The Voice

“If you enter this writing contest,” she bribed, “you’ll get extra credit.”

We were seniors in high school, caving to the grade-grubbing pressures inflamed by our English lit teacher, Mary Garner, fondly known as “Bloody Mary.”

The contest was sponsored by Guideposts magazine, and it centered on a topic that resonated with me: “The Day My Faith Meant Most to Me.”

In those days, whenever I had to write anything, I found that I couldn’t sit still. I had to go take a walk. Often I would pray, begging for some stroke of inspiration. I figured it wasn’t just a coincidence that our teacher would dangle this type of an assignment under my nose. After all, this wasn’t a parochial school. I had a feeling God was in this.

I was delighted when an idea finally came to me, and I raced home to record my thoughts. There—this should win points with our class. They loved funny stories. But as I finished writing my essay, I felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right. . . . I took another walk. Sigh. . . . The Hound of Heaven was hot on my trail, relentless in his pursuit.

There was another story that came to mind, but it was painfully serious and terribly embarrassing. “All right” I said. “You win. I’ll write that story, too. But I’m not going to read it to the class, okay?”

So the next day, I shared my first story with the class. It was received as I had envisioned. . . . Ah, the wonderful sounds of laughter and applause. Then I mentioned my second story to the teacher. I told her I would submit both stories to Guideposts, but I didn’t wish to read the second one. She took the hint.

Each day as I walked past our school library, the contest poster on the window reminded me of the entry I shared with the class—and the one that was strictly between me and God. The poster featured previous contest winners standing in front of the Capitol. As I stared at the images, I found myself drifting off in reflection, imagining what it would be like if I were one of the winners. . . . Then I noticed that winning contestants would bring a chaperone, and the only stipulation was “must be 21 years or older.”

Wow! I thought. I could bring anyone I want—as long as that person is at least 21. I wondered who I might bring. . . . Then I thought of my sister Jeanette, who was 23. We were not best buddies growing up, but we eventually learned to bridge the gap . . . about the same time she went off to college. I imagined her response if I won the contest and asked her to be my chaperone—she would be shocked. The thought of that made me smile. Then I thought, Wouldn’t that be a great way to say, “I love you”?

Immediately, I heard a voice say, “I’m going to give that to you.”

Now in spite of my vivid imagination, I was not accustomed to hearing voices. This was a startling new experience. Was that voice who I thought it was?


It was an inner voice, not an audible one, but it was so clear and so distinct that I knew it was not my own. Was this really Someone’s response to my ponderings, evidence of a dialogue?

I was willing to gamble on the side of faith. As an “I believe you” token, I walked into the library and asked if I could have the poster, since the contest deadline had passed. It was my way of saying, I believe.

Several months passed, and it was now January 5, 1974. For teenagers, two months is an eternity, and I had entirely forgotten about the essay contest.

I looked forward to sledding at a friend’s house after school, certain that no one knew it was my birthday. Turns out that the sledding party was a ploy, and my friends were pleased that they managed to pull one over on me. But that wasn’t the only surprise in store. . . .

When I left my friends and arrived home, I learned that I had just missed a visitor—from New York. Now my parents didn’t know I had entered an essay contest, and our small town of 6,000 in Washington State wasn’t exactly a magnet for magazine moguls. So when Guideposts Editor Van Varner showed up on our doorstep, he was met with some suspicion. My parents were thinking, Is this guy legitimate? Maybe he’s on the take. . . .

So there I was, on my 18^th birthday, learning that the Guideposts Editor from New York had come to my home. Of course, no one at Guideposts knew it was my birthday. But Someone knew. . . .

Then I remembered the voice, responding to my unspoken gesture of love: “I’m going to give that to you.” Who would have guessed it would be a birthday gift? Nice touch, I thought.

There is something about love (and loving relationships) that triggers the heart of God, something that calls out to him and wins his seal of approval. Intertwined with this dramatic gift from God was evidence of another love relationship. How is it that the God of the universe should take note of one insignificant person and reveal his presence?

It took a while for the details to sink in with my parents: I had entered a writing contest and was one of the winners. I knew, of course, that the editor was legit, and I was ecstatic to get the news. But a burning question loomed before me: Which one of my stories had won?

Winners of this contest would receive a scholarship, an all-expense-paid trip to Washington, D.C., and the promise of having that essay published in Guideposts—a magazine that boasted a circulation of more than four million readers.

Give you one guess which story had won. . . . There he was again, the Hound of Heaven, grinning at his handiwork.

Runnin' with a bucket,

Angela

Cup O' Joe With Angela O

Every picture tells a story. . . .