Woman's World Magazine-August 2011 issue #32
My Guardian Angel by Suzan Stirling-Meredith
When we pray for help, help always arrives--often in the most remarkable way.
As I sat beside my baby boy In the hospital, I suddenly knew what it meant for a heart to break.
There he lay in the NICU, a thick tube jutting from his mouth, his tiny chest rising and falling to the rhythm of a machine. Diagnosed with asthma and RSV, a respiratory virus that his newborn immune system couldn't fend off, he'd been fighting for weeks. Now, doctors were candid: Things weren't looking good.
Though I'd prayed constantly since the day Mitchell had been born, my hope was running on empty as I left the hospital that evening, planning to make a quick dash to tuck my daughter in for the night at my mom's before I returned.
But the roads were still covered in ice, and it was going to take forever. Tears welling in my eyes, desperate to see my little girl and equally desperate to return to my baby, I began to pray: "God, We've done all that we know how to do. I'm giving this to you now. Please make him well, or take him. Just don't let him suffer anymore."
Now, my tears streaming so hard I could barely see, I pulled to the shoulder, where I lay my head on the steering wheel. "And please," I whispered, "help me..."
Just then, the car filled with the glorious scent of freshly cut summer lilies.
The fragrance was so clear, so strong, that I stopped crying. I scanned the car, even rolling down the window to find the source of the scent. But there was nothing around to explain it, nothing but snow. And suddenly, a deep wave of peace poured through me.
He's going to make it, I knew.
Later that night, I told my husband, "It was Mitchell's angel. I know it was." And it must have been, because from that day forward our son began to improve.
Though the long battle he'd fought had left him with cerebral palsy, Mitchell was alive––a blessing of love, and a warrior who has bravely overcome every obstacle he's faced since. And I never forgot the beautiful message the angels sent to me.
Still, I'd never shared the story with my children. Not until last summer...
"I'm thinking of getting a tattoo." my daughter said. "A yellow lily."
Just then Mitch, now a strapping tall teenager, walked into the room. "Like these?" he asked, placing a vase of the blooms, cut from our backyard, on the table. And as the flowers' perfume wafted through the air ... I remembered.
"Why are you crying, Mom?" Mitch asked, slinging a protective arm around my shoulders.
Overcome, I said, "I have something to tell you ..." And as I shared the memory of that night, and how the scent of freshly cut lilies––the very scent that filled the room now––had carried me through one of the most difficult times of my life, I thanked the angels once again for that long-ago beautiful message, letting me know my boy would be just fine.