For the third time that day I dialed my son Randy’s number. Lately I couldn’t quit worrying about him. He lived in Detroit—far from my home in Alabama, and he was having money troubles.
I helped him out the best I could, but I had the feeling he was worse off than he let on.
“The number you have reached is no longer in service,” a recorded voice said.
I knew things were bad! I thought. Now I couldn’t even talk to him. Lord, please take care of Randy.
To take my mind off things, I tried doing some housework. I started with the shelf in my living room that held my angel collection and family photos.
Looking at all those angels—wooden, ceramic and glass—always gave me peace. But today even they couldn’t stop me from worrying. Usually I arranged the figures just so once I’d finished dusting. Today I just set them any which way.
After dinner I sat down on the couch, Randy still on my mind. Was he okay? Was there anyone looking out for him when I couldn’t?
I glanced up at Randy’s picture on the shelf and gasped. My angels were positioned all around Randy’s picture, as if they were all gathered to protect him.
A few days later Randy called with good news. Friends had given him a place to stay and he had some leads on a good job. “I knew you’d be all right,” I told him. “You had angels taking care of you all along!”
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