At a retreat I volunteered one afternoon to work in the prayer room. As I was sorting through requests a woman appeared in the doorway.
“Is this the chapel?” she asked nervously.
“Yes,” I said. “Can I help you?”
She introduced herself as Mary, and we moved to a small table in the back. As she told me her long, tragic story, two women who knew her well joined us. We pushed our chairs close so we could fit around the table. I feared I had gotten in over my head. I wished there had been a minister to pray with us.
When Mary finished talking, the four of us closed our eyes and prayed, begging for the forces of good to overcome the evil that had brought such sadness to Mary’s life. When I lifted my head, I was surprised to see her look so relieved.
A few days later a friend who had been at the retreat called. “By the way,” she asked, “who was that man in the chapel with you?”
“What man?” I asked.
“The middle-aged guy with gray hair, slightly overweight. He had on a plaid shirt and sat at the table with you and Mary and the two other women.”
But there was no room for anyone else, I thought.
Later I spoke to another friend who had been there that weekend. She had come by the chapel while I was praying with Mary and had seen other men besides the one with the plaid shirt. “They looked like ministers to me,” she said, “so I figured you were doing all right.”
I thought about one description of angels in the Bible: “Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?” (Hebrews 1:14). They had been praying at my side.
