An Angel on My Shoulder - Theresa Cheung

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given the chance to write about what I am truly passionate about – the paranormal. It wasn’t too much of a leap from health and popular psychology, because in my mind the only way for a person to feel truly happy and fulfilled is to be healthy in body, mind and spirit. I have to admit, though, that although I was thrilled to be asked I was also rather apprehensive. I knew that some people would think I was crazy, especially my old student friends and tutors from Cambridge, who had made it clear to me during my student days that they were highly sceptical of my belief in life after death. I knew I was putting my credibility as a non-fiction author on the line. But as my first paranormal book assignment was an encyclopaedia about the psychic world and my task was to present an objective voice, I didn’t think my decision would be too heavily criticized. Fortunately, that encyclopaedia went on to become a success, as did subsequent ones, and that success gave me the opportunity to write this book. When my editor called to ask me if I had any angel stories to tell, without hesitation I told her that I had enough to fill a library.

      With the contract signed, I sat down in front of my PC to begin my first angel book. I opened up a blank document and stared at the cursor flashing on the screen. Though I felt tremendous happiness to be doing this work, I also had butterflies in my stomach. I had never written about my personal experiences of the paranormal before. I’d also never been entrusted with writing up the intimate personal stories of other people, so this was my greatest challenge to date as an author. I wondered if I was up to the task; self-doubt began to creep in. I needed to know if I could do this. I decided to ask my guardian angel for a sign.

      I focused deep inside myself and asked my guardian angel to give me an answer. I concentrated long and hard. I poured my heart out with all the honesty, courage and conviction I could find. Then I waited for an answer. There was nothing. I waited again. Still there was nothing. I looked again at the cursor flashing on the screen. It was flashing impatiently and angrily at me. The angels clearly weren’t going to reassure me. Did they simply want me to get on with it?

      I started to tentatively write down some thoughts. They were disjointed and confused at first, but at least they were a start. Then I dug out my Angel Talk files and mailbox and started to transfer stories. I was starting to create a book. I read through a few paragraphs and enjoyed what I was reading. Encouraged, I kept on writing. The words flowed.

      After a few hours I glanced at my watch and realized I’d been working for three hours without a break. Time had flown by. I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, but the kettle wasn’t working. I tried the lights and it was the same. We’d had a power cut. I went back to my office. My computer had powered down and there was no power to switch it on. It was then that I panicked. I’d never had a power cut before, so hadn’t got into the habit of saving my work every few pages. Worse still, I didn’t think I’d even saved it at all. My entire morning had been wasted. Were the angels sending me the message that the book wasn’t a good idea?

      Half an hour later the power came back on. Fearing the worst, I switched on my PC and to my delight all my angel files were there just as I had left them. I resumed my work on the book with a new peace of mind.

      The most remarkable thing about this experience, though, is that later I found out that my house had lost power not at 1 p.m. when I went into my kitchen to make a cuppa, but at 10.30 a.m. Somehow, when all the other electrical appliances in my house had lost power, my computer had kept on running, allowing me to work uninterrupted. Sure, it’s possible that it had gone into battery mode, but for me there was no mistaking that the angels were sending me a message loud and clear. Once again they had shown me that when you start to acknowledge their presence in your life, you start to notice them everywhere, in everything – even a flashing cursor.

       Chapter 2 In the Arms of an Angel

      See, I am sending an angel ahead of you to guard you along the way.

       Exodus 23:20

      I can imagine what angels might look like from my dreams and from images I’ve seen in clouds or in paintings and from the hundreds of accounts of people who have seen them. But in my waking life I have never actually had a traditional angel encounter complete with blinding light, wings and halo or felt the brush of angel wings on my skin. Still I know, without a doubt, that angels exist and are here to help us.

      When I was growing up in a household of psychics and spiritualists I often felt frustrated and inadequate because I didn’t seem to have inherited the ‘gift’. I attended many psychic development classes and workshops where fellow students would see visions of inspiration and brilliance. I, however, would sit in darkness, feeling peaceful but hearing and seeing nothing. It wasn’t until my thirties that these channels started to gradually open for me and even now I can’t predict when they will do so because on every occasion when I have had an angelic encounter it has been spontaneous. I still can’t summon, see, hear or feel angels and spirits like a seasoned psychic or medium can, but this has not in any way dampened my belief in angels and their guidance. This is because over the years I have learned that, like everyone else, I see, hear and experience angels in my own unique way. Looking back, I can see that angels were helping me throughout my life. I just wasn’t aware of it at the time.

      In this chapter I’ve gathered together a collection of stories which show just some of the many mysterious and dramatic ways in which angels can intervene in our lives, and what’s interesting is that not one of the people who contributed these stories believes themselves to be psychic or clairvoyant. They are simply ordinary people whose lives have been transformed by something extraordinary. Let’s begin with Sandra’s dramatic and moving story:

      Vanilla Ice Cream

      I hardly know where or how to begin this story. It’s been such a long road with so many twists and turns.

      For many years I had a charmed life. I was born into a loving family. We weren’t millionaires, but we had plenty of money. I was popular at school and head girl in my last year. I got into the college of my choice and it wasn’t much of a struggle getting a job I loved or finding and falling in love with the right man. I was also fit and healthy and apart from the odd bout of ’flu had never been really ill. Like most people, I never thought about my mortality seriously. I felt invincible. By the time I was 34 years old, my job was great and my husband supportive and loving and I was the mother of a beautiful healthy three-year-old boy called Riley. Little did I know that my reality was about to change as abruptly as if I had crashed into a brick wall while travelling at 90 miles an hour.

      When Riley was born I had had a minor scare when some of my breast milk ducts had blocked, but an inspection had given me the all-clear. I remember my doctor telling me to continue to inspect my breasts regularly and I said I would but I didn’t. I didn’t think that 30 year olds could get breast cancer and besides there wasn’t a history of it in my family. But then few years later I noticed a soreness and lumpiness on the underside of my left breast. After reluctantly agreeing to a mammogram, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

      When I left my doctor’s office after the diagnosis my legs felt weak. My husband was holding my hand, but I had never felt so alone or so abandoned. I was convinced that I was going to die. We drove home in silence, punctuated only by the sounds of our sobs. When I arrived home, Riley greeted me with his usual enthusiasm. I picked him up and crushed him to me with tears streaming down my face. He struggled to free his hands and then started to wipe the tears from my face. ‘Don’t worry, Mama,’ he said, ‘the vanilla ice-cream lady says you’ll be fine. You’re ill, but you’ve got to fight.’

      I hugged my son again and put him down, flashing an angry look at my au pair, as I had expressly asked her not to tell Riley that I was going to the doctor or to give him ice cream. She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders and silently mouthed, ‘I haven’t said anything,’ to me. But Riley was still chuckling and talking about the vanilla ice-cream lady. Even though my heart was crying, I found myself smiling at his babbling and asked who the vanilla-cone lady was. My son

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