Thoughts, Prayers & Art

When I was seventeen, I sat in a dim church basement, feeling as if I were suspended between worlds. I didn’t yet know who I was or who I was meant to be, but something—a whisper of Spirit—had guided me there. Across the room sat a woman unlike anyone I had ever met.

Her hair was fiery red, her eyes a luminous green, and her freckled face seemed lit with a quiet intensity. She exuded both gravity and light, as if she held the wisdom of lifetimes within her. She was serious but quick-witted, strong but deeply compassionate. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I was drawn to her spirit, to the way she carried both joy and pain with grace.

Her name was Maureen, (no that’s not her picture in the featured image) and though she didn’t ask for it, she became my guide. It wasn’t her words alone that called me to her—it was the way she existed in the world. She stood steady, unshaken by the noise around her, and people flocked to her not for easy answers but for the hard truths she shared with love.

One Sunday, she told me, “Sit up front. That’s the only way you’ll truly hear the Word of God.” She wasn’t talking about the acoustics in the church; she meant that I needed to be present, fully open to receiving what God was trying to tell me.

She had other lessons, too, some deep and others that seemingly so simple but were transformative. “What others think of you,” she said, “is none of your business. Just be right with God.” Those words became a lifeline as I moved through a world that often misunderstood me. They helped me let go of the chatter and lies that could have swallowed me whole.

But Maureen wasn’t alone in her guiding role. She was one of a flock of women who, in their own ways, cradled me in their wings. I fondly call them “the Hens.” ”” “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings…” Each one was an angel in disguise—sent by God, I believe now—to hold me when I was lost and propel me forward when I was ready to fly.

Elizabeth was the steady driver, taking us where we needed to go. Her boisterous jokes moved time as though it were a playful stream, bending and flowing effortlessly around the weight of the moment, leaving only laughter in its wake. She was never quite too shy, almost larger than life itself. Yet, it wasn’t just her presence that filled the space – it was her warmth, the way she made everyone feel as though they belonged in her world. Elizabeth had a knack for turning even the most mundane drives into unforgettable adventures, her laughter echoing like music on the open road.

Mary sat beside us on these adventures, she was the quiet one among us slight in frame, but deeply rooted in presence. Where Maureen and Elizabeth filled the air with stories and laughter, Mary brought a calm steadiness, like the grounding hush of twilight after a vibrant day. Her words were fewer but carried weight, often laced with a gentle wisdom that settled us like a soft blanket. If Maureen was the spark that lit Elizabeth’s fire, Mary was the steady glow, her subtle humor and thoughtful gaze reminding us that every journey needed both light and shadow to feel complete. Again, I was only seventeen.

Then there was Linda. She gave me a quiet sacred refuge—a place where I could lay down my burdens and breathe in peace. She lived on the second floor of a two family home with her daughter, her mom downstairs. I can remember walking up those steep stairs into her dining room, the air always carrying the faint scent of lavender and something warm from the kitchen. Linda’s home felt timeless, a sanctuary where the outside world faded, and her calm presence reminded me that even in chaos, there was always a corner of serenity to be found.

Each woman had her own gift, her own light to offer, and together they created a shelter of love and safety I didn’t even know I needed.

As a sensitive and highly empathic teenager, I often felt out of step with the world around me. While my peers were chasing after typical teenage antics, I sought out the quiet wisdom of these women. They were older, wiser, and deeply rooted in their faith. I found myself drawn to their strength and their ability to hold space for others. In their presence I felt seen and understood in a way that eluded among my peers. They offered me something far richer than the thrills of youth – they offered me a glimpse into a life anchored in purpose, where love and faith intertwined to create something enduring. Through them I began to see the kind of person I wanted to become, someone who could bring light and comfort to others just as they had me.

Looking back, I see them as angels sent to guide me. Not the ethereal kind with golden halos, but angels made of flesh and bone, laughter and tears. They taught me to listen for God’s voice, to trust the still, small whispers of Spirit, and to find the courage to follow where it led.

Through my life’s journey there were times when I felt the weight of the world pressing in, when the gossip and misconceptions about me felt like too much to bear. Maureen’s words echoed in those moments: “Their opinions are none of your business. Be right with God.” That simple truth became my compass, grounding me in the knowledge that my worth wasn’t tied to the opinions of others but to the One who created me. Her wisdom reminded me to let go of what I couldn’t control and lean into faith, trusting that my path was not for others to define. In those moments of quiet reflection, I found strength- not in fighting the noise, but in surrendering to the divine reassurance that I was seen, loved, and enough just as I was.

Still, I wonder sometimes if the stories others told about me—those false, unkind narratives—going unchallenged and largely ignored, cast shadows on the people I love most. Yet, I’ve come to believe that truth has a way of rising, like light breaking through heavy clouds, revealing itself in time to those willing to see. I’m just about ready to put pen to paper, not necessarily to challenge the lived experience of others, but to shed light on mine.

My children didn’t grow up knowing the Hens or witnessing the way their love and guidance shaped me. As I ponder writing my autobiography, I think about them. Perhaps if I share these stories, they’ll see the angels who caught me when I was falling and understand the woman I have become. They’ll come to know that my strength wasn’t forged in isolation but through kindness, wisdom, and faith of those walked with me in my hardest moments. Maybe in seeing these threads, they’ll also understand the love that runs through our family-an inheritance of grace passed down in unexpected ways from unexpected angels.

The Hens didn’t simply care for me; they propelled me forward. They saw something in me that I couldn’t yet see in myself—a spark, a potential, a calling. They nurtured it with their wisdom, their laughter, and their unwavering faith. And when the time came, they pushed me to stand on my own, to lean into the gifts God had given me.

Now, years later, I think of them often. Maureen with her igniting spirit, Elizabeth with her boisterous laughter, Mary with her quiet wisdom, and Linda with her boundless generosity. They were God’s answer to my unspoken prayers, His hands and feet in my life.

If not for them, I might have remained lost in the wilderness of my teenage years. But because of them, I found my footing. I learned to listen for God’s voice, to trust His guidance, and to step into the world with faith and courage.

The Hens taught me to sit up front—not just in church but in life. They showed me how to listen for the Word, to follow its path, and to serve others with love and compassion. They were my angels, my guides, my earthly saints.

And though they are no longer with me, I carry their legacy in my heart. Their love propels me forward still, reminding me that I and we are never truly alone.