Ginger Garrett

“He’s not there anymore, kids. That’s just his body. One day we’ll see him again, and he’ll be healthy and strong.”My children stared at the frail frame lying in the coffin. Their grandfather, Papa Craig, had died of Lou Gehrig’s Disease. James, my 9 year old son, looked at me and nodded. He believed my words, and so did his sisters, seven-year-old Elise and five-year-old Lauren—but did they understand them? Could children this young really grasp the idea of heaven, the hope that one day Papa Craig would run to them, whole and healthy, and there would be no more sorrow?How could I help little children to understand heaven when I still had questions about it? Although I make my living as a novelist, words completely failed me at that moment. I felt I had failed my children, too.            We returned home from the funeral and life resumed, as it always does, frantic and furious, one season racing into the next, my days a blur of deadlines and carpools. Only sometimes, when I slept with my windows open and my bed was lit by a thousand stars beyond my reach, only then would I contemplate heaven and its mysteries. Only then would I return to the heartache of believing in a heaven I couldn’t fully describe to my children.“What’s wrong with Grendel, mommy?” little Lauren asked. I glanced up from my computer to see our fifteen year old Bearded Collie stagger and fall as he tried to get to the back door. He had never done this before. My stomach tightened and I bit my lip. I always knew Grendel would not be with us forever but I had dreaded this moment. I had adopted Grendel when he was a puppy and I was still single. It was Grendel who had picked out a husband for me at a party: Grendel had spied Mitch and jumped into his lap, refusing all evening to budge. I knew Mitch had to be special if my dog was so crazy over him. After Mitch and I married and began our family, my son would dress Grendel up as a Darth Vader and grab a Light Saber, both of them playing for hours before coming inside to steal cookies while I typed. When my girls came along, Grendel was often invited to tea parties, although my girls claimed he had no manners, eating too quickly and belching after cucumber sandwiches. “I’m sorry,” our vet Dr. Jan said over the phone. I had called, trying not to cry, detailing Grendel’s symptoms. “It sounds like Grendel has had a spinal embolism. It’s an event he will not be able to recover from.” Before I hung up, I made an appointment for that afternoon to bring Grendel in for euthanasia.Once again, I found myself explaining heaven to my children, and explaining that death wasn’t the real end for any of us, including God’s creatures. “Please, God,” I prayed, “I don’t have the words they need. Please show them what heaven is. Help my children to understand.”We drove to the vet’s, Grendel in my lap to feel the breeze on last time on his face. When we arrived at the clinic, Mitch lifted Grendel out of the van and onto the ground. Sobbing, we all held hands and thanked God for giving us so many years with this incredible, and incredibly silly, dog that we loved so much. Then as my husband carried Grendel up the stairs into the clinic, my children began wailing.“Just one more day, Daddy! Please! Give us one more day with Grendel!” I could barely breathe I was crying so hard. The children grew so distraught that after Mitch carried Grendel inside, he turned and took the kids home. “We started this adventure together, buddy,” I whispered to Grendel, “and now it’s just us again. Wait for me on the other side, ok?”Dr. Jan, had the room ready for us: dim lights, a quilt on the floor so I could lie down with Grendel as they gave him the injection, and his “deceased pet” paperwork printed. Dr. Jan came in and kneeled down to look at Grendel, ruffling his furry head, and then she gasped.“We’re not putting him down today! This isn’t an embolism, Ginger—it’s an ear infection!”  A severe middle ear infection had caused Grendel to become dizzy and lose his coordination. Dr. Jan gave him a huge injection of steroids and antibiotics as I called my husband, choking out the news. Grendel began an immediate, dramatic recovery.I will never forget seeing my husband drive up the hill to the clinic, and seeing my kids throw open the van doors, racing and screaming and cheering towards the clinic—and Grendel bounding out to meet them, grinning ear to ear under all that hair.God did what I could not: he spoke in language that my children understood, the language of love between a child and a dog. God made heaven real to them, to us all, in that moment. Earth is when we weep for the pain of death, barely able to stand our hearts breaking, and heaven is that moment when the doors are thrown open and we run, whole and healthy, screaming and laughing, wild with joy, racing straight for each other’s arms.            

On Mondays and Fridays, I like to talk beauty and answer reader emails.  But on Wednesday, when our minds tend to wander away from our desks and we get a little restless for the weekend, I like to tackle another fascinating topic: angels.

In my next series of novels, I’m writing the stories of the most influential women of history and the guardian angels who watched over them. Since several of my influential women were from the medieval period, I’ve been spending time studying medieval art. Art tells us what could not be written; the hopes and fears that even the artists had no words for.

One startling discovery is that medieval angels are protrayed as being at least equal to us in size, if not bigger. Their physiques are strong. They are capable of shielding humans from evil and shepherding us through danger and darkness. The medieval years were the golden age of angels. Theologians debated how many angels fit on the head of a pin. They created hierarchies and orders of angels that bore only a loose resemblance to biblical teaching. And everyone believed in angels and the power of goodness in the world.

That all changed in October of 1348. The harbor of Sicily welcomed a strange ship–and the Black Death stormed the shores of Europe. The Black Death was the end of angels, at least in our imagination. With up to half of Europe wiped out, artists painted pictures of Death leading the innocents–and the priests–away into the abyss. Art became frightening, vulgar, hopeless.

It was the death of our innocence in so many ways, and we began searching for answers. Out of the horror of the Black Death came the brilliant years of the Rennaisance. And the angels were “reborn” in art: as chubby, helpless cherubs. Angels were pint-size creatures capable of nothing but amusements.

The years of the Black Death were some of the most profound years of humanity. We made decisions that shaped the world for hundreds of years to come. And we changed our minds about God and His angels: we were more willing to believe in a strong devil and a weak God. We feared more than we trusted. And somewhere, this poisonous image of angels as fat babies crept into our minds.

In biblical reality, angels are so mighty in appearance that their first words when appearing to a human in the Bible are almost always, “Do not be afraid!” Angels are strong enough to crush evil and deliver us from any threat at God’s command. So who gave us the image of chubby cherubs to erode our confidence in the power of angels and the might of God?

The answer may just depend on what you believe about evil and the Evil One. As for me, I won’t bring images of chubby cherubs into my home. I have enough babies, thank you. I need an angel. I’m reclaiming what our sisters lost in the angst and confusion of the Black Death.

I’m choosing to believe in the power of good and the goodness of God.

Fox News is running a picture today, taken by a teen in a castle in Scotland. The photo of a beautiful staircase shows a ghostly figure and a very obvious ghostly hand holding onto the stairwell. He insists the picture is authentic, scientists are giving a hundred reason why it can’t be.

Which catches my attention because I am reading Ghost Hunters: William James and the Search for Scientific Proof of Life After Death, by Deborah Blum. An incredible, fascinating read! William James was a professor at Harvard and led a team of scientists to see if there was any scientific proof of the afterlife. They met with absolute fury from the science camp, most especially their colleagues who were promoting Darwinism. William James became a crusader for truth, even when truth can’t be explained by science.

Science tells us there is absolutely no supernatural, spiritual world operating around us. Scripture tells us there is, but doesn’t explain much about it. In polls, Americans say they believe in angels, but not usually demons or the devil. Plenty of people believe in ghosts, too. We’re willing to believe without evidence–but a lot of us don’t know exactly what to believe. We just pick what sounds good, like we do when we read a menu.

If we do choose to believe in the Bible–the idea of a very present God who loves us, and the ministry of angels in our lives, (as well as the dark work of the demonic) it will require leaving off from science at some point. We will have to trust in another intelligence, beyond the scope of human understanding. We may have to swallow our pride a bit, too. I’ve had to do that. In some literary circles, it’s not chic to believe anything. It takes courage to believe. It takes courage to hope. I do believe in a supernatural world. I do believe in Jesus as the Son of God, in angels, in demons, and a world we cannot measure or know.

But you know, the more I write, the more books I sell, the easier it is for friends and readers out there to say. “Yep. I believe that too.” We create the knowledge that we’re not alone–in this world, or the next.

In the Middle Ages, religion was the way of life. The Church controlled all material issues of your present life and all hope for the afterlife.  

Angels abounded. Complex hierarchies were developed which have no mention in canonical Scriptures. There were levels of heaven, and orders of angels. The mightiest were the Seraphim, serpent-angels who circled the throne chanting Holy, Holy, Holy. This was said to be the song of creation, and the vibration the angels created rang through the air, materializing here on earth into life. Satan was said to be a Seraphim.  (There is some Scriptural documentation of both this class of angels called Seraphim and their cry of Holy, Holy, Holy, but the rest of the story seems to be overeager human embellishment.) 

We did not approach God directly. If you needed God’s attention or forgiveness, you consulted a priest. Angels were an intermediary between people and God, much like priests. Angels were believed to control events, weather, moods, and phenomenon. We put great trust in the angels and their merciful care. 

Then the worst disaster to ever hit humanity occurred: the Black Death arrived in Sicily in October 1348.  

The climate had been changing, war between Muslims and Christians was bitter, and a natural disaster made good use of the chaos. Estimates range from one-third to one-half of Europe was destroyed in the most gruesome, grisly death imaginable.  

For the first time in history, angels fell from their place of high esteem among humans. We doubted the Church. We doubted angels. We doubted mercy.  We began to believe in the power of evil. Demons and the Devil occupied our every thought; angels quickly went from mighty warriors watching over us to chubby babies with wings that simply amused us. Demons assumed their place of power and authority in our culture.  

Crisis controls faith for many of us, then and now. This is the battle of the angels: that we risk belief in the tenderness of God, despite the horrors of earth, and become willing to believe that indeed, “Mercy and Goodness follow me wherever I go.”

Wherever there is crisis, on a personal or a global level, belief in the supernatural increases. In moments of distress, we need to believe we’re not alone. In

But who are the angels?

In the Old Testament, angels served as heavenly couriers, delivering news of God’s intentions and instructions to humans. In the New Testament, angels are referred to as servants sent to tend to needs of believers.

Why the change from messenger to minister?

After the death and resurrection of Jesus, a new element in the spiritual life was introduced: the Holy Spirit. Through this Spirit, or as some call it, the Holy Ghost, God is able to deliver messages personally. (The Scriptures, of course, remain the primary source of divine revelation, and the principle means through which God still speaks.)

Now that believers have the Holy Spirit, we have less need for third parties delivering messages from God. (Our need for tender guardians, however, has not decreased.) Today’s angels play less of a role in instructing us and more of a role in caring for us.

Does each person have their own guardian angel?

Scriptures seem to hint that we do. But because angels are vast in number, it could be expected that we’re surrounded at any given moment by multiple angels.

What do they see in us?

Angels are eternal beings, meaning they have seen your distant past. They know who your ancestors were, why they fought and lived, and why they died. It’s my personal suspicion that the angel watching over each of you has followed your family line for generations. What stories he could tell!

And in my new novel, on sale late this summer, one of these angels will have a tale to tell, to a dying editor who has spent her life denying the existence of the Divine.

Last week I spoke at a bookclub that was filled with the most charming, well-read women!  We talked of politics, religion, angels, and the afterlife. It was a rich night of discussion, and several questions still linger with me.

One question that came up, when I was discussing my upcoming novel In the Shadow of Lions, was about the question of the afterlife. Is there one?

Being raised a Baptist, I always believed in the afterlife. I had the vague impression that heaven was a place where they made you sing all four stanzas of a hymn, and so I didn’t want to go. Since today I specialize in the study of ancient and historical women, I’ve come to appreciate this question for what it is: “Am I secure?” We want to believe there will reunions, another embrace, time for healing words to be said, and a freedom from pain. Every generation of women has wondered this same question. Largely, we depend on our mothers to teach us the spiritual truths of life.

If we were Mesopotamian, our mothers would have said, “Only the gods are eternal. Death is the end for us.” Egpyptian women told their girls there was an afterlife, but not for them. Only the select few women in power, and the men of the government, got to the underworld.

Across all ancient religions and cultures, the afterlife is a common theme. Most believed that a pleasant experience was dependent on good earthly behaviour and appeasing the gods through sacrifice. Money was important to complete this transaction. Women who were not allowed to participate in public religious worship created shrines at home and created sub-cultures of religion.

What is startling about Christianity is that it was the first religion to say God must sacrifice for us. God must do the work so that we can approach Him in peace. It is not a campagn of self-improvement or rules; God says in the Christian scriptures that they don’t work to make our hearts pure. (Having lost a Thankgiving turkey two years in a row to my Saint Bernard, I can vouch for this. Knowing something is very, very wrong can’t even stop a sweet-natured dog from misbehavior.)

Christianity is a wild departure in history, which is why I believe in my bones it is Divine. Now we tell our girls about heaven, and guardian angels, and that a great big God loves little bitty them. We feel in our bones that we are not alone–the question is, who is this God with us? Who are these angels, the ones the ancient mothers called The Watchers?

Women, if you don’t believe in this God, that’s ok. You’re welcome here among friends. Women have been excluded from worship throughout too many years;  it’s time to bring all our sisters together, out of the shadows and to the warmth of the hearth. If you’re curious about this God, the angels or the afterlife, stick around.

The adventure is about to begin.

According to the CDC, most of us have been exposed to a chemical in plastic bottles that may cause hormonal disruptions. You can read the full report here:

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,351419,00.html

This is another great reason to install a water filter at home or at the office. Skip the bottled water, which only creates more waste for our landfills. And remember not to heat food or beverages in plastic containers, including warming baby formula or food. I also replaced our coffee travel mugs, which were lined with plastic on the interior surface that touches the coffee, with stainless steel travel mugs. The coffee stays warmer, tastes better,  and I don’t worry about chemicals leaching from plastic.

I’ll be back later in the week with more tips and insider news. I’ve got to let my hand rest and stay off this computer as much as possible right now…but we’re getting some great stories together for you!

If you receive my newsletter, last week you saw a sneak peek of my new book, In the Shadow of Lions. (I’ll be loading the cover on my website soon!) You know I’ll be tackling the stories of one of the most famous (and important) women in history, and the question of angels. Do angels exist? What role do they play in shaping human history? What role do they play in women’s lives?

My research on the topic has focused on both the Bible and ancient sources. Accounts of angelic beings was not limited to Jewish or Christian believers: almost every ancient culture reported them with stunning similiarities. Angels were frightening in appearance, large, benelovent beings, sent to serve us. (Many cultures also report visitations from fallen angels, or demons.)

My questions today is not do you believe in angels. Most Americans do. My question is what do you believe about angels? From my research into ancient texts and the Bible, here are a few points I believe to be true:

1. Angels are eternal beings, created before men and women. Therefore, they know your history better than any genealogist. They know who the women of your line were. They knew them when they walked through medieval Europe, or sang in Africa, and the angels were with them when they first came to America. They have seen first-hand the forces that shaped your life today because they were present for all your yesterdays. (Job 38:4-7)

2. Angels are sent by God. (Hebrews 1:14) Angels do God’s work at God’s bidding. Therefore, it’s silly to pray to the angels. I don’t ask my UPS man to bring me a new jacket. I order it from a catalog, and they send it, using UPS as the delivery method. My UPS guy, nice as he is, has never brought me anything on his own. He only brings what’s been sent. Angels may know your distant past, but they do not anticipate your future needs. Only God does that, and He sends His angels to meet them.

3. Hebrews also tells us there’s one reason God sends angels: to minister to us. They’re sent to aid, help, care for, and comfort. Some of us have had experiences of being physically saved by angels, or comforted by a sense of their presence. Our lives have been shaped by the knowledge that they exist, and that we are safer because of them. In many small ways, our personal histories are shaped by angels, and human history has been impacted as well.

4.The book of Genesis hints that angels find human women beautiful. A story in Genesis chapter 6, which of course is included in the Jewish Pentateuch as well as the Christian Bible, seems to refer to a period in history when the angels were allowed to marry human women and have children…children that became a race of giants.

We’re blessed women. We are loved by God and surrounded by angels. The eternal world has declared that we are wholly accepted and beautiful. There is nothing to fear today–not from your past, not from your future, and not from the unseen. Angels are at work all around you and God is at work within you.

It’s going to be a glorious week!

           The sea’s shattered dreams washed ashore and my children picked each one up, crying out at the beauty in each piece, carrying them to me for inspection. We carefully dropped each one into our bucket to wash later with great care and display in their bedrooms.

          Each shell, though broken, was a miracle beyond our ability. We cradled each one delicately, whispering how beautiful it must have been whole. Our hearts praised this world beyond our reach, a world so magnificent that even to find a shard washed up at our feet, discarded, was to find a coveted treasure.

         I wonder if our dreams are like these broken shells: infinite, delicate, patterns and colors and textures, churned by rough sand and sweeping tides. I imagine them washing ashore in heaven, where angels gasp in wonder and bring each shattered treasure, in joy, to God the Father. Yes, when it was whole, it was magnificent, but just to dream, to imagine new worlds and breathe them into being, is a thing of awe and wonder to the angels, because angels can’t dream. To dream, to call into creation a new world of thought, deed, or love, is the gift of God that we alone of all His creatures are blessed with.

        Someday, perhaps, when I walk through the gates of heaven, an angel will rush forward to meet me, carrying a big jar of the broken remnants of my life, displayed with love and awe in heaven. So dream today: a tiny one, or an extravagant one, it doesn’t matter. Angels are watching for them on the shores of heaven.