By Wendy Hobday Haugh
The angel of the LORD encamps around those who fear him, and he delivers them.
~Psalm 34:7
It was one of those glorious spring days when everything feels right with the world. I was profoundly happy, with a wonderful husband, a one-year-old son, and an organist job I loved at the church where I'd grown up. It was a Thursday evening, and choir practice had just ended. Feeling exhilarated, I ushered everyone out of the church, then locked myself safely inside, eager to squeeze in some additional organ practice before heading home to my family.
The angel of the LORD encamps around those who fear him, and he delivers them.
~Psalm 34:7
It was one of those glorious spring days when everything feels right with the world. I was profoundly happy, with a wonderful husband, a one-year-old son, and an organist job I loved at the church where I'd grown up. It was a Thursday evening, and choir practice had just ended. Feeling exhilarated, I ushered everyone out of the church, then locked myself safely inside, eager to squeeze in some additional organ practice before heading home to my family.
Climbing up on the bench, I pulled out my postlude for Sunday (a rousing Bach piece), cranked up the volume and began playing. The dramatic piece was a perfect match for my exuberant mood until — suddenly — I felt a firm, warm finger dig into my spine. Instantly, an electrically charged aura engulfed me, giving me an eerie sense that my waist-long hair was standing on end.
Astonished, terrified, I stopped dead, fingers hovering above the keyboard, my breath shallow, ears listening for any movement from behind. Agonizing seconds passed while I gathered my courage to turn and face whoever stood behind me. Heart pounding, I drew a shaky breath, spun around, and saw... no one!
Or had someone slipped behind a nearby pew?
Abruptly, the air around me returned to normal, and I calmed down a bit. Dropping from the bench, annoyed by this surreal interruption, I strode through the church, inspecting pews, back rooms, windows, doors. Everything was locked up tight. Nothing was amiss yet clearly I'd sensed something — or was it just my overactive imagination?
Skeptical now, and eager to resume practicing, I returned to the organ and fired up my Bach. But instantly — not two measures later — that firm, insistent finger was at my back again, the air charged with an irrefutable sense of urgency.
This time, I didn't question. As my music died, I whispered with uncanny conviction: "Okay, God, I get it. I'm outta here."
Uneasy yet strangely un-fearful, I turned off the organ, grabbed my things, and exited the church I'd known and loved since infancy. Outside, I took a slow, hard look around me. The spring evening was still lovely and warm. The birds sang sweetly. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves. Yet I was certain that something life-changing had just occurred, and in that moment I couldn't help wondering... would I ever know, exactly, what it was?
Early the next morning, I was yanked from sleep by the blast of a telephone.
"Wendy," cried Father Barrett, our minister, "did you notice anything unusual at church last night?"
My eyes popped open. Wide awake now, the story of my previous night's adventure tumbled out.
There was a pause.
"Well," Father Barrett sighed at last. "I'm glad you left when you did because the church was broken into and robbed of all its silver and gold. This morning, when questioned by police, a neighbor recalled seeing a dark utility van parked after hours in the library parking lot next to the church. They must have been waiting for you to leave."
My skin prickled. My head reeled as the inexplicable events of the previous night started to make sense.
"Someone was watching over you, Wendy," Father Barrett offered kindly.
At that moment, I knew he was right. My guardian angel had persisted in bugging me until I trusted, on blind faith, that it was time for me to go. But in the days and years to come, I was haunted by the possibility that had I only stayed longer, my beloved church might have been spared the travesty of a break-in and burglary. Maybe the bad guys would have given up and gone away! In no small way, I felt responsible, burdened by the sense that I'd deserted my church in her hour of need.
I was twenty-eight years old when this happened; I'm fifty-nine now. I went on to have two more beautiful sons and, today, I'm a grandmother to three children as well. But I'm a pretty slow learner when it comes to major life lessons because only recently did it dawn on me that I did not let my church down, after all. To the heartless thieves, I was just an expendable commodity compared to the monetary value of those precious metals. I see now that I was in very real danger, and I'm glad that I followed my instincts. I wasn't expected to be a super hero who "saved the day" that beautiful spring night. Far from it, I was meant to do exactly what I did:
STOP.
GET OUT.
GO HOME.
BE SAFE.
Far wiser than I, my guardian angel made sure I lived to see another day, to be there for my family and to savor the many blessings of this life.
Astonished, terrified, I stopped dead, fingers hovering above the keyboard, my breath shallow, ears listening for any movement from behind. Agonizing seconds passed while I gathered my courage to turn and face whoever stood behind me. Heart pounding, I drew a shaky breath, spun around, and saw... no one!
Or had someone slipped behind a nearby pew?
Abruptly, the air around me returned to normal, and I calmed down a bit. Dropping from the bench, annoyed by this surreal interruption, I strode through the church, inspecting pews, back rooms, windows, doors. Everything was locked up tight. Nothing was amiss yet clearly I'd sensed something — or was it just my overactive imagination?
Skeptical now, and eager to resume practicing, I returned to the organ and fired up my Bach. But instantly — not two measures later — that firm, insistent finger was at my back again, the air charged with an irrefutable sense of urgency.
This time, I didn't question. As my music died, I whispered with uncanny conviction: "Okay, God, I get it. I'm outta here."
Uneasy yet strangely un-fearful, I turned off the organ, grabbed my things, and exited the church I'd known and loved since infancy. Outside, I took a slow, hard look around me. The spring evening was still lovely and warm. The birds sang sweetly. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves. Yet I was certain that something life-changing had just occurred, and in that moment I couldn't help wondering... would I ever know, exactly, what it was?
Early the next morning, I was yanked from sleep by the blast of a telephone.
"Wendy," cried Father Barrett, our minister, "did you notice anything unusual at church last night?"
My eyes popped open. Wide awake now, the story of my previous night's adventure tumbled out.
There was a pause.
"Well," Father Barrett sighed at last. "I'm glad you left when you did because the church was broken into and robbed of all its silver and gold. This morning, when questioned by police, a neighbor recalled seeing a dark utility van parked after hours in the library parking lot next to the church. They must have been waiting for you to leave."
My skin prickled. My head reeled as the inexplicable events of the previous night started to make sense.
"Someone was watching over you, Wendy," Father Barrett offered kindly.
At that moment, I knew he was right. My guardian angel had persisted in bugging me until I trusted, on blind faith, that it was time for me to go. But in the days and years to come, I was haunted by the possibility that had I only stayed longer, my beloved church might have been spared the travesty of a break-in and burglary. Maybe the bad guys would have given up and gone away! In no small way, I felt responsible, burdened by the sense that I'd deserted my church in her hour of need.
I was twenty-eight years old when this happened; I'm fifty-nine now. I went on to have two more beautiful sons and, today, I'm a grandmother to three children as well. But I'm a pretty slow learner when it comes to major life lessons because only recently did it dawn on me that I did not let my church down, after all. To the heartless thieves, I was just an expendable commodity compared to the monetary value of those precious metals. I see now that I was in very real danger, and I'm glad that I followed my instincts. I wasn't expected to be a super hero who "saved the day" that beautiful spring night. Far from it, I was meant to do exactly what I did:
STOP.
GET OUT.
GO HOME.
BE SAFE.
Far wiser than I, my guardian angel made sure I lived to see another day, to be there for my family and to savor the many blessings of this life.
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