It took an entire week to travel to the East Coast for a variety of drama performances. We were in the scariest and most dangerous part of Boston setting up for a performance that evening. While my family and the "Bish" went out to get some dinner, I stayed in the old building behind the set, carefully applying layers of makeup which would transform me into 99-year old Sarah.
A little later, I heard the heavy front doors open and slam shut, footsteps, whisperings. I sat still, listening intently. It wasn't the Bish, or my family. Those doors were supposed to have been locked. I instinctively knew something was wrong. Whoever it was, wasn't supposed to be there.
Darkness and fear flooded the room. I began to pray. As time stretched along with the shouts of the intruders, I felt the prayers of angels joining mine . . . Then suddenly there was a terrified yell, running feet and the big metal double doors slammed shut.
Blessed silence.
I bent my head to thank God--I sensed the glory of the angels' garments scudding in bright streams across the floor. It was breath-taking. We kneeled together there, worshiping God, thanking Him for watching over me, this place, my family and our friends.
The evening’s performance was touched by the power of God. Later that night we finished striking the set, packing everything into the big trailer. The Bish and a few others joined us to rest and talk after a big job well-done.
Then I noticed the small boy perusing the empty auditorium, awe written all over his face. “What is it?” I asked.
“I was wondering,” said he, question marks all over his face. “Who are all these people standing around dressed in white?” I was dumbstruck.
They were the angels. The ones God had sent to do His bidding. Those Boston Angels, watching over us, keeping us from harm.
