That which we spend our lives hoping for is often no more than another chance to do what we should have done to begin with.
THE LOCKET
IN ADDITION TO MY MEDIA appearances and book signings, I was now giving a lot of speeches as well. Book clubs, churches, fund-raisers, writers’ conferences and grief and healing seminars, as well as a dozen other venues. In these settings the miracles and mission of my book became even more evident.
In one instance, after my speech, a woman approached me. Her husband stood next to her with his arm around her. She was wiping tears from her eyes.
“I had never heard of you or your book,” she said, “but when I saw in the paper that you were in town I suddenly had an overwhelming feeling that I needed to hear you speak. And that I should wear this . . .” She opened her locket to reveal the picture of her infant daughter. “My baby died.”
As I had learned years before from my own experience, there are ways besides death to lose a child. There are those who lose children through their own choices— those who trade diamonds for stones. Both kinds of loss demand grief.
I had just finished speaking to a large group about the importance of spending time with our children when an elderly man walked up toward me. As he neared I noticed his face seemed twisted in anguish. He stepped up on the platform and pointed at me with his forefinger, gesturing with it as he spoke. “You’re right, Mr. Evans. You’re right. But I’m an old man and I can’t go back.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Another memorable experience occurred at a church in Baltimore. The morning after my speech, as I was preparing to leave town, a man called.
“Mr. Evans, I was at your speaking event last night. Something happened while you were speaking and I need to talk with you about it. Could we possibly meet for a few minutes?”
“I’d like to,” I said, “but I’m about to catch a flight out.”
“It’s really important. I’ll even come to the airport. I just need a couple of minutes. I need to ask you something about last night.”
“Can you ask me now?”
“It would be better if we could speak in person.”
His earnestness intrigued me. We arranged to meet just minutes before I was to leave for the airport. I was standing near my car, my luggage in tow, when he arrived. He introduced himself, thanked me for my time, then said, “Last night, something happened while you were speaking. You were suddenly completely encompassed in light. At first I didn’t believe what I saw and I blinked, then I moved around in my seat. But the light didn’t change. It was as if the light emanated from your skin. I turned to my wife and asked her if she saw what I saw, but she didn’t say anything. She just sat there listening to you. Then, as you finished speaking, the light gradually diminished until it was gone. Last night I lay in bed for hours just thinking about what I had seen. I thought my wife was asleep, when suddenly she said, ‘You saw the light, didn’t you?’
“I said, ‘You saw it too? Why didn’t you say something?’ She said it frightened her. She hadn’t ever seen anything like it.”
The man looked me in the eyes. “What does it mean?”
I asked him when he saw the light. He said it was near the end of my talk, when I had been speaking about our divine life purpose.
“I believe you’ve been given a sign,” I said. “A sign is not a destination, it merely points the way. It’s now up to you to learn for yourself whether or not what I said was true.”
As we parted I wished him luck on his journey. It was the first time I was to hear about the light. Over the next few years it would become almost commonplace.
•
Probably my most incredible incident at a speaking event involved a young mother and the Christmas Box Angel statue.
Throughout the year I often visit the angel statue. It’s peaceful there. If there is such a thing as holy ground, and I believe there is, I suppose the angel would qualify. Sitting on the grass next to the statue, I would often read the notes and letters that people left to their departed loved ones. A few days after Easter, I came across this note.
My little girl,
I love and miss you very much! Happy Easter. I hope you got a new dress where you are.
I think of you often; especially lately. I will always love you.
Love, Mommy
I brought the note back to my office and put it in the small walnut Christmas Box that my father had made for me. About six months later I was speaking to a large church group about loss and hope. When I was done, a woman came up to speak with me. Her eyes were red from crying.
“I was moved by what you had to say. Your speech also really affected my daughter. She would like to speak with you, but she’s having a little trouble. She lost her child last year.”
I looked over to see a young woman rubbing her eyes. I walked over to her and she tried to speak, but couldn’t. I put my arms around her and held her for a while. Then, still looking down, she said, “Thank you for what you shared tonight. It meant a lot to me. I’ve been to your angel statue.”
Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I saw very clearly the Easter note I had read months earlier. I said, “I know. You left a note for your daughter. It said that you hope there are Easter dresses where she is.”
The young woman looked up into my face, her eyes wide with surprise. “How did you know that?”
Her mother looked at me in awe, awaiting my answer.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just saw it.”
For a moment the three of us shared in the miracle. Then I saw something on the young woman’s face that I hadn’t before. Hope. I believe that she suddenly understood that if such things could happen, maybe there is more than just this existence. As the two of them walked away, neither of them was crying anymore.
