Angels Watching Over Me

The huge painting of Christ in Gethsemane fascinated me. I could not turn away from it. I felt its impact throughout my whole body. I felt the comfort of the Savior, but I also felt something else, the comfort of the angel that held the savior in his arms, comforting Christ after he had suffered for the sins of man. For this was not the usual scene of the Savior in Gethsemane. This was an unusual altar piece from a Lutheran Church in Odense, Denmark, painted by Carl Bloch, a Danish artist 1878-79. See http://carlbloch.byu.edu/index.php

This beautiful painting illustrates the scene in Luke 22: 42-43 when Christ is praying in Gethsemane and accepts the sacrifice of the atonement, “Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done. And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him.”

As I viewed this tender scene, I thought of the many times an angel has comforted and sustained me in my trials. Sometimes I have felt their influence, and other times only later I have known that they had been with me.

What is the doctrine concerning angels watching over regular members? In Ensign, March 1988, “I Have a Question,” written by Larry E. Dahl, associate professor of Church history and doctrine, Brigham Young University, he discusses guardian angels and ministering angels. He says “the term ‘guardian angel’ is not used in the scriptures.[1]” However, the author does explain that “The scriptures are clear about the role of “ministering angels,” as Mormon testified:” and then lists the various roles of ministering angels including, “—bring comfort, instruction, and warnings to faithful individuals in times of need (see Gen. 16:7; Ex. 23:20–23; Matt. 2:13, 19–20; 1 Ne. 11:14–15:30; Alma 8:14–18).”

“President Joseph F. Smith gave us some insight about angels who minister to those on the earth: ‘When messengers are sent to minister to the inhabitants of this earth, they are not strangers, but from the ranks of our kindred, friends, and fellow-beings and fellow-servants.’[2]

Most of the time I felt the influence of an angel—a spirit who has passed from this life to the next, it has been my mother. My mother died of breast cancer in 1964 when I was 20 years old. I think the times I have felt her spirit it was at the times she would have comforted me if she had been alive.

The first time I felt the influence of my mother was in 1980 when my siblings got together for a family reunion in Utah and all of us (except my youngest brother) went to the Ogden Temple together as a family for the first time. As we waited in the chapel, I felt an uncharacteristic sadness descend on me, and I began to cry. Everyone kept asking me if I was okay, and I kept saying, yes, I was fine. I felt sadness, it was true—but it wasn’t me—I was very happy to be there with everyone. Once we left the chapel and began the temple session, the sadness was gone. My one sister whispered to another (as I was told as we got outside the temple), “Maybe mother is telling Beth that something bad is going to happen to one of us.” That thought had never occurred to me.

However, less than two months later, I was diagnosed with invasive breast cancer, the same cancer as my mother had, at the same age as my mother had been diagnosed—36 years of age. As I came out of the anesthesia after my first mastectomy, I saw my mother’s face; but she wasn’t sad or feeling sorry for me. I saw her as she had been when she had been in pain and suffering. I saw her thin lips stretched with pain as she said, “I hurt.” I felt her pain and I thought, “Yes, Mother, I hurt also, but I can be as strong as you. I will make it through this just as you did.” I would open my eyes and see the medical people helping me, but then I would close my eyes and see my mother again, and know she was there with me, strengthening me, and loving me. It is interesting that she would “comfort” me in a way that did not allow me to pity myself, but in a way that strengthened my determination to be like her—strong and overcome the cancer.

>The next time I felt my mother’s spirit was as a young mother. As my younger sisters married and had children, we often turned to each other for advice, but many times I’d wish I had my mother around to ask questions and talk to. When I had my second child, a daughter Athena, 20 months after my first, she was as different as night from day as my first born. Athena was a fussy eater, and would nurse for a minute, wiggle and look around, eventually get back to nursing and wiggle again. She wouldn’t cry; she just wasn’t interested in eating.

Athena was hyperactive, didn’t sleep much and she was never still. Holding her was like holding a pack of monkeys. She was the cutest, adorable little baby, but she drove me crazy. I had imagined a sweet, doll-like daughter to dress up. I dreamed of a daughter who would coo at me, and I had a fidgety, squirming bundle of nerves who was never still. Getting her dressed was a 20-minute gymnastic trick and laying still and cooing was something she may have done in her sleep—if she ever slept. She didn’t nurse well, and when she did, she threw up everything—projectile vomiting. For the first year, I smelled like sour milk and I didn’t dare try to feed her any solid food.

One day in Mineral Wells Texas where we were living, my older toddler son was playing happily and my daughter was going 100 miles per hour. Exhausted, I put her in the playpen, and sat down on the couch and broke down in tears. Suddenly I could see my mother standing across the room by my daughter.

“Oh, Beth, I knew Athena’s special spirit before she came to earth! I knew how difficult it would be for you to understand her,” I felt her voice say.

I jerked my head up and stared at the playpen. There was no one, especially my long-deceased mother, standing by the playpen where my daughter was trying to climb out and I had thought I saw. I was sure I was going crazy. Not only was I a bad mother, now I was crazy, besides. I put my head in my hands and began to cry harder.

With my eyes closed, I saw my mother’s smile—she was almost laughing as she gazed at the baby. “Your daughter is such a special spirit, Beth. She and I were good friends in the pre-existence. When I knew you were going to be her mother, I knew it would be like it was between us—you two would struggle to understand each other because you are both so different in personality, just as we were. When you were little, I often wondered if you were from Mars because we were so unalike. But just as we loved each other, you and Athena will love each other and learn from each other!”I jerked my eyes open and although I couldn’t see my mother with my human eyes, I could feel her love and her laughter. I knew she was there in the room with me, comforting me and playing with my tiny daughter. I cried more, but it wasn’t tears of discouragement, but of happiness and love, as I picked up my squirming daughter. I held her and looked around the room, wondered just where my mother was as Athena kept trying to crawl over my shoulder to reach something behind me, then she would turn around and almost leap out of my arms grasping for something in front of me.

I often felt my mother near me during the years I was raising my children, especially during those times when I became exasperated and felt I couldn’t take it another moment. Then I would remember that day in Mineral Wells, and shut my eyes and know that my mother was not far away, even if I couldn’t see her, helping me.

It was only lately that I realized that the two years that my husband was in Vietnam when I was alone, I am sure my mother was with me, especially the second time when I had the three little ones, and Marlowe the oldest turned three just before the youngest was born. I had often felt so proud of myself for being so self-sufficient and taking care of myself during those difficult years. Whenever my daughters would call and complain about their husbands being gone for a day or two and how they couldn’t take care of their babies for a night alone, I’d pat myself on the back and say, “I was alone for a year with three little ones and NO ONE to help me, and I was fine.”

Recently the thought struck me very forcefully that I hadn’t been alone. I am sure my mother was with me, helping me every day. I remember the day I brought Marc home from the hospital as a new born baby. I had lost a lot of blood and was anemic after Marc’s birth and Aunt Wilma came to visit me. After she left I felt so overwhelmed; I cried and cried wondering how I could take care of my three little ones by myself with no one to help me—no one to spell me when I was tired or sick. I remember kneeling down and praying with all my heart for the Lord to help me so I could do it. The next morning, I felt strong and knew that I could do it. I am sure my mother was with me and helping me with the kids. I know I couldn’t have done it by myself.

Another time I felt the power of spirits was while I was working for the school district in the 2000s after I had acute pericarditis. I had had fluid around my heart, which they drained. Despite massive amounts of prednisone, the fluid reoccurred, and the doctors were planning on draining it again. Then my rheumatologist suggested that I take “hydroxychloroquine” a medication used for lupus and rheumatoid arthritis. This medication helped reduce the fluid, but the lining of the heart was still very inflamed and sensitized.

For months I still had episodes when inflammation would occur in the lining around the heart or occasionally around the lungs. When it occurred around the lungs, it was called pleurisy and was extremely painful; when it occurred around the lining of the heart, the doctor called it pericarditis and it was just as painful. I was still very weak from the acute attack, and the lupus, and an inflammation was usually set off when I became too stressed or tired. However, I was still trying to work full time and my youngest son was still in junior high school.

It was during this stressful time, when I felt overcome with life, that I started having the feeling that someone was behind me, especially at school when I was feeling I couldn’t do my job. I sensed that if I could just look over my shoulder or turn fast enough, I could see who was there. I wasn’t frightened of whoever was there; in fact I knew they were there to help me. One day I was at Morgan Elementary School; the lab where I was working was empty and I was frustrated because I was trying to fix some computers. Suddenly I felt that same feeling come over me so strongly. This time I knew it was my Grandmother Hendrickson who was in the room with me. I just stood there with my eyes shut and felt her love wash over me. She felt my pain; she knew how hard it was to keep going when you felt like you just couldn’t go another hour. I wasn’t alone. Another time I felt it was my Grandfather Hendrickson’s spirit there in the school with me; I had never known him as he had passed away long before I was born. But the few times I felt his spirit comfort me as I struggled with the pain and discouragement while working in the school, I felt uplifted. He had worked as a custodian at a school in Brigham City and had arthritis in his knee. I felt that he too, knew my struggle.

Eventually I recovered from my pericarditis and the attacks became further and further apart. Soon, the feeling that someone was behind me and the sense I had of my Grandmother and Grandfather’s spirit being near was gone.

There are many accounts of angels assisting people on earth; the pioneers of the Martin Willey Handcart Company felt the angels were pushing their handcarts when they were too weak to do so. There was the account of the Cokeville, Wyoming school where an armed couple took more than 160 teachers and children hostage 25 years ago and blew up the school. A recent account in the Deseret News http://www.mormontimes.com/article/20817/Cokeville-miracle-marking-25-years mentions just one account of the children who saw angels in the school that day, “Glenna Walker’s children saw a ‘beautiful lady’ who told them to go near the window right before the explosion. When looking at a picture in a locket later, one of the children identified the lady as Walker’s deceased mother.”

My sister Coleen died a number of years ago. When she was in the final stages of her life, her husband Lloyd would sit at her side and talk to her about things. Coleen told him stories about our Mother and her last days and how close Coleen felt to her then. Lloyd asked Coleen if she thought mom had been there when they were raising their children. Coleen said she was sure Mother had been there. Lloyd asked how Coleen knew. Coleen said, “Because Mother is sitting in the corner nodding her head yes!”

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[1] (Dahl 1988)

[2] (Smith 1970, 435-36)

Dahl, Larry E. ""I Have a Question" Is there any truth to the idea that we have guardian angels who watch over and protect us?" Ensign, March 1988.

Smith, Joseph F. Gospel Doctrine. Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1970.

My Rosebush

[I wrote this article in 1991 and it was published in the March 1993 Ensign and August 1994 Liahona magazine. The names were changed at that time and my name was not listed as author. Illustrations are by Dileen Marsh and from the Liahona edition. Link is to the Liahona online version. Copyright belongs to the church--© 2010 Intellectual Reserve, Inc. All rights reserved.]

Amid carefully tended flowers in my garden grows my favorite rosebush. Its lanky branches are wild and useless. Too heavy to support themselves, they creep across the grass. My father and my husband have encouraged me on numerous occasions to pull out the rosebush, but I simply will not do it. It was a Mother’s Day gift from my son, Marc.

I remember the day he gave it to me. At first, I thought Marc had forgotten that it was Mother’s Day because he left early that morning without saying a word. I wondered where he was. It wasn’t like him to totally ignore a holiday. In spite of it, I enjoyed church, the lovely gifts others in my family lavished on me, and the nice dinner they prepared.

Finally, late that night, Marc arrived home with a beautiful, blooming rosebush in a small pot. He had planned to purchase the rosebush and then go to church with me as a special Mother’s Day gift, but like so many of his grandiose and thoughtful plans, this one had gone awry. In his search for the perfect rosebush, he had lost his car keys and become stranded. I listened to his explanation as I read the handwritten note he gave me. He promised to go to church with me next week. Tears blurred my vision. His eager words weren’t empty promises; he really planned to keep them. But something always interfered.

I mothered that rosebush in its small pot for more than a year. I followed the detailed directions that had come with it; I took it into the garage during the winter; I shaded it when the California sun was too hot. And I never stopped praying, along with everyone else in my family, that Marc would someday flourish and bloom as I hoped the plant he’d given me would.

When we moved from California back to my Utah hometown, I took the rosebush with me in the car. Marc stayed behind because he wanted to try being independent. Since Utah was to become our permanent home, I planted Marc’s rosebush in our flower garden.

The first year, it did poorly—even though I fussed over it, read gardening books, and asked advice. I soaked the roots, fertilized it, and kept the aphids off it. I tried everything. It stayed alive, but it never flourished. Every time I tended it, I thought of Marc back in California and prayed for him. He called occasionally and sounded confident: “Doing great, Mom. No problems.” But we worried. As I anxiously tended the rosebush, I hoped that next year it would do better.

In the fall, I pruned the rosebush back and packed manure around the roots to protect it. That winter was the coldest in forty years. I waited anxiously to see if my one special plant had survived. With my coat flapping in the whistling wind, I knelt in the snow and looked at the bare limbs of the rosebush. Was there any sign of life under the dirty snow? I couldn’t tell.

That winter I sensed that Marc’s life wasn’t going as well as he had hoped it would. Many a night, when the east wind blew and our windows rattled, I lay sleeplessly wondering if he was going to church, eating right, or still running around with friends who used drugs. Though Marc never told us in his phone calls, we felt that he was struggling with problems he could not handle. He sounded as though he was suffering from clinical depression. I reminded him that we loved him and missed him and that he was always welcome to come home. I told him we were willing to pay for him to get medical attention.

When spring finally came, my other rosebushes started sending out tiny red leaves, but my special bush stood bare and lifeless. I watered it by hand and brushed away the dead leaves that covered it, hoping that I could somehow revive it.
One afternoon, my father, who is an expert gardener, inspected my rosebush and declared it dead. He stamped his cane at the gnarled, brown stub and said it was time to give up and plant another bush in its place. But I didn’t.

That spring I increased my fasting and prayers in Marc’s behalf. I went more often to the temple and always put his name on the prayer roll. Then one midnight, we received a phone call. Marc had decided to come home. He didn’t tell us why, but that didn’t matter; we were just happy that he was joining our family again.

Not long after that, while working in my roses, I noticed a tiny green shoot poking its way out from deep under the roots of my special rosebush. Despite the odds, it had lived! I was so thrilled that I insisted my father come over and view the miracle growth.

“It’ll be wild,” my dad said. Patiently, he poked at the manure-covered shoot with his cane. “That growth is a sucker, coming out from below the graft, so it’ll never bear roses. You’d be better off pulling it up now and planting a new bush.”

“Never,” I said. Tears rolled down my face. It had survived the winter, though we thought it was dead. I couldn’t give up now.



So I continue to tend my rosebush. Often I work in my flower gardens early in the morning. I treasure the tranquil feeling that comes over me as I kneel in the grass, tend my roses, and pray for Marc. I am grateful that he is home. Our family’s prayers for Marc continue. We’re all glad he has come back. At least we don’t worry whether he’s eating or not. My motherly intuition tells me that something is still not right. My husband and my father remind me that Marc is young and that eventually he’ll mature and straighten up. I hoard the morning’s quiet pleasures. Too soon the heat and frustrations and challenges of the day will disturb them. But not yet.

I rest for a moment and watch the pink sky brighten. Early mornings are so special that I wonder why I hated them as a child. I spent my thirteenth summer at my grandmother’s house in Monroe, Utah. I wanted to eat raspberries, swim in the canal, and read books, but my stern grandmother insisted that I tend the roses, pick the strawberries, and learn to sew. I used to hide under the covers and pretend to be asleep as I heard my grandmother making breakfast. She called to me to come outside and work in her garden, but I ignored her when I could and let the clicking of her pruning shears and the rustling of the bushes lull me back to sleep.


When I had to work in the garden, I complained. Yet talking to my grandmother as the sun spun its way across the sky, I came to love her. In the garden, she didn’t seem so austere and forbidding as she usually did. She told me of her love for my grandfather and how she had never given up on him, though for years he was not active in the Church. Her eyes grew misty and she smiled as she told me that the happiest day of her life was the day Grandfather took their family to the temple to be sealed.

Working in my garden reminds me of my grandmother and of her faith in my grandfather. The clippers cramp my hand as I prune my wild, overgrown rosebush. I carefully lay the branches in a neat pile. A blast of loud music from a radio in Marc’s room in the basement startles me, but it is quickly squelched and quiet reigns again. Marc will be getting up soon.

By the time I finish pruning, the sun is up, warm on my face. The pile of branches is higher than I’d expected it to be. My hands and arms are scratched and torn as I force the thorny limbs into a garbage bag. Several strong thorns have pierced my hands, and they are bleeding. I hear a bird call as I kneel on the grass, and I wonder if birds feel anything as they watch their babies fly for the first time. My heart is as sore as my hands, and I know the heat will soon be so intense that I will have to go in.

I hear Marc’s car rev as he roars off to work, and I rest for a moment. My tears drop like rain as my heart follows him. Then I remember my grandmother. I remember watching her graft a branch from one of her most beautiful rosebushes onto an old, half-dead bush. Her voice echoes to me from years ago. “I won’t give up on this bush without a fight,” she had said to me on that long-ago morning. “It’s too precious not to try to reclaim.”

The sun stretches out from its mountain bed and showers its rays across me as I kneel next to my own special bush. I wonder if I can graft some branches from some of my father’s rosebushes onto the unproductive bush Marc gave me. Maybe then it could be productive. Perhaps my father’s garden even contains some roses that are descended from those in my grandmother’s garden. I close my eyes and see my grandmother working industriously in the dawn, tending her fragrant roses. I wonder if others tried to convince her that roses would never grow in Monroe’s arid soil. Did others ever suggest that Grandfather would never change during all those years that he was not an active member of the Church? Did Grandmother listen to them? Or did she keep working and praying and hoping?

I don’t care if I’m not practical. I don’t care if we pray for miracles that to some seem unlikely. I’m going to go to my dad’s garden and cut some starts from his roses. I will not give up on my special rosebush.