One day my friend Bob, who has multiple sclerosis, mentioned how Angus had helped him retrieve something he couldn’t reach from his wheelchair. I knew his wife, Rita, and his cat, Patches, but Angus? “Oh, Angus is what I’ve named my guardian angel,” he explained.
I’d always been a skeptic but Bob was a pretty smart guy, so I decided maybe there was something to this guardian angel business after all. Still, even if I did have my own angel, the idea of naming it seemed presumptuous.
About a week later I was putting pans away after baking a batch of cookies when I strained my back trying to close the drawer under the oven. I called my handyman to come fix it, but there was no answer. Then the thought of Bob and Angus popped into my head.
“God, if I have one,” I prayed, “let my guardian angel help me with this drawer.”
I heard a knock at the garage door. I couldn’t imagine who would come to the garage door at the back of the house, or how anyone had gotten by our dog without him barking. I cautiously opened the door to two older gentlemen in overalls.
“We got your call,” one said, “and we’ve come to fix your door.”
“I don’t need my door fixed; I need my drawer fixed,” I said. “Are you sure you’re at the right house? I didn’t call you.”
He showed me the work order. I admitted that everything except the first name was correct. “This says Beth called,” I pointed out. “I’m Joan.” I didn’t know any Beths. “But since you’re here, could you look at my drawer?” I pleaded.
They agreed, and in no time they had it refitted. I tried to pay them, but they refused.
“At least take some cookies,” I insisted, and off they went, each with a handful of chocolate chip cookies, grinning like schoolboys.
Later that evening, I realized God hadn’t just sent me help, He’d actually told me my angel’s name.
