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  To my Abba Father God,

  who is the delight of my heart

  “Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.”

  —EPHESIANS 6:14–17 (NIV)

  Tilling the Soil:

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Something mysterious is afoot in my garden—something I want to share.

  As a young girl, I loved to listen to the nursery rhyme that contains the phrase “How does your garden grow?” All my life I have been fascinated by the simple beauty of the garden, a sacred space where life is planted, nurtured, harvested, and resurrected.

  I have cultivated many gardens in my lifetime. Their roots grow deep and stretch for thousands of miles. My first garden was a tiny flowerpot in the kitchen window of a small apartment in a poverty-stricken neighborhood of Detroit, where I was born and where my father completed his medical residency. Then, in Cleveland, where I was raised, attended school, worked, and married, I took delight in harvesting armfuls of hydrangeas and fragrant lilacs from my spring and summer gardens. And finally, in Houston, where I live now, my backyard gardens are graced with spectacular displays of azalea and gardenia blooms.

  All of these treasured gardens have been nurtured by the seasons of life—fertilized by trials and watered with the tears of joys and sorrows. It was here in Houston that I learned how to grow a new and very special kind of garden—a place of hope and healing. It began, of all places, in a hospital room.

  In a chance encounter, I was given an opportunity to volunteer in a lay ministry at The Methodist (now Houston Methodist) Hospital in Houston’s renowned Medical Center area. This ministry would enable me to put to use hospital skills I had cultivated while living and working in Ohio, along with the compassion born of my faith.

  As a lay minister, my responsibility was to visit critically ill patients—to pray with them, to visit with them, and, most important, to listen to them. Each time I walked into a patient’s room, I created a loving, compassionate, and nonjudgmental space—a safe place that allowed hurting people to share their hearts and stories with me. On the surface, listening appears to be a passive activity, but in reality I found the act of listening to be a powerful force that creates an active exchange. As hearts are unburdened, a space is created for healing and hope to flow back in.

  I visited with patients of all faiths, and as they felt permitted to share intimate details of their lives without fear of judgment or ridicule, defenses came down and they talked with me about their encounters with the Divine—their most private, personal confirmations of God’s presence in their lives. These emotional testimonies included a full spectrum of encounters: experiencing the awe of God in nature, music, art, literature, and Scripture; angelic interventions and near-death experiences; and encounters with some of the most mysterious of the spiritual gifts, including prophetic visions and the gift of tongues. Week after week, I sat in rapt attention as people told me of angelic bedside visitors, visions of loved ones who had already passed into the heavenly realm, and messages of comfort spoken in dreams in the middle of the night.

  This four-year ministry was drenched in redemptive tears, and I was witness to the profound healing that occurs when people are permitted to embrace what they have experienced and to courageously share their stories of encounters with the Divine. One such story moved me so deeply that it literally changed the course of my life.

  As I sat next to his bed, “John” told me of his struggle with heart disease that led to an eventual heart transplant. Before his transplant, he experienced several heart attacks, and during his last one, he died. He described in detail how he was carried upward, away from his body in the emergency room, and could see everything occurring as the medical team tried to resuscitate him. He even described the pretty butterfly hair clip that one of the nurses was wearing around her ponytail (which she later confirmed to be true). Then John described being carried up through the ceiling and into a different realm, where he was completely embraced in a warm mist that radiated love in its purest form. As he leaned back to soak in this loving embrace, a voice began to speak. In a very personal conversation, John came to know the Creator, the lover of his soul, whom he had denied and pushed away his entire life. John accepted the love being offered to him and was told he would be sent back to his earthly life.

  As he finished his story, John leaned over and looked deeply into my eyes. “Honey,” he said, “it is now my life’s work to tell others about the incredible love that God offers to each of us, and to encourage them not to wait until the hour of our deaths to accept and share it. We all have important jobs to do for the Kingdom while we live here on earth.”

  John’s powerful testimony convicted me deeply. I, too, have experienced profound encounters with the Divine throughout my life, but I had been fearful of sharing them with others—fearful of being labeled as “one of those.” John’s courage to share his story finally freed my heart to fully embrace the truth of my own encounters. What a healing moment that was for me!

  In a dramatic course-correction that could only have been conceived by God, this quiet little Texas homemaker is now an author. John’s story, along with many others, inspired me to offer this freedom and healing to countless others through the pages of this book, by opening the door to my own private garden.

  As we near the beginning of my story, there is someone I want to introduce to you. She is as mysterious as the garden you are about to enter. While wrestling with how to write this story, I had a dream, and in my dream I heard the voice of my Lord say very succinctly, “Use an angel!”

  I awakened with a start and thought, What a great idea! But how in the world do I do that . . . I don’t know any angels!

  The next morning I snuggled up on the living room couch with my dogs and a steaming cup of coffee, and as I gazed out the tall windows facing the garden, I thought about this possibility of creating an angel to help me. What would he, or she, be like? Would this angel be fierce and warrior-like? A little bit intimidating? Or would it be soft, feminine, and gentle? Would it be a shimmery, invisible kind of figure, or would I be able to see it clearly? Would it talk, or would it just point at things as the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come did in Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol? Would I be the only one who could see it? Whatever its characteristics were to be, I hoped it would carry with it the wisdom of heaven . . . something I desperately needed in this new venture.

  Soon, the character of an intriguing angel named Margaret began to take shape in the eyes of my heart. I would write a fictional story about her, one where she would help me share and make sense of some of the miraculous encounters with the Divine I have had. Some of her attributes admittedly come from my own personality, and the experiences she helps the character Jenn talk through are also my own, but her wisdom . . . well, that belongs exclusively to God.

  Margaret brings the wisdom of heaven into my garden, creating a sacred space where I find the freedom to embrace and to share my encounters with God. My story, based in orthodox Christianity, is written for people of all faiths and sentiments, i
ncluding the absence of faith. We are all spiritual beings on a human journey to find love, acceptance, mercy, mutual respect, and a connection to a Creator.

  So, now I invite you to step into my garden, and into this story, with your heart and all of your senses fully engaged. There, among the roses, God’s loving presence is revealed to all who are willing to enter.

  Truly, heaven is closer than you think.

  “I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in his holy people.”

  —THE APOSTLE PAUL, EPHESIANS 1:18 (NIV)

  Margaret

  Are not all angels spirits in the divine service, sent to serve for the sake of those who are to inherit salvation?

  HEBREWS 1:14

  A wispy breath of air played across my face, just enough to tickle my nose and creep across my cheeks. I heard a faraway whisper. It was so faint that I strained to hear, but I just . . . couldn’t . . . quite . . . catch up with it.

  I awakened with a start. Did someone just call my name? Lifting my head, I looked around the room. The Texas sun streamed through the white shutters adorning my bedroom windows, and the house was quiet. I decided it must be my imagination and flopped back down onto my pillow. But I couldn’t go back to sleep. Something felt different.

  I am not alone.

  A tiny knot of concern crept its way into my stomach, and as my other senses fully awakened, I became aware of a strange scent. Eyes closed, I inhaled deeply, trying to place the vague hint of something in the air. Roses. It smelled like my favorite white roses.

  Where in the world is that coming from? I heard the soft jingle of a dog collar, and this time, I propped myself up on my elbows and looked over to where my whippet, Cody, was nestled in his bed on the floor. His head was up, nose tilted to the ceiling, sniffing the air.

  He smells it, too.

  Curiosity won over the desire to pull the covers over my head, so I climbed out of bed and slipped into a robe. I paused at the end of the bed to gently tuck blankets over my two smaller pups, who were snuggled together in deep, sweet slumber. A moment of melancholy washed over my heart as I watched them sleep, remembering the sadness of dreams unfulfilled, but Cody’s gentle nudge brought me back to the matter at hand. Ears at attention, Cody led the way out of the master bedroom, and together we padded quietly through the house. The smell of roses was much stronger as we entered the kitchen. Nose still in the air, Cody trotted over and sat by the back door while I continued through the house in search of the source of this mysterious scent.

  My senses were on full alert as I peeked into closets and peered around doorways. I climbed the staircase to the second floor and searched through bedrooms and office, but found absolutely nothing. As I headed back toward the stairs, I paused in my favorite room in the house—a spacious living area decorated in a safari theme with windows spanning the length of the room. I gazed out the windows overlooking the backyard.

  This was my little piece of heaven. Sunlight danced in my gardens, diffused by the leaves of the many giant oak trees gracing our yard. The sparkling, deep-blue waters of the free-form pool undulated gently in the early morning breeze. I sighed. This view never failed to bring peace into the weariest of souls. Suddenly, the air around me was saturated with the fragrance of roses, and then, just as suddenly, the scent disappeared. It was as if the air was gently teasing, pulling me back into this mysterious game of hide-and-seek.

  Perplexed, I headed back toward the kitchen, where the scent was most intense. As I entered it, a brilliant flash of light caught my eye, and my attention was drawn to the windows looking out into the backyard. A shimmer of bright blue sparkled once, twice, three times between the stone columns in the garden beside the pool. Edging closer to the window to get a better look, I heard an odd sound. It sounded like laughter—soft, musical laughter. It was coming from everywhere at once, but I still could not see anything. A slight chill ran up my spine, and my skin tingled as if the air was charged with electricity. I began to wish my husband, Guy, had not left for work so early this morning. Cody began to whine and paw frantically at the door.

  “What is it, boy? Is something out there?” Cody answered back with a sharp ruff. Hesitantly, I opened the door for him and could barely push it all the way open before he bolted outside and disappeared from sight.

  At that very moment, a sudden rush of wind blew in through the door. Knocked off balance, I stumbled backward into the kitchen as the door slammed itself shut. The wind softened in its intensity and moved to encircle me. Now I knew I was not alone! As I stood embraced in this oddly peaceful, warm whirlwind, the scent of white roses grew stronger. There was an extraordinary gentleness about this wind as it caressed my face, lifted and tossed my hair, and playfully twisted and ruffled my robe and nightgown. And there was something else in the wind—a presence. There was a deep sense of invitation in this gentle tempest, as if it were calling my name and ever so delicately encouraging me to step outside. With trembling hands, I opened the door again and slowly walked out onto the back porch, propelled by this strange wind. My heart pounded in anticipation . . . of what?

  As I stepped outside, I heard a soft giggle. Turning my head to follow the sound, my gaze fell upon the table and chairs arranged next to the garden. Cody stood there, panting happily as if to say “Look what I found, Mom!” My heart momentarily stopped as I witnessed the source of his excitement. There, standing by the table under the large blue-patterned umbrella, was the loveliest woman I had ever seen.

  Her radiant face was framed in a halo of soft, wavy, pure white hair, and her blue eyes twinkled. She was dressed in a cornflower-blue gown that sparkled as if encrusted with thousands of tiny diamonds.

  “Good morning, Jennifer,” she said. Her smile radiated pure joy. “I’ll bet you are surprised to see me.”

  Surprised didn’t even begin to describe what I was feeling. My mouth dropped open, and I stood frozen in midstep. I realized the wind that had carried me outside had disappeared.

  “My name is Margaret, dear one, and I am your guardian angel. I have had the blessed privilege of watching over you your entire life.”

  Somehow, deep down, I knew she was speaking the truth. My mind spun as I tried to comprehend what was happening. This couldn’t be possible . . . could it?

  “W-why . . . y-you’re an angel? Like, the heaven kind of . . . of angel?” I stammered in disbelief.

  “That would be me.” This angel named Margaret nodded. I could tell she enjoyed this moment immensely.

  “What a special day this is,” she continued. “Happy birthday to you, Jennifer.” With a jolt, I came back to my senses. My birthday. I had completely forgotten!

  Margaret laughed at my startled expression and said, “Come on over here, dear girl—you need to sit down. You look a bit shell-shocked. Come, sit with me in your beautiful garden.” She gathered her gown about her with one hand and sat down in one of the chairs, patting the chair next to her.

  Cody scampered away as I crossed over to the table and slid into the empty chair. Margaret was right—my knees did feel a little weak.

  “I had completely forgotten about my birthday,” I admitted. “I guess I was a little distracted this morning by the house smelling of roses. Thank you for remembering.”

  “How could I not remember?” Margaret said. “I was here when you celebrated early. It was such a nice party, Jennifer.”

  As Margaret spoke, I let my gaze wander over the backyard, and my thoughts returned to the recent evening when family and friends had gathered with my husband and me as we’d hosted my dream garden party. On the lawn, tables had been adorned with white linen tablecloths, votive candles, and lovely flower arrangements. And the food! We dined on a scrumptious barbecue feast, including the best bacon-wrapped shrimp this side of the Mississippi. Oh, what wonderful fellowship we shared.

  “It was a magical evening, Margaret,” I replied, breakin
g my reverie. “I love birthdays, because life is a privilege worth celebrating. My life has not always been easy, so I cherish these times of celebration with the people I love. God is so good.”

  “Yes, he is, child,” Margaret agreed. Then she reached over and took my hand in hers. “And today heaven is celebrating you. Your life, with all of its ups and downs and twists and turns, is an infinite joy to the One who created you. He alone knows the deepest desires of your heart.”

  Tears began to form in my eyes as Margaret continued.

  “That is why I am here this morning, Jennifer. As a special birthday gift to you from your Heavenly Father, I have been sent to fulfill a particularly intriguing desire of yours.”

  Intriguing desire? Thoughts swirled in my head, my tears instantly forgotten.

  Margaret watched me think for a moment and then leaned closer, as if she was about to tell me a secret. In a quiet voice she said, “What if I were to tell you, Jennifer, that what you experience in this world, with your earthly senses, is only a very small part of a much more expansive reality? Does this resonate with you?”

  My eyes widened as a stunning realization hit me. I knew exactly what Margaret was referring to. “Oh, Margaret”—I breathed in wonder—“for years I’ve felt like I have been on the edge of understanding something important, something just outside my grasp. I’ve had some strange, almost mysterious experiences that I didn’t understand, and they raised questions about who I am, what my purpose is, and, most important, whether it is possible to connect with the Creator.”

  Gulp. Now, sitting here under the umbrella with my beautiful visitor, I realized that it is indeed possible. The Divine had just entered my garden!

  Margaret laughed, thrilled at my dawning amazement, and I was struck by how unusual and otherworldly her voice sounded, as if accompanied by the sound of tiny chimes.