Frigid wind stung my cheeks as I walked up the steps to Chicago’s St. Hyacinth Basilica near my hometown of Evanston, Illinois. I barely felt the cold. My head was still spinning from the news.
I steadied myself on the icy railing. December 7, 1941. I was 16 years old. I knew I’d never forget this day as long as I lived. How could it have happened?
Less than an hour ago my family had been cozy at home enjoying Sunday dinner. We were all dressed up, my little sister in shiny patent-leather shoes and my four older brothers looking smart in matching ties.
Right after the meal we would head over to St. Hyacinth, where Evanston Township High School was hosting our annual Christmas concert for the community.
Our school was known for its musical program, and I was honored to be one of the singers in the chorus. I couldn’t wait to perform. We’d been rehearsing for weeks. I knew every note. Singing was my passion, and my refuge.
My mother said singing was like praying twice. I intended to send my prayers soaring up to heaven at the concert this evening!
Then, while we were finishing up our meal, the phone rang. My father left the table to answer it. “Hello?” he said. “Yes, I’m listening.” His eyes widened and he fell silent. He hung up and turned back to us. “The President just made a radio announcement,” he said. “Japan has bombed Pearl Harbor.”
The dinner table went quiet. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, unsure of what to do. According to my father, details were still trickling in from the White House.
But a few things were already clear—American military personnel had been caught completely by surprise and thousands on the island naval base had died.
The radio broadcasters warned that nothing could be gained from hysteria, but my mind was jumbled and I felt dizzy. I could see the same shock reflected back at me in the faces of my brothers and sisters, my mother and father.
I knew we were sharing the same thought: How could this have happened? How can this be real?
My mother’s voice finally broke the silence. “Helen, sweetheart, get your coat. We don’t want to be late for your concert.”
I did as Mother said, and the family drove to the church in silence. All of my excitement had vanished. Worry and doubt crowded my head. Would the United States now enter the war? What would that mean for my big brothers?
An icy chill went through me at the thought, and I pulled my hand from the church railing. For now I had to concentrate on the concert. My mother hurried me up the rest of the stairs. I quickly put away my coat and found my place in the chorus on stage.
I looked out at all the people in the audience. Were they afraid too? How would the war affect them all? My brothers, my family, my community, my country—would we ever be, or feel, safe again?
Before the program began, one of the teachers from the music department came to the head of the audience and repeated President Roosevelt’s announcement for the crowd. I felt sick. How could any of us be expected to perform?
The orchestra struck the first notes, and my classmates began to sing. I tried to lose myself in the music, but I couldn’t push away my anxieties. I looked up at the grand dome of the basilica, praying silently for strength. Singing is like praying twice, I told myself.
I mouthed the words to the music, but it was as if I had no voice to sing with.
I kept my eyes focused on the dome, its exquisite mural of saints and angels stretching around the base. Bright clouds floated above them, fading into a sky-blue backdrop that led up to a stained glass window in the center, patterned in azure and gold.
Music filled my ears—orchestral instruments, the voices of my friends. I felt like I was part of a celestial concert. The dome appeared suddenly to me like the inside of some observatory, opening up to reveal the heavens.
Glittering stars and rainbow galaxies burst into life, casting colors across the walls of the church. A glorious white-gold staircase shimmered into view, spiraling down from the infinite beyond.
On its steps descended a host of angels, their faces bright and joyous. They danced up and down the stairs, their divine song joining our chorus. I realized I was singing too. As our song came to a close, the ceiling above solidified again. The vision vanished. But I was left with a peace I couldn’t have expected. Especially now.
Maybe it was my imagination, I thought. But deep down inside I knew I had never seen anything so real. When I closed my eyes I could picture my vision—vividly—once again. And how could something I imagined take away my fear so completely?
I no longer had trouble joining in with the choir. I lifted my voice up to God and sang with all my heart. Now I knew that I was singing with the angels.
After the concert I rushed around to my friends in the chorus, asking if they had seen the angels too, or the staircase—or perhaps anything unusual at all. I asked my parents, my brothers and sister. They all shook their heads.
Why the heavenly vision was for me alone, I cannot say. But as we sang I believe I saw Christmas angels, carrying our prayers up to God and carrying God’s blessings back down on all of us.
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