There’s a farm outside Diamond, Missouri, that belongs to my grandmother. It’s been in our family for over a hundred years and has been our quiet getaway for as long as I can remember. There’s a farmhouse and a barn and more acres of land than I’ve cared to count, and my grandmother grew up on this little oasis of farmland back when it was still used as a farm.
When she was eleven or twelve, my grandmother was told to bring a few of the cows into the barn from the pasture. She did, and as she was walking inside the barn with the cows, a heavy iron bar hanging from a rope in the loft came loose and fell towards her head. She didn’t see it and the farm hands in the barn were too afraid to say anything to her for fear that she’d turn around and end up facing the bar head on. A few seconds before the bar would have hit her, Grandma felt a forceful PUSH in between her shoulderblades, as if someone had come up behind her and shoved her with all his might, and she fell down. The bar passed over her and landed somewhere beyond her without hurting anyone.
The farmhands saw no one behind her or near her, and she was used to maneuvering around cows and uneven barn floors, so she wouldn’t have tripped. All they knew was that if the bar would have hit her in the head, it would probably have killed her or caused major damage to her skull and brain. The story got around to Grandma’s best friend, a devout Catholic, who told her she’d been pushed by her guardian angel. Maybe it was her guardian angel, or maybe it was one of her countless ancestors who farmed the land before her–either way, Grandma is fine and went on to get married, and have two children and six grandchildren, all of whom are thankful to the guardian angel or the ghost who saved her life.