Angel’s Wings and Other Signs
Since my youngest days, I’ve believed in signs. Not in the sense of needing a cosmic revelation to get out of bed each morning, but in a mindfulness that pays attention to something unexpected, knowing it has greater meaning than what appears on the surface.
These signs are as clear to my internal eyes as what I see with my external eyes when I gaze out on my garden or into the eyes of my husband. Over the years, my ability to know and trust these signs has grown. Often, they are a source of guidance on timing and direction. And they bring needed comfort and reassurance when facing the storms of life.
As COVID-19 has ravaged our world, I’ve found myself praying for signs of comfort to guide the ill, as well as their families and caregivers. But in October 2020, I found myself desperately praying for some kind of sign of my own as Lorenzo battled COVID-19.
It is a sobering, surreal feeling to take your husband to an emergency room at a hospital 3,000 miles away from home and hope he is not as ill with COVID-19 as he seems to be. And yet that’s exactly where we found ourselves while visiting our daughter and her boyfriend in Washington D.C.
Having all caught COVID-19 – despite taking all precautions – our daughter, her boyfriend and I were making a slow, but steady recovery. But Lorenzo was too ill to eat and losing strength quickly.
Finally, we were able to secure a pulse oximeter and took his O2 reading. We stared in disbelief at the number – 78. And we knew he needed help immediately.
A few hours later, I was FaceTiming Lorenzo as they prepared to put him on a ventilator. This cannot be happening. Not to him. Not to us. Not again.
“I’m scared,” Lorenzo wheezed, “but I’m going to fight like hell to come back to you.”
Willing myself not to cry, I mustered my courage and told him it was a promise I would hold him to.
Two hours later, his doctor called. Lorenzo was sedated and on a ventilator in the ICU. He assured me they would do all they could.
In the meantime, I did all I knew to do. I prayed. Prayed for Lorenzo’s healing. Prayed for a miracle. Prayed that I would not be facing the nightmare of burying another husband. Prayed for a sign.
Another phone call. The doctor again, telling me that as an affiliate of Johns Hopkins Hospital, they had shared Lorenzo’s case with COVID-19 specialists in Baltimore. Hopkins had a bed open in their COVID-19 ICU unit and they thought it best to air-evacuate Lorenzo to their facility where he could receive the most advanced care possible. Would I consent?
An immediate peace swept through me. A silent certainty that this was the right decision. Without hesitating, I said yes.
My daughter and her boyfriend came into the apartment at that moment with prayer candles they had bought at the store. They handed me one – an angel with its wings spread, covering two children as they walked through peril.
As my eyes gazed at the image, my inner eyes focused on the wings of the angel. The sign. The one I had been waiting for.
Immediately, I lit the candle and began praying again.
The prayer candle my daughter and her boyfriend brought me immediately after Lorenzo was intubated. It became a visual representation of my prayers.
I carried that candle with me wherever I went in the apartment. It sat on the bathroom counter as I showered. The candle illuminated the soup I warmed in the kitchen. And at night as I tried to sleep, the candle glowed on the dresser, offering a comforting presence.
As the candle burned over the next few days and my prayers for Lorenzo continued, the angel’s wings became blackened. Only the wings, spread in protection over the children, showed any sign of damage.
Slowly, the tears rolled down my cheeks and I found myself engulfed in waves of gratitude. The sign. The consolation and hope I had been praying for. In that moment, I somehow knew that against all odds, Lorenzo would come back to me healthy and whole.
And so, he did. Eleven days later, we picked him up from Johns Hopkins Hospital to take him back to D.C. to rest and recuperate while we waited for clearance to return home to Phoenix. Battered and weak, Lorenzo emerged from the hospital alive and with no damage to his major organs.
His doctors continue to monitor his progress, marveling at how rapid and complete a recovery he has made. “A walking miracle” one called him.
A miracle, indeed; one I continue to thank God for each day as I wake up to the prayer candle that made its way home with us. It sits on the icon table in our bedroom, where I often stare at the blackened wings of the angel, knowing God Himself protected Lorenzo through this hellish ordeal.
The candle gives me reassurance that protection and provision will remain present in our lives as we continue our journey together. It is not without challenges, to be sure. Lorenzo’s leg nerves were damaged by COVID-19 and he often relies on a cane to help him walk on particularly long days.
Since returning home, I’ve undergone two hip replacement surgeries – the reason we had traveled to Washington D.C. to see our daughter in the first place. My recovery is slow and the financial impact of so much hospitalization these past few months is significant.
But angel’s wings surround us. The journey continues. And for the moment, this is the only sign I need.