In the summer of 1992 a shadow crept across my family's life that would change us forever. My wife, Shelly, and I had recently relocated from Chicago to my hometown of Tipp City, Ohio. We left our nice life in Illinois to go help my parents run the family farm, after the untimely death of my older brother.

Six months after Luke, our youngest, was born, Shelly was diagnosed with scleroderma—a terminal disease in which the body's tissues and organs calcify. I'd never heard of it before, and wished it could have stayed that way.

Shelly's life expectancy was only seven years. "My God," I cried in a desperate prayer. "She's only 30 years old and we've got three little kids."

It may sound trite, but God was good. Although Shelly's health gradually failed, somehow she found the strength to transform our little Cape Cod bungalow into a Laura Ashley cottage worthy of a House Beautiful spread. A year and a half after the diagnosis, we counted our blessings as we celebrated Christmas.

With three kids in the house—Jacob, 6; Anna Marie, 4; and 2-year-old Luke—the holidays were magical. Childlike expectation grew as presents began to pile beneath the tree. Every night while carols played on the stereo, we sat around the lit tree playing games and telling stories. And on Christmas Eve I read the account of Jesus' birth from the Gospels.

As I read about the shepherds and the angels and the wise men and the supernatural visitation of God to earth 2,000 years ago, something in my heart longed for a miracle in my wife's body.

A few days after Christmas, Shelly and I kissed the kids goodnight in the two upstairs bedrooms. As we prayed with Jacob and Luke in their room and started to leave, I twisted the bulb of the little electric candle on the windowsill above Jacob's bed so that the light went off. He pleaded with me to let him keep it on as a nightlight, but I said no. It was too close to the bed and wouldn't be safe.

"Besides," I told him, "the candle across the room in the front window would remain on all night. That will give you enough light."

Disappointed, Jacob said goodnight and went to sleep. Shelly, feeling exhausted from the holidays, had already turned in. I stayed up late to unstring the lights and remove the ornaments from the tree. With my mission accomplished, I hauled it outside. As I walked back to the house, I took note of how cozy and Christmas-like our little bungalow looked. With electric candles warmly glowing in each of the front windows, it resembled a Thomas Kinkade painting.

Crawling into bed beside Shelly, I couldn't help reflecting on what a great Christmas it had been. But as I stared at the ceiling, I also found myself worrying about Shelly. Would she really have as long to live as the doctors predicted? I wondered.

I prayed. Lying there, I imagined all the medical challenges the New Year would bring.

Sometime after midnight, I was startled awake. Two unbelievably large hands were holding on to my shoulders, shaking me. What's going on? I wondered to myself as I sat up and looked to the side of the bed. What I saw made my pulse race. There, next to the nightstand, stood an enormous being. He—it?—towered over me. His huge, six-foot-eight frame seemed both vapor-like and solid. It was as if George Lucas had dropped a digital effect into my bedroom.

Although I'd never seen one before, I knew in my heart it was an angel. I don't recall any facial features, and I definitely didn't see any wings. But as I rubbed my eyes to verify the fact that I wasn't dreaming, I knew this was a messenger from God.

Amazingly, the angel didn't speak to me in an audible voice. But without words, he communicated to me what I was supposed to do. Instantly, I knew that I needed to rush to Jacob's room. When I got there, Jacob and Luke were sleeping soundly. But the goose down comforter on Jacob's bed was smoldering. As I pulled it off Jacob, there among the orange-red glow of the melting fabric casing was the electric candle from above Jacob's bed. It was burning brightly and about to ignite the exposed feathers of the comforter. Panicked, I pulled the burning bedspread off my sleeping son who awoke to the frenzy and began to cry. Racing out the house with the smoking comforter in my arms, I heaved it out into the snow.

"My boy nearly died!" I kept saying to myself over and over again as I returned to Jacob's room to console him and find him another blanket.

"The house could have burned to the ground," I said to Shelly, who was now awake, as I sat on the edge of the bed and breathlessly recounted the amazing chain of events from the previous ten minutes. "Our whole family might have died, but the Lord was in control and sent a messenger to warn me."

I told Shelly how amazing it was that the angel didn't speak to me, and yet I knew exactly what I needed to do. I also told her that in spite of being shaken awake by a stranger's hands, I was never actually frightened.

That was ten years ago. I haven't had another encounter with an angel since. I've never been one to dwell on the supernatural aspects of my faith. I'm a Joe Friday kind of believer—"Just the facts, Ma'am!" I've never read a book about those who've had angel encounters. In fact, I had never even picked up a Frank Peretti novel.

But I know without any uncertainty that the being I encountered that night was an angel. I really don't know why God chose to send a messenger to me. He could just as easily have awakened Jacob with the heat of the burning blanket. Or he could have allowed my son to die, or our home to be destroyed. God does allow such tragedies. But thankfully, God willed for Jacob to live. He saved us.

Actually, I think I understand a little bit of why things happened that way. God used that incident in my life to remind me that he is in control and is capable of using supernatural means to accomplish his purposes.

It turns out that I needed to learn that lesson so I would be capable of trusting him during the darkest time of my life. Three years later, in February 1997, Shelly lost her battle with scleroderma. Although God had spared Jacob's life, his perfect will allowed my wife to succumb to that dreaded disease.

Left with three kids and a broken heart, I thought back to the nighttime encounter I'd had with that faceless visitor. I recognized that God had prepared me to handle Shelly's death. Though I was grief-stricken, I also had an unexplainable sense of peace. I knew deep inside that the God I worship is the God whose providence I can trust in the good times and the bad. Without saying a word, he had taught me to fear not.

Editor's Note: Today Ben Fulton is remarried and living in Wheaton, Illinois, with his wife, Beth, and their six children.