An angel shines in every face.

• Author: Cartelli, Lesia
• Position: Life in America - A nonprofit organization called Angel Faces - Essay

IT HAPPENS TO ALL of us, moments when our fives take a massive turn or undergo a subtle change--or when we make what we think to be a small decision in response to something that appears simple, yet brings with it a pronounced altering future. Sometimes we miss the moments because our blinders securely are in place or perhaps we discard the moment altogether. Our choice.

It happened to me first when I was a child. It was a day that changed my life forever. On a cold, snowy Sunday in December, my grandparents' home was not safe anymore. It always had been a place to go for a family day with good Southern cooking. My sister and I arrived at 2:30 in the afternoon. It was a small home kept immaculate: two bedrooms and one bath, with a spotless finished basement. The house was full of family laughing and talking and drowning in the aromas of grandma's roast in the oven. I was sent to the basement to play until dinner was ready.

Suddenly, a massive explosion knocked me down. The entire house exploded. The point of ignition from a natural gas leak was the furnace's pilot light where the fumes met the flame, just feet from where I stood. The colossal sound mixed with fire tore at me. It was as though the devil threw large fireballs onto me. I was on fire. I needed to get out--desperately trying to find an escape.

Then the roar seemed to stop; debris stopped falling; an extraordinary calmness took over. A bright white blue light appeared. I pulled my head up to see a hole leading to more whiteness. Was it snow? Was I outside now? I crawled up searing bricks and burning wreckage to a hole of brightness. Was it heaven? I needed air. Angels? I staggered in my shredded clothes, my skin scorched and smoldering. I still was on fire.

At that moment I flashed to the past week: I was sitting at my desk at St. Ambrose Catholic School, in Detroit, Mich. I was wearing a blue-gray wool madras uniform over a white starched shirt, gray wool knee socks, and saddle shoes. Sister Katherine, a nun we all feared, held her boney finger up to the fourth-grade students sternly, "Class if you are ever caught on fire, you must roll in dirt."

With my clothes searing off, I remember my grandparents' beautiful garden behind their garage, but it was covered in snow. Grandpa always warned us against playing in the garden. We often would help him plant peas, okra, beans, and tomatoes, but never were allowed to "play" in the garden.

I stood and fretted on whether it was worth it to roll in the dirt. The pain was burning into my bones, I could see my skin was black with white that looked like tissue paper peeling off. I fell to the ground and rolled in...