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In our intensely Catholic home in Indiana, angels were members of the family. My Italian grandmother always set an extra place for our guardian angel on feast days. On our birthdays, we six children set the place ourselves. Grandma said it was a way to thank the angel and to ask for help in the coming year.
I mean we really believed in angels. In school the nuns taught us about them. At Mass, we let our guardian angel into the pew first. One of the earliest prayers I learned was "Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God's love entrusts me here, ever this day be at my side, to lead and guard, to light and guide, Amen."
Otherwise, my childhood was ordinary until I was 14. That year, my favorite brother, Frank, who was eight, began to tire and bruise easily. To cheer him up, I taught him how to ride my bike. Before long, though, he couldn't even push the pedals and was in the hospital more often than not. I didn't know it at the time, but he had leukemia.
One day my parents came home from the hospital crying. The parish priest who was with them told us that Frank's angel had taken him to heaven. I was so sick at heart that I just cried and cried. Our grandmother was so distraught that she forgot her English and reverted to Italian.
As soon as I dried my tears, a terrible anger began to grow in me like a piece of metal turning red, orange, yellow and finally white hot. Why didn't my parents tell me Frank was going to die? I silently screamed. And how could his angel have allowed it? I hated Frank's angel. What a stupid thing to believe in.
My anger didn't go away. That summer, I lashed out at everyone and even lost my best friend after beating him up. My father got me a punching bag, which I demolished in a week. When my grandmother tried to tell me about angels, I turned away. When my birthday came that fall, I didn't set an extra place.
Frank's death triggered an uncontrollable rage in me against anything that failed to reach perfection. I became obsessed with achieving all I could as fast as possible. In high school, I took out my aggression in football and wrestling, and became the best athlete on the teams. I studied just as compulsively, graduating third in my class with a scholarship to the state university.
I got a summer sales job and was working seven days a week from morning to night. Then I met Marie. She came to the door to hear my passionate spiel about the gadgets I was selling, and as soon as I looked into her pretty round face and big brown eyes, I was in love. I proposed to her on the spot. She laughed, but two years later we married.
With marriage, school and a part-time job, my pent-up energy found a positive outlet. After college my anger continued to burn. I worked for an import-export business and literally lived in my office for days on end. When I came home, I was too tired to pay any attention to Marie and our three children. By the time I was 30, I was vice president.
One Easter weekend, Marie came into the den where I was working late. "Jack, I'm leaving you. I think I want a divorce."
She explained that our marriage was a disaster, with a husband who shut her out of his life entirely. "I've already taken the kids to Mother's and I'm going to join them. It's up to you whether we come back." Then she walked out of the house.
I was so shocked I couldn't speak. It was like my brother dying all over again, and once more I didn't know until it was too late. I started opening cabinets and smashing everything in sight against the wall. How could she do this to me? I raged as bottles and utensils went flying.
The final cabinet had a stack of dishes I had used as a child. The sight of them brought back memories of my brother that made me want to cry. I set them on the kitchen table and threw them one by one at the sink. But when I came to the last dish, I couldn't pick it up. It was stuck to the table. I used both hands but still couldn't pry it up.
I stood there panting and sweating, my hands bleeding from a drinking glass I'd smashed. Suddenly, I heard a voice echo around me. "Jack, make room for me at the table."
It was kind and compassionate and sounded like a female voice, yet I felt a shiver of fear run through me. I sat down and cried until my head pounded and I couldn't cry anymore. When I finally got up to wash my face, I noticed the kitchen was in shambles. As I looked at that one remaining dinner plate, I heard the voice again, the most beautiful voice, like a soprano singing softly.
"Who are you?" I gasped.
"You know me, Jack," it replied.
"Make room for me at your table."
Numb as I felt, I finally knew whose voice it was. This time I was able to pick up the plate without any problem, and I set it at the end where I usually sat. I placed a knife, fork and spoon around it, added a napkin and an aluminum-drinking cup that had survived my rage, and pushed a chair in place.
As I sat looking at the place setting, I felt the most incredible peace I had ever known. Then I bowed my head and said the prayer I had learned with my brother: "Angel of God, my guardian dear...."
When I finished, I talked nonstop to the angel about my life for a good hour. I can't pretend I saw her across the table, but I felt my angel's presence just as I had heard her speak to me. And she was telling me now that my anger was gone, could finally change my life.
The sky was beginning to lighten when I heard the sound of a key in the lock. It was Marie. She surveyed the kitchen in horror. Then she threw her arms around me. "I couldn't sleep," she cried. "It was as if I heard a voice saying over and over, "Jack needs you Marie." So I came." Marie washed and bandaged my hands, then put me to bed without saying another word.
Marie spent hours cleaning up before I woke. As I started to apologize, she shook her head. "Just tell me," she said. "Why did you break everything in the kitchen, then go to the trouble of setting the table?
When I finished my story, she looked thoughtful. "Somehow you are different Jack," she commented. "The tension is gone."
"Marie, I hope this doesn't seem silly," I began, "but I want to keep that place setting on the table forever. If my angel hadn't come last night, I don't know what I might have done. I want to keep reminding myself of something I knew when I was a kid but forgot."
That strange night was two decades ago, but its effects have stayed with me. Marie and I took the first vacation since our honeymoon and began to rebuild our marriage. In 1992, we celebrated our 35th wedding anniversary. Our three children have families of their own, so we now have six grandchildren on earth and one waiting for us in heaven. I left my job to start my own business and found pleasure, instead of compulsion, in work again.
And each night, I still set out the old plate and dented aluminum cup, the silverware and napkin. They're a pledge to my guardian angel, and to God who sent her, that she will always be welcome at my table.
Condensed from
"The Angel Who Saved My Marriage"
by James DiBello
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