Child Protective Services can take you away from me and they will become your guardians. In other words, you would go to a foster home or a group home. I love you and I want you to be happy on your journey to greatness and sometimes it requires obeying God’s tough lesson.”

Reflection: Go within and CORRECT IN LOVE…therein lies your power. Love spurs obedience. Obedience, while difficult, will produce blessings and encourage your trust in God to grow. We need to understand that God loves us unconditionally, and we need to follow Him to reap the benefits of a blessed life.

At Your Service

“You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love,” (Galatians 5:13).

I always had a deep desire to be of service. When I was introduced to a prayer group in church, I joined immediately. The group taught me how to pray and gave me many opportunities to pray for others. We prayed for each other, and I soon learned, “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another” (Proverbs 27:17). I then decided that prayer would become my ministry. I wanted to delve deeper into the ministry of prayer. I found a mentor and fervently studied prayer. After years of practice, I joined the Guideposts prayer ministry to be of service.

* * *

“PLEASE HELP ME,” pleaded the caller. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Her voice was breaking up. I listened intently. She told me her name was Mary. She was in her early fifties, worked as a home health provider, but was unable to work because of a job-related leg injury.

Mary spoke rapidly, “I’m so full of despair that I decided to dial the Guideposts prayer line.”

“I’m glad you did, Mary. How may I pray for you today?” I asked.

“My temporary disability payments are less than half of my regular pay, and this leaves me without enough money to pay my bills. I have been juggling my good faith payments on my overdue bills, but I am not able to keep them up. In addition, the week before I was to report to work, I hurt myself again. While waiting for another claim to be processed, my funds were exhausted. My creditors were threatening to cut off my utilities. I had almost accepted the possibility of living without these essentials.”

Mary went on to tell me that the notice placed on her door made her even more desperate. She said she broke down and cried as she read the flier. The apartment building in which she had lived for more than thirty years was no longer going to be rent controlled; it was going co-op.

I silently thanked God for giving me her call. In my professional career as a social worker, I had heard this problem hundreds of times. I knew how to help her. I yearned to give Mary the information I had at my fingertips, but there was something stopping me.

It was the Guideposts prayer ministry guidelines.

The Holy Spirit reminded me that I was a prayer intercessor and that it was my job to pray to the Lord on the caller’s behalf. No advice whatsoever was to be given—that was God’s job. Therefore, I prayed and went on to my next caller.

Week after week, Mary called, sounding progressively more defeated. It was becoming more difficult to decipher her words through her sobs. My heart ached for her.

By the time the seventh week rolled around, I had made up my mind that I was going to give her some advice—after all, hadn’t I worked as a social worker for fifteen years?

However, the words I had read in the Guideposts guidelines—“We are not a counseling line”—played themselves repeatedly in my mind. I put my decision on pause and prayed for myself, but the urge to intervene grew even stronger.

I wrestled with the concept that God uses people, so maybe that’s why He gave me Mary’s call, wasn’t it? I called Jim, my prayer mentor, and explained my dilemma. He validated my feelings, prayed for me, but repeated the guidelines, “We are not a counseling line.”

Next week when Mary called, crying, the urge to give her advice had disappeared. I felt rejuvenated. I prayed God’s Word with conviction. “Wow,” chuckled Mary, “you sound so powerful.” Silently, I thanked the Holy Spirit for His visit.

Several months later, on the line as usual, my first call came from Mary. She spoke nonstop as always.

“Diane, I’m so glad I got you today! Listen to this! When I was in the laundry room of my building, a strange lady greeted me and she started to stare at me. She explained that I looked like someone whom she had hired twenty years ago to be her aunt’s caregiver. As she spoke, something clicked in my mind. Her aunt was my first client. I took care of her for many years before she died. Vaguely, I remembered the niece’s face, and when she mentioned her name, memories flashed in my mind. Whenever she visited her aunt, she was always carrying books. Her aunt often spoke of how brilliant she was. Therefore, I asked her what became of all her knowledge. Hold your breath, Diane; you will not believe what happened next.

“‘I was my aunt’s primary caregiver,’ the niece explained, ‘and I loved her dearly. Nevertheless, coupled with pursuing my college education and proceeding with my career, I was forced to hire additional help and that person, Mary, was you. It was a pleasure to see my aunt so happy and so well groomed. I knew I had done the right thing.’

“Diane, not only did the niece earn a master’s degree, she started her own real estate business. In fact, she is now the new owner of the building. She is responsible for converting the property into a co-op. Instead of congratulating her, I bawled and dumped my miserable life story on her; but listen to this. She gently put her arms around me and promised that I would have a place to live in that building for as long as I wanted!”

After I hung up the phone, I smiled and I reflected on the miracle God produced in not only Mary’s life but also in mine. Mary’s leg healed, she returned to work, and received the deed to her co-op apartment. Moreover, I was blessed with the privilege of praying for a resolution to Mary’s problems. God did a much better job at fixing everything than I could have ever dreamed of doing. What a reassurance that God does take care of His children.

Reflection: Go within and SERVE…therein lies your power. Be of service in the position God has appointed you. He is omniscient and omnipotent and you are His vehicle. Recognize your knowledge, recognize your skill. Discern when to use your abilities or tap into His.

Acts of Kindness

“Reflect on your present blessings, of which every man has many, not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some.”

—Charles Dickens, 1897

When entering school for a master’s degree at the age of forty-three, I was daunted. I found my first college experience extremely challenging twenty-three years earlier as an active, healthy, and mobile person. Now as an immobile person, rolling on a walker (and at other times a wheelchair), I believed it would be hard, and I did not want to weather the challenge. However, after much deliberation and encouragement, I decided to move forward.

I had already earned a bachelor’s degree in social work, and I knew I did not want to pursue that avenue. I wanted to go to school and study journalism, but I had three obstacles blocking me: I was living with a disability, forced to utilize a walker and sometimes a wheelchair for mobility; I was more than double the age of the traditional college student, so I was worried about relating to other students; and then there was the actual work itself; I questioned my ability to complete assignments in the allotted time frame. Because of the limited movement in my hands, every task took me a great deal of time, and I was unable to write lengthy content; thus, note taking and typing papers would be a great challenge.

In my experience, one of the hardest things I have had to learn was to accept using a wheelchair. Going to school with immobile limbs and painful joints is difficult. I was constantly trying to protect my body as best as I could so no one accidently bumped into me, or bumped me into anything as they pushed me around. I remember how often times I wanted to quit, but the kindness of the people spurned me on. The professors said they would help me as long as I told them what I needed. The students assured me they were there for me and that all I had to do was call on them. I registered for two classes which required me to attend class three days a week. On my first day of class, I asked my professor’s permission to record his lectures. He agreed, and my first obstacle of note taking was immediately conquered. The professor passed out the syllabus while reciting the assignments: two exams plus a final, a quiz every week, and a lengthy research project. I questioned my ability to keep pace. It usually took me four times as long to complete a task compared to a mobile person. I felt like crying, but I managed to maintain composure.

The professor asked me why I was in the wheelchair. I told him my story and he asked me to speak to the class about my mental, physical, and social experience, as well as how I have been working these things altogether.

After the hour-and-a-half lecture, I was totally wiped out and felt inextricably overwhelmed. I began to second-guess my decision to enter a graduate program. After class, my teacher assured me that if there was anything I needed, I could just ask. Many of the students offered their support as well. I thought about their kindness and generous offers, and I placed my eyes back on my goal, maintaining the sentiment “Life is a journey and not a destination.” And though I was exhausted, I went home, took a nap, and then began studying.

The other students were young, active, and often amazed me. I loved their energy and passion for the classes. Most astounding was their warm reception of me. I needed aid with so many things: opening the doors, taking my book from my backpack and putting it on the desk, opening my book, taking notes, typing papers—to be more explicit; I needed help with everything you do with your arms and legs. They offered their assistance regularly. Being very prideful, I asked for support as little as possible, and when I did ask for help, it was with great hesitation. But having limited mobility in the limbs made my options bleak; ask to receive, or not ask and do without. One thing that impressed me with my classmates was that they never forced, begged, or demanded I take their help. They offered and left it alone. That made me feel less self-conscious and it motivated me to keep going.

At the onset, I wanted to quit almost every day. But those students motivated me to keep showing up. I took Access Services, a public transportation service for seniors and people living with disabilities. Most days the vans were late picking me up. I was either very early or late to class, almost never on time. I waited many minutes and sometimes the minutes spilled over to hours. The students would pass by me and offer me a ride, and I would always politely and respectfully decline. One afternoon the bus was so late that day soon became night. One of the young men in my class offered to drop me off, and I accepted the offer. He assisted me into the car and I gave him my address.

He said, “My goodness, you live one block away from me. I pass this street every day going to school!” He offered to transport me to school for the entire semester.

The kindness continued. Students went to the library with me and assisted me in using the computers, and removing books off the shelves for me. Some nights I would go home thinking of these young people, their kindness and generosity. Uncontrollable tears would fall from my eyes. In each of my classes, I started a study group. Again, the students surprised me by joining the groups. I told them that this was the method I used in undergraduate school and it produced phenomenal results. I studied because I had made a commitment, and I could not renege on it; that was one of the requirements for the group. Some of the students would even ask me to have subgroups, and we would meet in my home.

I would tell the students how thankful and appreciative I was for their generous support. They waved it off and said, “No problem.” Some of them would say I inspired them because they did not think they would be able to go to school in a wheelchair; the challenge looked too overwhelming. At times, when they did not want to do their assignments or complained about their situations, they thought of me and would say to themselves, “If Ms. Williams can show up, so can I.” Did I mention how great they were for my self-esteem?

I had one night class. A student would always volunteer to escort me to my ride. Usually, it was a female, but this night it was an energetic young man. On the way to the elevator he talked about his project while I, neglecting to engage in the conversation, was quietly praying about my need to use the restroom. He paused a moment, glanced at me and asked if I was OK. I nodded. “If you need or want anything, I am here for you,” he said.

I had to go to the ladies room, but he was a young male student and I was a middle-aged woman. I could not ask him for help in the restroom. I pondered and weighed the advantages and disadvantages of waiting until I got home. The reality was that to try and wait until I was home was a dumb idea; after all, my ride’s time frame was unpredictable. I really had to get over myself and release my pride. After all, how would a prideful lady be in soiled pants? Passing up the bathroom was no longer an option. I prayed and thought about the student’s statement, “Whatever you need, just ask. I am here for you.”

I stopped thinking and praying, and instead started talking. I told him my dilemma and he said, “Sure.” And just like that all my anxiety had gone. I used the restroom with his help. Boy, how I can get in my own way. I thanked the young man. He shrugged his shoulders and warmly replied, “No problem. I told you if you need anything I am here for you.” I often wondered if that young man knew how profoundly grateful I was for his act of kindness.

Although I had a relationship with God, there were times when I doubted Him and put my pride first. However, after I prayed, I believed He placed this young man with me on that evening.

Reflection: Go within and ACCEPT…therein lies your power. Learning to accept frees us to live in a spirit of gratitude, which blesses the giver and the receiver.

When Mom Prays

Watching my daughters grow into flourishing young ladies has been one of my greatest rewards in life. At times, I believed their journey toward independence was going to be stifled. When I was thirty-seven, rheumatoid arthritis attacked my joints with a vengeance, leaving me practically immobilized.

In addition to mitigating my physical mobility, it sent my husband packing and diminished my economic power. As an unemployed divorced parent of two teenage daughters, I felt like Job—everything I had was gone.

In the years that followed, while maintaining the household and providing me with 24-hour care, seven days a week, my daughters also managed to excel academically and behave respectfully. Both girls worked hard. Whenever they would complain about the situation, I used it as an opportunity to point out to them that God had big plans for their lives. Jazzy would give me a blank stare, and Tiffany would hang her head and reply, “Yeah, Mom.”

In addition to my husband leaving, I could feel my girls starting to slip away. I knew we needed something to hold us together as a family, but what? Full of fear and hopelessness, I prayed for something, anything to bond with my daughters and for them to meld with each other.

In Tiffany’s junior year of high school, her academic counselor told her about a summer program called Young Scholars sponsored by the Junior Statesmen of America Foundation at Yale University. Tiff immediately applied. About five weeks later, the mail carrier delivered a letter saying Tiffany had been selected for three program classes at Yale: American Government Congressional, Speech Communications, and Debate Workshops. There was only one problem: she needed an additional $3000 after her scholarship.

Tiffany approached me with a look of despair, explaining the information from Yale suggested students who needed additional funds sell candies and raffle tickets, as well as request donations from relatives and friends.

Exasperated, she exclaimed, “Mom, I only know three or four relatives, and all my friends are unemployed!”

I asked Tiffany to leave the papers in front of me and told her to give me a bit of time to mull over the information. She sighed and went to her room. Sensations of both guilt and anger filled me. I was angry at this disease that had deprived me of my ability to earn a living and depleted my savings account.

Tiffany had worked hard. Now that she was accepted for the Yale program, it was my responsibility to do something to help her, but what? I continued to flip through the pages of the flyers and brochures that were included with her letter. I became overwhelmed and began my five-minute pity party—my daily allowance.

I thought about the credo I had relentlessly imbedded in my daughters, “God has big plans for your lives.” I prayed that God would show me the way. The deadline was drawing nearer and nearer and God hadn’t given me a response. It was time to change my prayer strategy. Instead of studying those brochures, I visualized Tiffany there at Yale living and doing the things the brochure described, then I asked God to show me how that dream could be a reality.

In a moment during prayer time, something clicked in my brain. The brochures I was visualizing, I could create it. “Wow!” I said out loud.

My long forgotten previous position as a community youth director flashed in my mind. The core of that job was fundraising! Coupled with the materials from the Yale program and my knowledge of raising funds, I knew I could put together a media campaign.

Just then Tiffany returned. “Tiffany, are you committed to work for this money?” I asked her. She flashed an odd look at me. Hesitantly, she nodded her head. “Let’s ask your sister if she’s willing to help,” I said.

Tiffany called Jazzy into the room. I outlined to them what I needed in order to implement a fundraising campaign. I had an assignment for each of them. Jazzy agreed to design Tiff’s résumé and letterhead. Tiffany would research donors, distribute the kits, and develop a tracking system to record responses.

We went to our respective areas and began executing our five-week plan. By the end of the first week, we were armed with all the materials to be included in the press kit. Jazzy’s eye for beauty and computer skills transformed the otherwise plain media kit into a professional work of art. The second week, we began the mailing.

At the beginning of week three, Tiffany woke to my frantic yelling. Several newspapers had called requesting interviews. Los Angeles Times in particular wanted to speak with Tiffany, Jasmine, her school’s staff members, and me. They also wanted to do a photo session at school and at home.

Then the phone rang. This time it was her school, informing us that the reporters had phoned them. Tiff and I rejoiced so loudly that Jasmine woke up and joined us.

After we told her what happened, Jazzy pulled Tiff by the hand.

“Come on,” she said smiling, “I’ll help you pick out an outfit for the photo shoot!”

I heard the closet door sliding when the phone rang again. By the time she left that morning, Tiffany had interviews scheduled for most of the week. That was only the beginning. Once Los Angeles Times had printed our story, San Diego Tribune and other newspapers nationwide picked it up and spread Tiffany’s story.

Early one morning the following week, I called Tiffany again with excitement in my voice. I had just received three phone calls. Two donors called, complimented Jazzy’s work, and said Tiffany should start packing. They would finance her entire trip.

As I related this news to Tiffany, I could almost hear her heart beating. She screamed, “What?!”

“Your article hit the papers today. Pick up all the papers you can gather,” I told her. That day, Tiffany went off to school, and I became her secretary.

Not long after, a third caller told me she had just finished reading our story in the Times. “It touched my heart,” she said in a soft voice. Then she expressed interest in meeting us, and we set up a time to meet with her.

By the time Tiffany returned from school, I had a pile of messages waiting. She walked into the house chatting nonstop. She chortled while she told me she was teased and called a celebrity all day long. She looked at the messages and phoned the Yale coordinator, who congratulated Tiffany and told her she had a stack of checks sitting on her desk with Tiffany’s name on them. Tiffany hung up the phone and begins chanting, “I’m going to Yale!”

The following day when Tiffany arrived home from school, the doorbell rang. Tiffany opened the door and there stood a middle-aged woman who introduced herself as the woman who had read our story in the Times. She spoke softly and walked gracefully as she stepped in.

“I am so proud of your daughter. The reporter didn’t mention anything about clothing, accessories, or spending money in the article. Tiffany, you worked hard. Congratulations!” She handed Tiffany two money orders, totaling $1500. “Go shopping, and have some fun in New York. If that’s not enough, please let me know. Money will not be the factor that keeps you from attending Yale and having a good time this summer,” she said.

I tried to hold back the tears as Tiffany embraced the generous woman and promised to contact her with some pictures when she returned. “I’d like that,” she said as she left.

Shortly after, the editor of her school newspaper asked Tiffany to write an article focusing on how she juggled her caregiving responsibilities while maintaining a great attitude, an excellent GPA, and participation in so many extracurricular activities. She received financial contributions from her school’s administration, teachers, and staff. Tiff placed them all on the table. “Wow! I’m going to Yale,” she said in wonder.

After she had packed and left, we still received checks and phone calls. Even the mayor of La Verne made a call. By the time the summer was over, Tiffany had met some rather distinguished, professional people in our community. Many of them invited her to lunch or dinner upon her return to tell them about her experience at Yale. She would share about her A+ in both subjects, the vigorous debates she heard at the United Nations, the Broadway productions she had seen, the fancy restaurants she frequented, and the shops she explored in Midtown Manhattan.

There was a month left before school began, and Tiffany wanted to give something back. She volunteered to work in a law firm that donated to her Yale experience; at least she thought she was volunteering. On her last day, the firm presented her with a check for her college fund.

While I sat on the patio reading one afternoon, Tiff joined me. “Mom, when Dad left and Jazzy and I had to take care of you, I was angry. I thought my life was over.”

I thought to myself, So did I, Tiff. Even more than the financial rewards, this experience brought us together as a family. After my husband left, it was important that my daughters and I had something we could do together. This project gave us something to work toward as a team, a common goal.

As I listened to my daughter, I thought of Romans 8:28. “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.” That was the beginning of another major turning point in my life. I am now truly convinced that disappointments are merely potential opportunities. Feel its effects, press forward, and watch God come through.

Reflection: Go within and BE RESOURCEFUL…therein lies your power. You already possess what you need to get what you want—but you can’t use that until you get your eyes off the problem and on to the Problem Solver. If God gives you the opportunity, He’s going to make it happen.

The Rewards of My Childhood

My eyes wander around our formerly sedate house, now filled with home health aides, mobilizing equipment, a mother needing assistance, and no father. I think of my mother’s illness and all the disappointments it carries. My dream of going to a prestigious East Coast college and Jasmine’s dream of being an entertainer have to make way for the daily sacrifices that our new life demands. My world has become unglued, leaving me powerless to pursue my life vision.

For years, I had dreamt of my independence. My friends and I had talked about the fun we would have and the places we would go as we used our parents as chauffeurs. We would be joining school clubs, participating in athletic events, enjoying endless parties, shopping, and just kicking it at each other’s houses.

Instead I have become my mother’s “unsung hero,” Jasmine is the “invisible child,” and Mom is a “parent parenting on her back.” One afternoon, my teacher offered me a tutoring position, and I rushed home to share the news with my mother. As I was turning the key in the lock, I heard her screaming, “Tiffany! Hurry! Run, run!” I was agitated immediately. I wanted to tell her about my tutoring offer, not have to help her to the bathroom again. Purposefully, I walked slowly into her room as she continued to yell frantically.

I approached her and softly said, “I don’t believe you’re ill, Mom.” As I denied the fact that rheumatoid arthritis lived in her body, making her arms and legs immobile, I continued saying, “You just want to stop working and have me and Jasmine be your servants, and I’m tired of it!”

Mom appeared baffled as she responded, “What? Girl, hurry up and get me to the bathroom!”

As I prepared to execute our regularly practiced routine, I muttered under my breath, “‘Do this for your mom,’ said the doctor. ‘Do this for your mom,’ said the nurse.”

My life has been all about my mom since I was nine years old. After twenty years of marriage, my dad decided that caring for his wife was no longer his responsibility. The door of childhood suddenly slammed shut, leaving me and my sister alone to care for her. I couldn’t turn to the community for fear of being placed in foster care. We had to hide within society. As a result, I have had to take on many adult responsibilities like shopping, banking, budgeting, and escorting Mom to school, appointments, and social events. I have constantly heard, “You do such a nice job of caring for your mom!” People have always asked me questions or commented about her health. Sometimes it felt like people believed Mom and I were joined at the hip. I remember thinking to myself, I don’t want to do these things! I’m a child! It’s my life and I want it to be about me! When is it ever going to be about me?

Looking back, now that I’m older, I can’t help but chuckle. I thought my life was over the day my dad left, and I faced the sentence of caregiving, yet it had only just begun. There were many daily challenges; like time constraints, never being able to do anything spontaneously, declining my peers many invitations, unable to tell the truth nor being able to explain the secret life I had to live, and shying away from building any friendships.

I spent many years feeling deprived of freedom, living with my chocked identity. I’ll never forget the day my life finally awoke. As usual, I was depressed, walking past the career center, when my eyes spotted an advertisement for the Cal Polytechnic Summer Young Scholars program for engineers. I read all the requirements; my grades qualified. I still had to honor my mother though. We conferred, and both my mother and my sister embraced my attending this program. Instantly, I felt the bondage and burden slipping off my back.

Watching my mother sitting in her wheelchair or lying on her bed, running a tutoring business and struggling to complete her master’s degree, seeing her bylines in the magazines and receiving a paycheck from her tutoring business, and moving into the new house she purchased, all gave me determination.

I decided to live life with a sense of urgency and passion; I became resilient. Armed with my caregiving tools, I surged forward. I sought opportunities to move me toward freedom, independence, and adventure. I went to Connecticut and completed the Yale program for young scholars, and spent time traveling in New York. In high school, I studied French and, before I knew it, I was off to Vancouver and Paris to experience the culture. While at Claremont, I studied Japanese. After graduation in spring of 2005, I packed my bags to take residency in Japan. I discovered that experiencing other cultures is one of my passions. My circle of friends increased, and I traveled internationally at every given chance.

My responsibilities at home have inspired my passion for economics, and as a result, I studied economics, mathematics, and other fields at Claremont to become an international business attorney. I have learned to always take one step further, and I now know there is no desire I have that I cannot achieve. Coupled with my knowledge and self-reliance, I’m confident that as an adult I can succeed.

The tangible rewards are great, and I enjoyed each one immensely, but the intangible rewards, such as learning, are greater; with freedom comes responsibility, and with hard work, comes freedom. Most of all, I learned to be content in my situation. Through that awareness, I am now a self-sufficient, caring, and sensitive person. Ever since my mom became ill, I have been presented with numerous opportunities. If I were to tell you that the responsibilities of caregiving are not overwhelming, I would be lying. If I were to tell you that I never got angry about being saddled with these responsibilities, I would be in denial. However, by embracing caregiving as a gift and not a burden, I have learned that hard work and disappointment are not punishments, but opportunities to soar.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the LORD your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior; I give Egypt for your ransom, Cush and Seba in your stead” (Isaiah 43:2-3).

Reflection: Go within and BE CONTENT...therein lies your power. Travel the road put before you, knowing that God is guiding you toward greatness.

Independence on Wheels

Have you ever been truly afraid of the one thing you really wanted? I have. I wanted my independence, but fear crept into my psyche in an attempt to keep me from my desires. I wanted the independence a mobilized wheelchair could offer me, yet I was afraid to go down my ramp alone. Besides the few practice sessions with the therapist, I haven’t been on a ramp alone in twelve years.

At the tender age of forty-three, after rheumatoid arthritis invaded my body, leaving all my joints practically immobile, the only treatment for me was to sit and be pushed around.

Several years passed and the disease continued to destroy my joints and mobility, resulting in my inability to push myself. The doctor suggested a mobilized wheelchair as a solution. I resisted at first, believing that the mobility in my arms would return if I worked hard enough. Yet years went by and the disease continued to exacerbate my limbs. Finally, I began to see the benefit that a mobilized wheelchair would offer, a benefit that my doctor, therapists, and friends repeated so often: independence.

My therapist decided that I needed a motorized custom-built wheelchair. The sales representative told me that it would take several months to design the chair. However, it took a little over two years. Finally, after all that waiting, she arrived with the chair and the ticket to my independence!

Driving that 300-pound wheelchair around the house turned out to be a cinch. After mastering that feat, I figured that it was time to move to the next level and drive the chair outside. I really wanted to go outside because I hadn’t ventured out alone in twelve years, and I adamantly wanted to change that part of my life. I wanted as much independence as possible, and I knew that my wheelchair would give it to me.

I rolled into my family room and approached the ramp in the front door. I wanted to go outside, yet I was hesitant—OK, scared.

When crossing the threshold onto the ramp there is a small bump, which makes the chair pop up a fraction of a centimeter onto the ramp. I thought about the pop and fearfully wheeled away from the door.

My mind pondered the many times I went down the ramp with my therapist and everything ended up being fine. I prayed, “Lord give me the courage to wheel down this ramp.” I visualized myself rolling down the ramp safely. I then took a deep breath, placed the speedometer to “turtle,” the lowest speed, and I grasped the joystick. Holding tightly, inch by inch I moved slowly down the ramp.

Yes! I was ecstatic—so ecstatic, in fact, that I decided to drive midway down the block. I moved so quickly and easily that I decided to go the full block. The sky was clear and a cool breeze surrounded me. I was confident, thrilled, feeling adventurous and enjoying my independence.

Moving along, singing and greeting everybody on the streets, I cranked up the speed from first to second to third, out of the five speed ranges my chair offers. I decided to go around the block. At the end of the next block there was a cul-de-sac. I traveled to the end, turned around, and turned up the next block. I spoke with everyone I saw along the way.

I had so much fun that I turned around and continued heading south. Who would’ve known that the next street was a cul-de-sac as well? I sang and moved the speed gear up to “rabbit,” top speed.

Moving toward the end of the next block, I spotted a footbridge. I remembered seeing the bridge a few years ago, when my aide and I ventured out for a tour of the neighborhood. I remembered that the bridge led to the opposite side of my house. I also remembered that we didn’t cross it, but I couldn’t remember why.

I rolled up to the bridge and pondered for a moment. I looked it over and proceeded to move up the bridge. Everything was fine until I got midway. Oops! The bridge descended into a slope like the ramps in the kids’ skateboard park. It was too steep!

There was no way I was going to attempt to traverse the abyss below. I blew my horn and began backing up. I was doing quite well until I met a tree in an unfriendly manner. Bang! “Oh heck,” I said as I pulled the joystick forward.

The chair didn’t move; it didn’t even wiggle. I pulled the stick to the right and then back to the left—nothing. My neck is practically immobilized as well, but I turned my head as far as I could—no one in sight. I watched the ground, hoping for an advancing shadow—again nothing. Next, I listened closely, hoping for the sound of approaching footsteps—still nothing. I called out “Help!” several times, but there was no answer.

There I sat stuck in the mud against a tree, a huge oak. If someone were to walk by, they would never see me. I came to the conclusion that there was no one on the streets. Fear was threatened to take over my mind—You can’t be independent—now what? I had a little self-talk: Diane, stop focusing on the circumstances. Independence is your desire and God is your source—seek Him.

Instantly, my mind reflected on the scripture from Deuteronomy 31:6: “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you.”

I called out, “God, help,” and I closed my eyes, visualizing myself being rescued. I then opened my eyes and yelled, “Help, help!”

A woman appeared. She looked as if to be in her early thirties, fit and toned, wearing a neat pair of khaki pants, matching top, and sneakers. As she approached, she asked in a calm patient manner, “What can I do to help you?” I explained to her the function of my chair’s power release bars. She attempted to reach them and reported to me that the tree was blocking her access to them.

“Darn it!” I said aloud, becoming more discouraged.

Meanwhile, the woman looked at the wheelchair, rolled up her sleeves and placed her keys on the ground. “Don’t worry,” she said confidently, “I’ll help you.” She squatted down and gave me directions. “Turn the chair on. Now move the joystick to the right. Okay, now to the left,” she said as she moved the chair. “Now go forward.” I followed her directions and the muddy wheels rolled onto the cement.

“Hallelujah!” I shouted. She smiled.

I introduced myself, and in turn, she introduced herself as Michelle, and explained that she happened to be checking on her grandmother when she heard my call for help.

She offered to walk me home. I thanked her for her gracious invitation, but declined and dashed away full speed ahead alone. I traveled home singing all the way, enjoying my freedom—independence on wheels!

Reflection: Go within and BE COURAGEOUS…therein lies your power. Courage renders fear powerless, so use it to move ahead to your desired venture.

Give Me My Dignity

Today, a woman from Meals on Wheels came to interview me. My daughter opened the door, and when she came in I offered the woman a seat. She was a pleasant woman; she leaned over and shook my hand, and we exchanged greetings. This lady on my couch began to explain the Meals on Wheels program to me. She said she needed some papers to be signed, and she called my daughter into the room. The lady reviewed the entire program again with my daughter, and asked her to sign the document. My daughter looked at me, knowing that I needed to approve of her signing my name to anything. I gave her the okay.

I asked the woman why she gave my daughter all the information she had just given me. She began to explain that she had assumed I must have been taking a lot of pain medication for my illness, so she thought I might be forgetful. I was quick to inform her that my brain worked fine. In fact, I said, it is quite strong—and I take pleasure in using it, one of the few elements of my body that works.

She asked about my diagnosis. I spoke briefly about rheumatoid arthritis (RA). She told me she had never seen anyone with RA confined to a wheelchair. She made little remarks: “How awful,” “What a shame,” “You poor thing.”

From the onset of my RA, these pitying little comments had become commonplace. Initially, I found myself angry, and questioned my value as a human being. I had my five-minute pity party, believing I served no purpose other than to provide my care team with employment. The need to be accepted as a valuable, worthy human being was one of the most vital aspects of my life. I found myself defending my existence to myself, justifying my right to just be a human being. I verbally thanked my Creator for the many facets of my life that still functioned: my cognitive skills, my active mind, and my five functioning senses.

So I’ve learned to protect my dignity. It’s amazing to me how frequently people think they have it better than me. Physically, certainly the Meals on Wheels representative is stronger and more mobile, but how else is she better than me? And how do those ways matter? None of us are truly any better than anyone else. We are put on this planet for the glory of God and the encouragement of one another.

I interrupted the woman’s simpering platitudes and asked her why she was saying these things. I live with this every day, I reminded her, and I get to experience all the disadvantages of having RA and using a wheelchair. I have this disease, and there is nothing I, nor any doctors, can do to alleviate it—but I try to find the silver lining in my life every day. That lining keeps me from falling into depression and developing a case of the “poor mes.” I look at the blessings bestowed on me, and I show my gratitude.

The Meals on Wheels lady was surprised. She told me there were so many people complaining in less-crippling circumstances. “My God, they should see you. You are remarkable. You have a great disposition, you’re pleasant, and you have a kind attitude.”

There will always be moments when we are faced with seemingly insurmountable odds. As much as you may think I am cursed, I am blessed too. In addition to gaining the respect of the woman who initially pitied me for my RA, I’ve also gained the assistance of the organization she represented. Now, Meals on Wheels comes along and feeds me three times a week. I’m blessed with three less meals I have to be concerned about. And I get to share the source of my blessings with you.

My blessings come from a source greater than me. It is within me, and my hope is that it shines from the inside out. I believe I am more thankful than most. When people assist me—whether they are motivated by money, the goodness of their heart, obligation, or anything else—I am grateful that God thought of me that day, in that moment, and continues to provide and bless through the actions of his creations.

What would doctors do without people with health challenges? What would the Meals on Wheels program be without people to serve? We need them, and they need us. We all need each other.

I believe my treasures are within. I went within and found strength and solutions.

Still, I get exhausted from having to defend the limitations disability carries. So many well-meaning people are constantly focusing on my limitations. They judge my worth and my value to my family, my friends, my community, and our world based on my physical abilities. Frankly, I am sick of people, especially my friends and relatives, reminding me of the effect of my disability instead of rewarding my abilities

I’ve been parenting on my back, raising two children from the bed to the wheelchair. I’ve achieved a master’s degree while travelling on wheels. I’ve bought a home. I’ve had the sense to divorce a man with whom marriage was no longer the blessing it was meant to be. And in my greatest moments, leaning and trusting God, being joyous and in peace, I keep an ear to prayer and listen for God’s inspiration. I’ve learned to be fearless. And, living fearlessly, my faith has grown by leaps and bounds. I’ve entered and won a few writing contests. I’ve taken God’s word and travelled independently on my neighborhood streets. Enjoying my passion for the success of others, I am eager to awaken morning after morning.

I cannot help but wonder, does their pity for me bring them joy, power, or satisfaction? In other words, do they see themselves as more of a person than me because they are mobile? Maybe their self-esteem needs a boost, so they point out the shortcomings in my physical health. A person living with a disability may be unable, but that does not mean she is necessarily incapable. Those of us with disabilities can give you something just as good as you can give us. Why do you think a physical gift is more important or valuable than inspirational gifts—gifts like patience, love, kindness, and peace? Who are we if we are alone? Who are we without peace?

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid” (John 14:27).

A person without peace is more pitiful than one confined to a wheelchair. I thank God for the chair. Years ago, there was no chair. Thank God for your blessings. Do not boast. Tomorrow you too could join me in a wheelchair of your own.

“Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me” (II Corinthians 12:8-9).

Reflection: Go within and BE DIGNIFIED…therein lies your power. Love God’s people. All humankind need respect and dignity. Don’t assume someone has a terrible life just because you expect it would be.

About the Author

Diane Williams is a freelance writer, spiritual coach, prayer counselor, and inspirational speaker. She writes profiles, book reviews, feature articles, and media kits. Her works appeared in such publications as Guideposts, Angels on Earth, PLUS, Pray! magazine, the San Dimas Writer’s Workshop’s Tales from the Authors: Stories, Essays, and Poetry Vol. 1, and When God Makes Lemonade: True Stories That Amaze and Encourage. She also is the author of the blog: mindofagoddess.wordpress.com. Angels in Action is her debut book and she is currently working on her soon-to-be-released book, The Invisible Child: A Memoir.

Content

Angels in Action: Stories to Inspire by Diane Williams

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Last Call for Alcohol

Try God

Texas to California

Touch with Caution

Pray and Get Out of God’s Way

AH-CHOO!

Be Still…

Matthew2

The Merit of a Mentor

Who Locked the Door?

Parenting God’s Tough Lessons

At Your Service

Acts of Kindness

When Mom Prays

The Rewards of My Childhood

Independence on Wheels

Give Me My Dignity

About the Author