Wisdom From Above
Stories
Vision Stories
True Accounts Of Visions, Angels, And Healing Miracles
About fifteen years ago, as I prepared for a big cider-pressing, I had to move the top-heavy hydraulic unit, and I foolishly failed to secure it to the forklift; it toppled over and a key pipe was broken. No one was on hand who knew anything about plumbing, and I foresaw that my own efforts to repair it would take all day. Then I recalled that the man who had helped me the previous year, and who had since died, had been an expert machinist, and had done some plumbing on that machine. With him in mind, I went about the task. It was extremely delicate, but soon I was hearing his voice over my shoulder, "This wrench on that pipe ... a little firmer ... easy does it ... a little more...." Within fifteen minutes, the whole thing was back in working order.
Another time, in the late 1980s, I heard from a nun I had dealt with back in the wild 1960s, when many who, like she and I, had entered religion as teenagers, were discovering how exciting it was to speak freely to members of the opposite sex. She had once again come west for the summer, and wanted to come up and visit. Part of me thought, "To hell with the nonsense of the '60s," while another part felt a frank discussion would be profitable to both of us. The quandary kept coming up in my mind for days, but one day, as I was walking down the road to the farm, I distinctly heard the voice of a saintly and elderly local nun, who had for years given me apples for cider, and who recently had died. Her voice simply said, "I wouldn't if I were you." That settled it. And then, early this year, by a happy Providence, that original nun from the '60s met up with me briefly at a bus station, and we had a delightful little exchange and reconciliation.
Jeanne M. Jones
When we lived in Arizona, my mother-in-law, Frances, lived in the apartment below ours in the house my husband, Maynard, built. He knew of her love for flowers, and built her a greenhouse on two sides of her living room.
One evening, the three of us returned from an outing. As we entered her apartment, prior to going upstairs to ours, both she and I were astounded at the odor of flowers. There were no flowers in bloom in either of our apartments, but she and I could suddenly smell so many flowers it was almost overpowering. Frances told me, "This is what my mother's house smelled like." Maynard couldn't smell a thing, but Frances and I shared that gift of love. I don't know why we were given that particular gift. Who knows, perhaps it was the scent of heaven!
Another time, in the late 1980s, I heard from a nun I had dealt with back in the wild 1960s, when many who, like she and I, had entered religion as teenagers, were discovering how exciting it was to speak freely to members of the opposite sex. She had once again come west for the summer, and wanted to come up and visit. Part of me thought, "To hell with the nonsense of the '60s," while another part felt a frank discussion would be profitable to both of us. The quandary kept coming up in my mind for days, but one day, as I was walking down the road to the farm, I distinctly heard the voice of a saintly and elderly local nun, who had for years given me apples for cider, and who recently had died. Her voice simply said, "I wouldn't if I were you." That settled it. And then, early this year, by a happy Providence, that original nun from the '60s met up with me briefly at a bus station, and we had a delightful little exchange and reconciliation.
Jeanne M. Jones
When we lived in Arizona, my mother-in-law, Frances, lived in the apartment below ours in the house my husband, Maynard, built. He knew of her love for flowers, and built her a greenhouse on two sides of her living room.
One evening, the three of us returned from an outing. As we entered her apartment, prior to going upstairs to ours, both she and I were astounded at the odor of flowers. There were no flowers in bloom in either of our apartments, but she and I could suddenly smell so many flowers it was almost overpowering. Frances told me, "This is what my mother's house smelled like." Maynard couldn't smell a thing, but Frances and I shared that gift of love. I don't know why we were given that particular gift. Who knows, perhaps it was the scent of heaven!
