A five-year old girl was playing with her one-year old sister. After a while she carried the little one, sat her on top of their mother’s sewing machine by the window, and soon was lost in her own world of play. Moments passed. Then the girl remembered her sister. The baby was not there! She panicked and screamed for help. She looked out and saw the baby on the ground beneath the window. The baby had fallen from the second floor window! Pandemonium broke loose!

A vigil was held that night. Relatives and friends came to watch and pray. While the baby did not exhibit any major injuries, they were worried about internal injuries. This was during the Japanese occupation and the family had taken refuge in their farmhouse so rushing the baby to a hospital was not even considered.

Morning came. It was the day of reckoning. Did she…? The baby opened her eyes… and smiled!

That was 57 years ago. This event became the mother’s favorite miracle story. I was that baby.

Let me tell you what it was from my own recollection.

When they picked me up from the ground that day, I was watching them. I saw myself on the ground, lying on my back. I saw my mother pick me up, and through eyes streaming with tears, rush up to the house. I was a silent observer through all the chaos that ensued. That night, inside our bedroom, which was lit by gasera, I could see on our bedroom walls shadows of many people slowly walking all through the night, palms touching in front of their chests as in prayer. It was an endless procession of shadows. None of the people watching over me in the room paid any attention to them.

How much do I remember of the event? The following morning, I vividly recall my oldest brother carrying me in front of a bayawak, chained to an old guava tree at our backyard, which they purposely caught earlier to be cooked as an offering of thanksgiving. I remember shrieking with delight every time they poked at the tail of the poor creature and it responded!

I can picture you this very minute, eyes wide, mouth agape in utter amazement, and thinking: "Huh, she remembers that far back?"

Three years after this incident, with the family now back in Manila, an aunt came to visit and saw me for the first time. She talked about the accident that took the life of her only daughter, aged three at the time. They were having some repairs done in their house and were getting ready to install a new door. While playing, the door fell on top of her daughter, crushed her skull, and she died. My mom also shared with her my own near-death experience. It was then that they realized that the two events happened at about the same time. She burst into tears when she heard my mother call me by my name, Edna. Her daughter was named Edna, too. My aunt has since referred to me as her daughter as she believes that her daughter saved my life that day. She believes I have her daughter’s soul! And because she would always talk about the two incidents during her visits, which was once every couple of years, there was no chance I would forget.

While my mother and my aunt were talking, I was nearby, half playing, half listening. It was then that the memory of that fateful event came back to me. My mother and I never talked about the incident, but through the years she often made remarks about my "being lucky", that this is my "second life," that she felt I must have a special mission in life. I never told my mom about the shadows on the walls. (What were they? Who were they?) I never told anyone. Until now.

Years passed. I was now a grown woman, married, had a two-year old child and expecting a second baby. One night, my husband was out of town and I was trying to put my son to sleep. He interrupted a nursery rhyme, pointed at the window and said: "Mommy, there is an old man by the window and he is smiling at me." I looked. There was no one there. Of course! I asked him to describe the man to me. He described my father, who died thirteen years earlier. This was confirmed when I showed him a picture of my father the next day. My father was watching over me and my son the night that we were alone!

My son, who is now almost thirty years old, still remembers and shares, on occasions, the above story.

These events in my life only made sense to me when I became a member of the Prayers Warriors of the Holy Souls. The holy souls are our prayers warriors in heaven. They have been there for me, praying for me, all my life. The meager alms that we give: prayers half-heartedly said, devotions prayed only when remembered, these are treasures to them - like a breath of fresh air, a delightful refreshment to parched lips, an unexpected downpour in the midst of an Indian summer. In return, through their prayers, they protect us and help lead us to God’s kingdom.