My nephew Brian was seven years old when he first contracted malaria. My sister Lucy and her family were living in New Guinea at the time, in a remote spot far from doctors or Western medicine. There was no clinic, no hospital, no pharmacy. But they’d had their share of tropical diseases over the years and my sister was no stranger to nursing sick family members.
She had a medical book and a missionary nurse friend who could give advice and help, and each day at a pre-appointed time she consulted with an Australian doctor via ham radio.
Malaria was nothing new. Even the baby had had it. The trick was keeping the fever, which would spike every few hours for several days, from getting high enough to cause convulsions. My sister had aspirin, cool compresses, and her strong faith in a God who hears our prayers. Even though she was far from professional help, she knew she was not alone.
Two days and nights went by. When Brian's fever spiked, it soared. Lucy tended him day and night, relieved only by my brother-in-law who by then had also come down with a fever himself. Now my sister had two sick people to care for as well as the rest of the children. By the fourth night she was exhausted, yet Brian's fever continued to spike dangerously high. That afternoon his eyes had rolled up into his head as a convulsion began to take over. Lucy put ice on his bare tummy and cold cloths on his head. The fever passed, but only for the moment. It would return again with a fury in the night and my sister would have to be ready to fight it.
Brian was not out of danger, but Lucy was out of steam. She lay down on top of the bed beside her ill husband.
“Please Lord, help me,” she prayed. “Wake me up in an hour. All I need is one hour of sleep.”
Many hours later, my tired sister awoke as the sun streamed in the window. She jumped up, her heart full of dread, and ran to Brian's room. The little boy who had been so close to death's door was sitting up in bed playing with a Tonka truck. Lucy put her hand on his cheek. The fever was gone.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Hungry,” said Brian, grinning ear to ear. “Mommy, who was that man in my room last night?” Lucy's heart froze. They'd had break-ins more than once. Had a robber been in Brian's bedroom?
“What man? What did he do?” asked my sister.
“He was a black man,” said Brian, “a native. He sat on my bed all night, right there.” Brian pointed to the spot where Lucy was sitting.
“Was it someone we know?” asked my sister. Who would enter their house in the middle of the night?
“Nope,” said Brian. “But he had a nice face.”
My sister told me this story years after it had happened. Brian's fever was cured overnight. The mystery of the stranger was never solved, though Brian remained convinced that someone with a “nice face” had sat with him all night. At first my sister chalked up the story of the black man at the end of the bed to malarial delirium and a childish imagination. After a while, she wondered if it had been something more.
I'm not usually fanciful, and I am more often a skeptic than a believer when it comes to claims of supernatural visits, but something about my sister's tale sent a shiver right up my spine. It reminded me that we live in a world of seen and unseen reality and that what we can't see is as real as what we can. When we are exhausted, afraid, sick or in danger, we are not alone. When no help is available, real help is near.
Severe sickness can do weird things to our brains. On the other hand, as Christians, we affirm what Scripture and the Church have always taught: that there are angels all around and that they are “personal and immortal creatures, surpassing in perfection all visible creatures, as the splendor of their glory bears witness” (Catechism of the Catholic Church, paragraph 330). We believe that “beside each believer stands an angel as protector and shepherd leading him to life” (CCC 336).
I don't know what Brian saw when he was seven and sick with malaria and his mom was too tired to take care of him. I only know what I think he saw. Others would come to a different conclusion. That story helped me, though, in a practical way. The next time I got on a plane, I looked at the wing outside my window and imagined the guardian angels, one for every passenger and member of the crew. They were sitting or hanging playfully from the edge, or standing on the aluminum surface, accompanying us on our journey through the sky.
I did a quick head count of the other passengers and crew. Two hundred thirteen humans — but four hundred twenty six persons. In that instant I lost my lifetime fear of flying. I don't know if anyone noticed, but I was grinning ear to ear.
