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“I don’t really know why am I here, I guess I just needed…”

A hug? Someone to tell you that everything will be alright? It will be, just hold on a little more. I will tell you a little story, just like the ones you loved when you were a child. See? You’re already smiling…so close your eyes for a moment and open your heart…and let me in. Let my story heal the wounds that hurt so badly…

Here we go…A few days ago, I was in the church, like always, when an ordinary day turned into miracle. A woman came in, crying. A mother. Holding a little boy in her arms. People looked at her, some whispered behind her back. “Poor woman. Poor child.” But no one was brave enough, compassionate enough, loving enough to go to her.

I went to her and she fell on her knees. She kissed the ground and she kissed the Rosary I was holding in my hands. And we all noticed…she was crying tears of joy.

She tried to say a prayer, through tears, but “thank you” was all she could pronounce. She showed me the little boy. “Thank you for saving him.” 

“Was he sick? Was he in danger?” – people asked. And the woman told them her story.

She was walking on the street when a call on her cellphone made her put down the child she was holding. An important call from work. Minutes of talking. The child ran free, laughing. Safe, away from the traffic. But she heard sirens. An ambulance. All the cars pulled over to give priority to the ambulance. 

All, except for a black jeep. The driver heard the sirens too late and, in a desperate attempt to avoid a collision, he drove his car into the sidewalk. The mother saw the child disappearing under the black jeep. She screamed.

“An angel saved him.”

She described the angel like people usually do. Golden hair, dressed in white, bright eyes, a gentle voice…

“It wasn’t like that, you changed the story! I had a white coat, but my eyes weren’t bright and my voice wasn’t gentle. The woman holding the child. The call. The child running and laughing. The ambulance. The black jeep. Me. Her. The little boy. I saw everything as flashes in my mind, a few moments before it actually happened. I took the child in my arms before actually seeing the black jeep.”

So, that means…

“I am not a hero and definitely not an angel. An instrument of God, maybe. Or, at least, I wish I were…”

You are sad. You feel lonely even surrounded by friends. You feel judged when you talk about your faith and guilty when you don’t. I’m here to tell you that everything will be alright. I’m here to assure you that you made the right choice. 

I know you don’t believe in yourself. But I do. 

I opened my eyes. A ray of light was gently embracing me. And Mother Mary was smiling at me from every painting. Holding a sweet baby boy in her sacred arms…

 

 

 

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16 thoughts on “I am not a hero, I am not an angel…

  1. Amazing.God is gracious!😄😄😄.. such a moving story.
    “You feel judged when you talk about your faith and guilty when you don’t.” I like how you’ve put it. We should have the courage to stand up and proclaim our faith without fear. I just love this piece. Thanks for writing this beautiful piece, favorite writer😍😍😍

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Your words are really touching… there’s a hero, yes, there is, in each of us… we’re born angels and forgot where we come from and why…
    Thank you for reminding us that we’re worth believing in ourselves! 🤗🤗🌹

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Such a powerful story. What stands out the most to me, is the very end….that even when we have no belief in our own self, God will always believe. We share our stories, to help others….not to be angel or hero or anything of the such. Life has knocked us down, kicked us hard, but we have managed to survive…

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Yes, He’s our confident, our greatest support, our rock in times of need…if only our eyes would see, if only our heart would open to His love…we would all be heroes of our own destinies and angels for the less fortunate ones 💛
      Thank you for seeing the essence in my post…may God bless you with light and love always!

      Liked by 1 person

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