An Angel’s Journal: Tales of Hope and Inspiration from His messenger’s hand

By William Hopper

A diary found in an old vestry claims to be written by an angel. What it reveals of love, loss, pain, and redemption touches deep inside the human soul, and brings meaning to even the most troubled life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Hopper
• Release date: Sep 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465863362

William Hopper

William Hopper is an author and columnist, writing mainly on religions and religious history. He has authored six books, including the best-selling Heathen's Guide series.

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An Angel’s Journal: Tales of Hope and Inspiration from His messenger’s hand

By William Hopper William Hopper

Copyright William Hopper 2010

Published by CoolCats Publishing at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Piedmont, Illinois, 1974

December 12, 1977, Just outside Lansing, Michigan

Jason, February 6, 1983, Times Square, New York

Alma Hershowitz, August 4, 1984, Just Outside Moses Lake, Washington

Jason, Manhattan Island, September 6, 1985

Jason, Central Park, New Years Eve, 1985

John Dubois, New Orleans, June 1987

Jason, Broadway, New York. March 22, 1987

May, 1999. Venice Beach, California

Excerpt From the Journal of Father Richard Olin

A Note from the Author

We are known as Messengers. ‘Agellos’ in Greek. Angels to most people. It is a name given to us by humans, though it is less accurate than we would wish.

In truth, we are more watchers than messengers. Though there are times when He asks that we speak to humans, these happen far too seldom. For the most part, we watch. We wait. Then, when providence dictates, we intervene. Those are the moments we live for... the times when we're allowed to directly interact with His creations. With you.

I set now to writing about these interactions because He wills it of me. What will become of these pages— into whose hands they will one day fall— is irrelevant to me. I write because He wishes it, the joy of fulfilling that wish being the only true reward I could hope to attain.

May these missives please Him, and may those whose eyes they were meant for find them worthy.

~ Agellos.

(Return to Table of Contents)

Piedmont, Illinois, 1974.

It was in early January that I found myself watching a girl named Cathy argue with her mother about chores and homework. I watched, as we do, but quickly realized that this was just the usual rebellion of a teen that loved both her mother and her freedom but hadn’t yet reconciled the two. Still, there was something about her that drew my attention, and I watched for most of her seventeenth year, trying to discern what it was.

For a while I thought I might have imagined it. She went about her life; the life of any other girl in Illinois in the 1970's. The February snows melted into wet March, and still there was nothing of consequence. She failed math, passed English. Secretly, she hated the Beatles' music but raved about it to all her friends. In late May when school let out she got a job at her uncle's department store, settling into a routine of selling shoes and gossiping with Tracey, the girl from the make-up counter. I listened to hours of conversations about Mrs. Hadley's affairs, Bob Hatcher's new car, and the latest dance craze. In all my years on this planet I can say with some certainty that nothing exceeds a young girl's ability to talk endlessly about nothing. Still, I listened. I watched. And I waited.

By late August I was almost ready to move on, having decided that whatever glint I'd seen that first day would, for now at least, remain buried inside the troubled life of a teenage girl. It was on August 26 that I finally made the decision to leave Piedmont, Illinois. Cathy seemed to be doing OK, and I saw no real reason to haunt her. Then, around 3:30 in the afternoon, she showed me something of human nature that I'll never forget.

She came home from work as she always did, but something was different. The glint, the one I'd all but given up on, was caught at the corner of her eye. She was carrying a brown box, and from the ferocity with which she held it to her chest I gathered that whatever was in it was somehow sacred to her. Instead of going to the kitchen for a snack as she'd usually do, she made her way around to the back of the house to the rear door of the garage. I followed, intrigued and unseen.

The garage was never used in the summer, and as she opened the door a blast of heat erupted from the carport. Too many summer days sealed up had left a hot, stale stench to the room. Still, she moved into the heat without a care. Locking the door behind her, she spied out the small window to make sure that no one had followed. No one had.

I was a shadow in that room, mimicking the long rafter that crossed the ceiling. I watched intently, unsure what was happening but thrilled by the glint that had become a gleam in the girl's eyes. Zealously, she ripped the paper from the box she carried, revealing a full set of oil paints and brushes. These, I realized, were what she's been working to afford all these months. From the look of them they were quite expensive, easily several months’ salary for a girl earning the meager wage she was.

I watched as she arranged each paint on a make-shift easel made from a saw horse. Every color was opened, its lid carefully placed beside it, then fully appreciated before moving on to the next. It took an hour or more for everything to get set up, but she didn't care. This was her haven; her sanctuary. Even if the world were looking for her she knew they'd never look here in this hot, miserable garage. She was alone, but for me.

She drew a large canvas from its hiding spot behind a row of glass jars, and set it gently but firmly in the vice at the edge of the work bench.

I can't begin to tell you what it felt like to watch this girl begin to paint except to say that there was true magnificence in her motion. Her entire being poured through those brushes. I'd watched for months as she worked so many long hours, surrendering her entire seventeenth summer to get to this moment, these paints. Now, from my shadow in the rafter, I watched as she lived her dream, the bright colors finding the canvas in waves and curves that echoed a pure joy I'd never seen in a human before.

I'd like to tell you that she worked for hours, or that she went on to a great career as an artist, but neither would be true. This event that would forever change me lasted only an hour before Cathy collapsed in exhaustion on the floor, her head resting on her legs, her arms hiding her face from the world.

In the moments that followed I came to realize that she was crying; a deep, soul wrenching sob that seemed to fill the entire world. I almost stirred from my hiding spot to declare myself to her, to let her know that whatever pains she was exorcising could be salved. Having watched her passions I wanted to reach out and somehow make whatever was hurting her go away, but she lifted her head before I could move. In