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White and
flawless, it came to me in a dream
Feather From Above
by Linda Amore
Hebron, Ohio
I have a pair of
terry-cloth slippers that were once soft and white, but now after years of use
they are old, tattered and gray. Despite their holes, I can’t bring myself to
throw them out. Seven years ago, when my life turned completely upside down,
those slippers held an answer to prayer.
I
remember an evening back then when my husband, Ray, and I sat together in our
kitchen. It’s a happy room, the shelves decorated with wooden hearts and folk
art, the refrigerator bearing school notices and pictures of our son and
daughter. Kevin was in college at the time, and Faith still in high school. Ray
had come home from his job as a UPS truck driver, and the two of us were
enjoying some private time over a cup of coffee.
Ray was
talking about a neighbor who had been sick. “The doctors say it’s cancer,” Ray
said. “There isn’t much hope for him.”
“Don’t
tell me anymore,” I said. “Cancer is my biggest fear.”
I was
conscientious about getting regular checkups and mammograms once a year. Every
month I checked myself in the shower, just as my gynecologist had recommended,
following the contours of my skin with my fingertips, searching for lumps. And
each time I held my breath until I’d completed the task.
Ray
reached across the kitchen table and touched my hand. “Linda,” he said, “don’t
worry. What’s the sense in fearing something that isn’t there?”
But then
on a Saturday morning in June 1990 I felt a lump. It was the day after Faith’s
graduation from high school and the same month Ray and I had celebrated our
twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. High spirits had filled our house. Everything
had seemed perfect—I had a loving husband, great kids, a cozy home, close
friends. Then when I was in the shower my fingers froze on the lump, solid and
grotesque. It felt like a rock under my skin.
Fear
shot through my body. I have breast cancer. “Dear Lord,” I begged, “help me. Be
with me, be with me!”
When I
told Ray he held me in his arms as I sobbed, but nothing could ease my terror.
Monday morning I met with my gynecologist. “A biopsy will tell us for sure,” he
said.
A week
later I lay awake in an operating room, gazing at the medical team around me. As
the surgeon snipped the lump from the surrounding tissue, I noticed a frightened
look in the eyes of the nurse standing over me. It’s true, I thought. I do have
cancer. In the recovery room the surgeon confirmed my worst fears. The lump was
malignant.
“I’ve
already scheduled your mastectomy,” the surgeon said. Patting my shoulder, he
added, “Linda, you aren’t alone.” But that was exactly how I felt.
From the
hospital Ray called home to break the news to Faith and Kevin. Driving back, we
both remembered that earlier conversation about cancer. Now that my worst fear
had become a reality, my safe world seemed torn apart.
When we
pulled into the driveway, Kevin was stretched out in a lawn chair. He came over
to the car and wrapped his arms around me. Faith rushed out of the house, and my
husband, the kids and I held each other in a tight circle.
I
managed to get through the next few days, telling friends the news and asking
for their prayers. As I went about my errands I repeated my own prayer, “Stay
with me, Lord.” Still I was terrified.
Ray
insisted that we take a vacation before the operation. The surgeon agreed the
rest would do me good. We hitched our boat to the back of the car and drove to a
nearby lake. Surrounded by trees, it provided the sanctuary we desperately
needed. Ray fished and I prayed, the lake as smooth as glass in the calm morning
air.
Sitting
in the boat, my fingers trailing through the water, I broke the silence. “If I
knew that God was with me, Ray, I could endure this illness. Maybe I’d have the
strength to fight it.” I watched the ripples flowing from the drops of water
that fell from my fingertips. If I could only have a sign of reassurance as
small as one of these droplets, it would send reassurance rippling through me.
“Linda,
God’s here,” said Ray, putting his arm around me. “And so am I.”
By July
25, the day of the operation, I still didn’t have my sign. My brother and both
of my sisters joined me and Ray at the hospital. My room was filled with cards
and flowers from well-wishers. One sister gave me a new dressing gown and
pajamas. The other gave me a pair of terry-cloth slippers to match.
“Honey,”
I said to Ray, “put them up on the bedside table, please, so they won’t be
stepped on and dirtied.”
“Sure,”
he replied. He carefully put them on the table. I looked forward to slipping
them on and get-ting out of bed when this was all over. A nurse came in to get
me ready, and with my family following behind I was wheeled down the hall.
Outside the operating room, they held my hands tight, as though this might be
our last good-bye. For some reason, I felt a measure of peace. It seemed God’s
calm was finally with me. I guess I didn’t need a sign after all. I gave Ray’s
hand a quick squeeze before the nurse pushed me through the swinging doors into
the operating room.
The next
day I was quite groggy from the anesthesia. The nurse shooed away visitors so I
could rest. As I slept, a curious picture came into my mind. I was looking at my
new white slippers, and inside the left one was a perfectly formed feather, its
tip pointed to the toe. I’d never seen a feather so white and flawless, as
though it had fallen from an angel’s wing.
The
image lingered even after I awoke. My husband was sitting beside my bed. “Ray,”
I said, “please take that feather from my slipper and hand it to me so I can
look at it up close.”
Ray’s
jaw dropped. “How did you know, Linda?” he asked. “How could you know?”
“Never
mind, Ray,” I said, confused. “I guess I was dreaming.”
“But
there was a feather,” he said. “It must have appeared while we went with you to
the operating room. I noticed it when we came back here to wait. One white
feather, the tip pointed to the toe of the left slipper. It gave us something to
focus on instead of our worries. Who put it there? What did it mean? And then
the answer dawned on me—”
“It came
from one of God’s messengers,” I broke in.
“Exactly,” Ray said. “We knew then that you were in God’s hands. But what’s
amazing is that you saw the feather too. Because while the operation was still
going on, we left the room for a bite to eat. When we came back the feather was
gone. I asked the nurses if they had seen it, but they didn’t know what I was
talking about.”
“I did
see the feather,” I marveled. “In my dream.”
That was seven years ago, and I’ve been cancer-free since. I volunteer much of
my time talking to cancer patients in our area. I understand their fear because
I have felt it myself. But I also let them know there is comfort. I found mine
in a feather.
The above article originally
appeared in the July/August 1998
issue of Angels
On Earth. To subscribe to Angels On Earth click
here.
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