Diane Williams - Angels in Action - Stories to Inspire

My mind mediated on the words of my first college English professor. “You are not a writer,” he said as he returned my first assignment with a huge, red F across the front. No one had ever given me such an F. Not ever. I was in total shock. Throughout grade school and then later in high school, I was commended for my writing. It was my dream and I thought I was good at it. To make matters worse, the professor approached me at the end of class and candidly told me I had no talent and suggested I change my major immediately if I wanted to eat in this lifetime. Distraught, I fled to the registrar’s office and changed my major to sociology.

Now I had the opportunity of a lifetime waiting for me, and I was haunted by those words, which marked an indelible imprint on my mind for the past twelve years. I had thought writing was my mission, but now I was seriously thinking of not going to the interview.

Fortunately, in the midst of my self-deprecating thoughts, the phone rang. It was my friend, Betty, inviting me to meet her for lunch at Starbucks. Thankful for the diversion, I accepted the invitation and went to meet her. While waiting for Betty, I stood in the extremely long line, pulled a book out of my purse, and began reading.

Unexpectedly, a voice behind me said, “Now isn’t this funny. We are the only ones reading amongst all these people, and we just happen to be standing next to each other. Is that a coincidence or what?”

Thinking he might be flirting with me, I ignored him until I saw his sparse, silvery hair and thin, frail hands, and bright smile—I relaxed and we exchanged pleasantries. Next we compared the books we were holding, and then we discussed common interests and began sharing little things about our lives. One special moment came when he started to tell me how much he loved the Lord.

“Gee, that must be why you look so radiant. My God, you look like an angel!” I exclaimed.

He laughed and informed me that his favorite pastimes were ministering to people and writing about the Lord. In turn, I explained that I had wanted to be a writer all my life. As a child, I wrote scripts and songs for my friends to perform whenever they were bored. I wanted to do something other than play ball or gossip. As I grew older, I was encouraged by teachers to write more and cultivate my talent. Increasingly, I dreamed of becoming a writer. He assured me that by not pursuing my passion for writing, I was not practicing the presence of the Divine—the essence of my being. He explained that God is my source, and if I believed that I’d been commissioned by God to write, then I must write. Otherwise, I would continue to have the restless spirit for writing that I had suppressed for years. Then I asked, “If God gave me this desire, why is it such a hard skill for me to grasp?”

Dr. Wilson defined my obstacles, saying that my first critical professor and my fear of failure were stumbling blocks in my path. I will never forget the power I felt when he placed his hand on mine and quoted a Bible verse, “‘God is not human, that He should lie, not a human being, that He should change his mind. Does He speak and then not act? Does He promise and not fulfill?’” (Numbers 23:19). He continued to speak to me, saying, “Honey, when God places a desire in your heart, he will make a way for you to achieve it.” Then, smiling, he asked, “So what are you going to do to pursue your writing?”

I told him about my impending interview—and how I was considering not going. I don’t think he even heard me. Instead, Dr. Wilson offered to be my editor.

“That is, if you want me to be,” he added.

Dr. Wilson’s skill, patience, and insight were exactly what I needed. With a doctorate in English, he acted as an instructor, writer, and meticulous editor in an effort to assist me in the craft he knew so well. He encouraged me to be a fearless writer through the continuous use of the writer’s tools to improve my craft and gave me the courage to bolster my confidence in the skills I already possessed. Now he is my mentor and one of my favorite friends. This resulted in me going to the interview and receiving the job.

Coincidence? Anything is possible I guess, but that’s not how I see it. Sure, there might be doubters who would deny that God had his hand in this—that my friend just happened to be late for lunch; that I just happened to meet someone who was skilled (a professional, no less) in exactly what I needed, and who would not only encourage me, but would also be a mentor and a friend. The end of my story is really just the beginning. I am now ready to fulfill my lifelong dream of being a writer, thanks to the merit of a mentor.

Reflection: Go within and BELIEVE …therein lies your power. Dream your dreams, believing God has given you everything and everyone you need to succeed. After all, He gave you the dream.

Can you imagine lying in bed, watching four intoxicated strangers come into your home? I was a thirty-seven-year-old divorced mother and unable to walk. Arthritis had stiffened my joints, and I had to give my daughters most of the responsibilities that required the use of my limbs—I needed them to be my arms and legs. This responsibility included helping with the dishes, laundry, and locking the doors at night.

Just before dawn one August morning, I was lying in bed praying. In the midst of my petition I heard someone turn the knob on the front door. From my bed at the end of the hall, I silently watched as four men entered my home.

They stopped in the living room, and started talking to each other in halting, slurred whispers. “Slim, that jam was weak. The chicks were stuck-up.”

“I got a few numbers and I’ll use them as soon as I wake up. I’ll educate you fellows on scoring with the ladies before we go to the next party,” Slim chuckled as he dropped to the couch. The chatter became dull and vulgar.

“Good morning,” I called out in a joyful voice. The men were nonresponsive. The second time, I bellowed, “GOOD MORNING!”

“I wish Van would tell his woman to shut up. She’s hurting my head with that noise,” said another one of the men in a loud baritone voice.

“Man, that is not Van’s lady.”

“Van, put your woman to sleep!” the baritone yelled.

“I just told you that is not Van’s woman,” the other one said slowly. He stood up carefully, turning his head to look around the room, “And this is not Van’s house. We better get out of here!”

He went over to the man on the couch and began shaking him hard and yelling, “Man, wake up! We got to get out of here—this isn’t Van’s house.”

“Leave me alone!” the other shot back.

“Look, dawg, this is the wrong place. Get up!” he shouted.

“Go to bed, man. The booze is making you hallucinate,” the second voice stuttered.

“Slim, we got to drag these two fools out of here,” a third voice said.

I lay on the bed, watching the two men stagger as they dragged their friends out. As they closed the door, my daughters Jasmine and Tiffany came running into my bedroom.

“Who was that?” they screeched together.

“Van’s friends, apparently,” I answered calmly.

Still in shock, the girls asked excitedly, “What were they doing here?”

“They wanted to sleep,” I said.

“What! How did they get in?”

“I didn’t hear the doorbell,” Jasmine insisted. “Oh, Tiffany, you let them in?”

“No, I thought you did!” They looked at each other and then at me.

“Who opened the door for them?” Jasmine demanded.

Still calm, I said, “They opened the door for themselves.”

Jasmine raced to the door with Tiffany following close behind. Jasmine inspected the lock and concluded, “The lock isn’t broke.” She swung the door open swiftly, inspecting it on both sides. “Nothing wrong here.”