One of my ongoing discoveries about myself is that the more I read
and learn about God, about Jesus and all His Saints and Angels, the more
revelations and wonders I uncover and understand.
I
had been guilty of thinking of my God as removed from me and my life
when the truth is that He is very much part of my life and so are his
saints and angels. And when I read of incidents such as the one below, I
feel such a surge of love and warmth... I also wonder just how many
times my own guardian angel 'saved' me without my knowledge. Such
'rescues' may not be as obvious as the one experienced by Michael the
soldier but I have no doubt that they were just as critical.
What I repost below comes from another website ... just click on the title below to go to that website.
This
is the true story of a Marine wounded in Korea in 1950. Writing to
his mother, he told her of a fascinating encounter he experienced in
the war. Father Walter Muldy, a navy chaplain who spoke to the young
Marine and his mother as well as to the outfit commander, always
affirmed the veracity of this narrative. We heard it from someone who
read the original letter and retell the story here in all its details
and in the first person to better convey some of the impact it must have
had when first told by the son to his mother.
Dear Mom,
I
am writing to you from a hospital bed. Don't worry, Mom, I am okay. I
was wounded, but the doctor says that I will be up in no time.
But
that's not what I have to tell you, Mom. Something happened to me that
I don't dare tell anyone else for fear of their disbelief. But I have
to tell you, the one person I can confide in, though even you may find
it hard to believe.
You remember the prayer to Saint Michael that you taught me to pray when I was little: "Michael, Michael of the morning,…"
Before I left home for Korea, you urged me to remember this prayer
before any confrontation with the enemy. But you really didn't have to
remind me, Mom. I have always prayed it, and when I got to Korea, I
sometimes said it a couple of times a day while marching or resting.
Well,
one day, we were told to move forward to scout for Commies. It was a
really cold day. As I was walking along, I perceived another fellow
walking beside me, and I looked to see who it was.
He
was a big fellow, a Marine about 6'4" and built proportionally. Funny,
but I didn't know him, and I thought I knew everyone in my unit. I was
glad to have the company and broke the silence between us:
"Chilly
today, isn't it?" Then I chuckled because suddenly it seemed absurd to
talk about the weather when we were advancing to meet the enemy.
He chuckled too, softly.
"I thought I knew everyone in my outfit," I continued, " but I have never seen you before."
"No," he agreed, "I have just joined. The name is Michael."
"Really?! That's mine, too."
"I know," the Marine said, "Michael, Michael of the morning…."
Mom,
I was really surprised that he knew about my prayer, but I had taught
it to many of the other guys, so I supposed that the newcomer must
have picked it up from someone else. As a matter of fact, it had gotten
around to the extent that some of the fellows were calling me "Saint
Michael."
Then, out of the blue, Michael said, "There's going to be trouble ahead."
I
wondered how he could know that. I was breathing hard from the march,
and my breath hit the cold air like dense clouds of fog. Michael seemed
to be in top shape because I couldn't see his breath at all. Just
then, it started to snow heavily, and soon it was so dense I could no
longer hear or see the rest of my outfit. I got a little scared and
yelled, "Michael!" Then I felt his strong hand on my shoulder and heard
his voice in my ear, "It's going to clear up soon."
It
did clear up, suddenly. And then, just a short distance ahead of us,
like so many dreadful realities, were seven Commies, looking rather
comical in their funny hats. But there was nothing funny about them
now; their guns were steady and pointed straight in our direction.
"Down,
Michael!!" I yelled as I dove for cover. Even as I was hitting the
ground, I looked up and saw Michael still standing, as if paralyzed by
fear, or so I thought at the time. Bullets were spurting all over the
place, and Mom, there was no way those Commies could have missed at
that short distance. I jumped up to pull him down, and then I was hit.
The pain was like a hot fire in my chest, and as I fell, my head
swooned and I remember thinking, "I must be dying…" Someone was laying
me down, strong arms were holding me and laying me gently on the snow.
Through the daze, I opened my eyes, and the sun seemed to blaze in my
eyes. Michael was standing still, and there was a terrible splendor in
his face. Suddenly, he seemed to grow, like the sun, the splendor
increasing intensely around him like the wings of an angel. As I
slipped into unconsciousness, I saw that Michael held a sword in his
hand, and it flashed like a million lights.
Later on, when I woke up, the rest of the guys came to see me with the sergeant.
"How did you do it, son?" he asked me.
"Where's Michael?" I asked in reply.
"Michael who?" The sergeant seemed puzzled.
"Michael, the big Marine walking with me, right up to the last moment. I saw him there as I fell."
"Son,"
the sergeant said gravely, "you're the only Michael in my unit. I
hand-picked all you fellows, and there's only one Michael. You. And son,
you weren't walking with anyone. I was watching you because you were
too far off from us, and I was worried.
Now tell me, son," he repeated, "how did you do it?"
It was the second time he had asked me that, and I found it irritating.
"How did I do what?"
"How did you kill those seven Commies? There wasn't a single bullet fired from your rifle."
"What?"
"Come on, son. They were strewn all around you, each one killed by a swordstroke."
And
that, Mom, is the end of my story. It may have been the pain, or the
blazing sun, or the chilling cold. I don't know, Mom, but there is one
thing I am sure about. It happened.
Love your son, Michael
