Charlie’s Angels
by Shannon Virginia Johnson

“Good morning, Angels! Time to get to work!”

Those words changed my life in January 1976 when the television show, “Charlie’s Angels,” debuted on American television. Farrah Fawcett, Jacquelyn Smith, and Kate Jackson were sophisticated, beautiful, athletic, and inquisitive. The Angels were private investigators with sleek sleuthing skills, and I wanted to be just like them when I grew up. My cousins and I played Charlie’s Angels all the time, and we even practiced our perfect Farrah Fawcett feathered bangs in the mirror.

Every episode of Charlie’s Angels had a villain, a mystery to solve, and a carefully crafted investigative plan. The Angels employed three investigative tools, which private investigators still use today—researching public records, conducting surveillance on individuals to learn about their behavior, and interviewing individuals with relevant information. If my life were an episode of Charlie’s Angels, it would be titled, “HUSH!” The villain is an identity thief, because he’s tried to silence me through shame and the circumstances of three big events in my life.

The episode of my life opens with a little girl who had an incurable curiosity and loved to ask everyone questions. When I asked my grandmother if Juicy Fruit really grew on trees like it did in the Wrigley’s commercials of the 1970’s, she smiled and gently replied, “Oh, hush up.” When I asked my mother to explain why my pet rock never moved, the rolling of her eyes silenced me. I grew up in a more formal setting, and quickly learned I was to be seen, but not heard. We were to put on our mask and smile as if everything was always perfect. Ironically, I grew up in the church and did religion very well, but I completely missed the most important part, having a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.

I mastered looking the part, but I was hollow inside and felt counterfeit. I was easily intimidated and silenced by the wealth of Bible knowledge, scripture memorized by other Christians, and how they could hear God. I thought I had to understand everything before I could believe, but at the age of 23, I realized I simply had to believe so I might understand. I stepped out of religion and into relationship when I invited Jesus into my heart. I began to feel authentic, find my voice, and gain the confidence that comes through a true identity in Christ.

In “HUSH!” that young woman continues to grow up, but the villain always lurked in the shadows behind her.

Every little girl dreams of planning her wedding, and when I was 28, I began to plan mine. A month after my spring engagement, my mother was diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer. I dreamed of planning my wedding with my mother for years, but she was too ill to help. My father lovingly stepped in as “Frank Banks,” the wedding planner from the movie “Father of the Bride.” We spent the summer together, making all kinds of bridal decisions. We met joy at every turn and conspired for me to surprise my mother by wearing her wedding dress. Little did we know we were not only planning my wedding, but we were also planning my father’s going away party. My wedding day was the last day I saw my father, for he died unexpectedly three weeks later during a March of Dimes Walk. I remember calling family and friends to tell them this news, and they thought I misspoke: “You mean your mother?” “No,” I said. “My father.”

Months later, my mother passed away. Even though I welcomed the new roles of wife and expectant mother, I had not bargained for my new role as an orphan. The identity thief had a field day. In losing my parents, I lost a sense of identity in the world, and my identity in Christ faded, too. I felt abandoned and was silenced by aloneness, which feels very different from loneliness.

But God, in His great love and compassion for us, meets us right where we are. When my sisters and I planned our father’s memorial service, we sought the family Bible. As I pulled the Bible off the shelf, a mauve-colored greeting card envelope fell out of the pages. Curious, I picked the envelope up and we noticed it was sealed. There was no writing on the outside of the envelope either. My youngest sister nudged me to open the envelope. Tucked inside was a greeting card, and here’s what it said on the front: “If it hurts you to look behind . . .” On the inside it read, “And it frightens you to look ahead, just look beside you and I’ll be there.” There was no signature! We still refer to that greeting card as our Hallmark from heaven.

During this season of grief, loss and abandonment, I researched and read some wonderful Christian books, but I still felt silenced by the weight of abandonment. Like a good Charlie’s Angel, I went straight to the source and used my sleuthing skills to research God’s Word. As I poured over the scriptures, tears stained the pages, and abandonment melted away. I discovered a relationship with God the Father, who will never leave me nor forsake me. Like that heaven-sent greeting card promised, I just look to my side, and my Father God is always there. Always.

Life moved forward in joy, and I gave birth to three children; but the villain was still on the loose. I turned forty and was hoping to coast in life a little bit. We were on summer vacation in Montana when I was busy picking up the kids’ dirty clothes and shoes from a day of hiking. My arms full, one of the Keen shoes pressed into my neck, and it was painful. I dropped everything to reach for my neck, and that’s when I felt a golf ball-sized lump tucked at the base of my neck. I reached around the base of my neck to discover a series of rock-hard lumps. I knew immediately I had lymphoma like our pet, a German short hair pointer named Chief, at home. You see, all year our dog had been suffering from lymphoma, and I knew from petting him what cancer felt like.

Ironically, when we returned home from vacation, Chief had to be put down the same day I was diagnosed with stage three Anaplastic, Large T-cell Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. To me, that was just a fancy name for fear and death.

This type of lymphoma is one of the most aggressive kinds, so the fight was up front. I was prescribed six rounds of chemotherapy, and I put my game face on. What complicated this battle was the identity thief’s tactic, convincing me I would die from cancer just like my mom. I realized I buried my grief for her in the busyness of motherhood. Paralyzed by fear and gripped by death, everything I did reminded me of her, the smell of the chemotherapy and the infusion room, doctor visits, chilly hospital halls, buying a wig and my bald head.

One of the medicines in the chemo cocktail was nicknamed “the red devil” because it loved hair. For a woman, her hair is part of her history, especially in the south where I grew up. In my own life, I can recall having the Dorothy Hamill haircut in elementary school before I perfected the Farrah Fawcett feathered bangs. During high school, my Princess Diana bi-level cut gave in to the Madonna “Material Girl” look. Then there was the short Republican bob of the early 1990’s. Cancer stole my favorite hairstyle, the ponytail of motherhood.

Losing your hair to disease has nothing to do with vanity, but everything to do with feeling vulnerable and exposed. You cannot hide from the disease when the mirror reflects your bare head right back to you; nor could I hide cancer from my young children. Sometimes my bald head felt like a beacon for pity or a ticket to stare. The villain took advantage of this opportunity, and turned my baldness into a hopelessness that hushed my heart.

I bought a wig because I thought I was supposed to, and the kids nicknamed it “Madge.” I tried to wear Madge, but it was very uncomfortable. During this time, my aunts presented me with a basket full of my grandmother’s scarves, which she had collected on her travels. I shelved Madge and wore those scarves daily. Each scarf felt like a hug from heaven. The colorful scarves comforted me and made me feel safe. The kids loved to pick out which scarf I should wear, and they helped me tie them on as if placing a helmet of salvation from God’s armor on my head.

During this time my oldest son attended Cotillion with his fellow fifth graders at the San Antonio Country Club. It was the last night when fathers accompany their daughters and mothers, their sons. I was in my closet getting ready for my big date with Colton when he came in. He stood in the doorway as I asked him which scarf I should wear. Colton was silent, and he could not look at me. My chin quivering, I understood what he couldn’t say. He was embarrassed, and wishing I looked like all the other moms that night.

So I said, “Colton, why don’t we take Madge out on the dance floor tonight and give her a whirl!” His face lit up, and he looked me in the eye. “YES!” I put Madge on and brushed her blonde hair, but no matter how I styled her hair, I could not cover up the wide seam in the front. It was impossible to wear Madge alone, so I had to wear a black hat on top of the wig. I confess I felt uncomfortable and more like the mysterious imposter that occasionally appeared on “Days of Our Lives,” the soap opera that generations have watched in my family.

Colton and I had the time of our lives as we waltzed to George Strait, but what I didn’t anticipate was how hard it would be to take that wig off when I got home. I changed clothes and paused in the mirror, pretending everything was normal, like the beginning of that summer vacation. I slowly pulled Madge off, and I crumpled to the floor.

That’s when I heard my Father God say, “Do not live by what you see. Live by Me.” You see, I had been doing surveillance on all the wrong things to determine my survival—test results, statistics, circumstances, that silly bald head, worry written on my friends’ faces, my mother’s outcome. Like a good Charlie’s Angel, I needed to do surveillance on what really mattered, so I began to do surveillance on Jesus Christ and His behavior, what the life of Christ looked like and what it meant to live life through Christ.

A friend of mine made a prayer appointment at Christ Healing Center, a non-denominational, Christ-centered house of prayer in San Antonio. We gathered for prayer and returned weekly with more friends to pray. Psalm 144:1 says, “The Lord God my Rock trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle.” I warred with my hands in prayer and learned the power of praying in the Name of Jesus. I got mad, not at God, but at the villain who was stealing my hope and my health. I was not going to let the identity thief silence me through fear nor hold me captive to death anymore. Focusing on life in Christ healed my heart and restored my hope.

After the third round of chemo, it was time to do a CT scan to see if the tumors had shrunk or determine if we need to change the treatment plan. My doctor called me and said, “What have you been doing?” I said, “What do you mean?”

She triumphantly declared, “The cancer is gone! It’s absolutely gone. There is not a trace of lymphoma. What have you been doing?” “Prayer.” She sighed and said, “Well don’t stop!”

This was a miraculous healing that defied the medical team. I don’t understand why I experienced healing here on earth while others may go to heaven to be healed. That is part of the mystery of the Lord we can never understand, but I do know healing always takes place, no matter the outcome. I met God the Father, but now I knew God the Son and how a life in Christ always yields the healing heart, the healing hand and a healing hope through the resurrection power of Jesus Christ to make all things new.

The episode “HUSH!” continues. What I did not fully appreciate at that time were the blessings I received from journeying with cancer. Having to fight for my life transformed into a holy boldness, and my hushed spirit turned into a voice that would soon soar. These gifts prepared me for the identity thief’s third and lowest blow. Disease happens. Death happens. But what happened next was by choice, and that felt like a gut punch.

Two days before our family’s spring break trip to Belize, I awoke from a dream. In this dream, my husband left early in the morning for his workout class, like he did every day at 4:30 a.m. in real life. I looked to my right, and there’s Jesus. He was wearing a white robe, and I was struck by how big the bell sleeve near His wrist was as He motioned for me to follow Him. Then we began walking diagonally across a concrete courtyard in a red-bricked apartment complex. I could hear the hem of His robe catching the concrete as he led me to a door. Jesus stepped behind me and gently nudged me forward to knock on the door. I looked back at Jesus to make sure I should knock and perhaps for some holy boldness, too. Silently, He nodded. So I knocked. A young, beautiful girl in her twenties answered the door and was very obviously shocked to see me. Jesus nudged me forward, and we walked further into the apartment. That’s when I saw three more girls in the apartment who were just as surprised to see me. None of them saw Jesus standing to my right, my Rock. The doorbell rang, and the young girl opened the door to my husband. There he was in his workout clothes and eager to come on in. I couldn’t see what the girl was telling him with her facial expressions, but it was obvious from his reaction she was telling him it was not a good time and to return later. With his arms like exclamation marks punctuating his impatience, he grew angry, “What do you mean I can’t come in? I come here all the time!” That’s when I looked over to Jesus, questioning Him with my eyes. I’ll never forget the grief and sorrow on His face as He closed His eyes, tucking His chin near His heart. I knew what He was showing me—adultery.

Like God in His great love and mercy for His children, the dream did not end there. The scene changed, and I was walking with Jesus. He was in step right beside me. The sun was brilliant and shining, reflecting its golden glory on the water to our left. We walked in joy along the wide sidewalk that followed the water. I was overcome with that peace that surpasses all understanding, the kind when words get caught in your throat as you try to describe it. As we walked silently, Jesus extended His right arm out and across His chest. The bell sleeve hanging from His wrist caught my attention again. He looked over to me, smiled and exclaimed, “This is where I am taking you. This is where you shall live.”

I woke up from that dream with a heavy heart. I suspected infidelity in my marriage for over a decade, but I could never prove anything. After each time I suspected something, then time would pass. I would tell myself it was all my imagination, and that I was crazy for thinking my husband was unfaithful. But this dream felt different, like a warning, a revelation. I was silenced like the calm that anticipates a storm. I could feel the storm coming, but I decided to focus on the end of that dream and the promise of that Hallmark card from years before, Jesus would be right beside me no matter what.

A few days later after dinner in Belize, my daughter came bouncing over to me and asked me who a certain woman’s name was. I told her I didn’t know and asked, “Why?” She said, “I was just wondering because daddy’s been emailing her and texting her a lot on our family vacation.” I felt a lightning bolt of truth pierce my spirit from head to toe. Now the dream made sense, and I wasn’t crazy after all for suspecting infidelity during my marriage.

We returned home, and I discovered unfaithfulness to various degrees throughout our marriage and uncovered financial funny business, too. Your body and health may betray you, but this betrayal was by choice, again and again and again. That kind of betrayal was the hardest to accept from my beloved. Everything I thought to be true was turned inside out, upside down.

The identity thief worked overtime and employed his cruelest tactics, holding me captive to the lies and false identity that I was not enough, I was not pretty enough, I was not sexy enough, I was unlovable, I was rejected, I was unworthy, I was my husband’s inconvenience, and I was a failure and a fool. Those lies had been creeping in for years and finally hushed me into the silence of shame. When I filed for divorce, and the villain used the stigma of divorce and shame to isolate me from friends and church, he crucified my confidence, too.

During this time, sleep was hard to come by. I began waking up every morning at 3:33 a.m. I would happen to catch 3:33 p.m. on the clock in carpool line. I admit I was irritated because I had usually just fallen asleep before 3:33 a.m. Finally, I realized there must be some significance to 3:33 a.m., so the next morning I asked God at 3:34 a.m., “What are you trying to tell me?” I heard the word “Jeremiah.” So I looked in my Bible for Jeremiah 3:33, but there’s no such verse. Then He led me to Jeremiah 33:3, which says: “Call unto Me, and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things which you do not know.”

You see, like a good Charlie’s Angel, I interviewed lawyers, counselors, pastors, private investigators, and forensic accountants to glean relevant information for my divorce; but I had neglected to interview the most important person—God. He did not say He might answer me, but God said, “Call unto Me, and I will answer you.” I began to interview God through prayer for all things, and it was during this time I was introduced to God, the Holy Spirit, who comforts us, counsels us and gives us truth. It was like the Lord would take hold of my hand, look at me and say,” Today I am going to reveal some truth to you. It may hurt, but trust Me.”

As 2 Corinthians 3:17 says, “Now the Lord is Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.” The truth of my marriage and our finances was revealed like rapid fire in the smallest details, and the more I learned, the freer I felt. Yes, Truth set me free. Most importantly, the Holy Spirit set me free with the truth of Psalm 34:5, which lovingly declares, “Those who look to Him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.” Did you hear that? Those who look to Christ are radiant. Their faces are never covered with shame!

At the end of every Charlie’s Angel episode, the villain is caught and the mystery is solved. At the end of my life’s episode “HUSH!”, the villain tried to silence me and steal my identity through the circumstances of death, disease and divorce. Claiming the authority of God the Father, the name of God the Son, Jesus Christ, and the power of God the Holy Spirit, I hushed the enemy once and for all. After the divorce, I moved to Dallas and became a certified private investigator, fulfilling my childhood dream of being a Charlie’s Angel.

The villain would love to hush us up and hold us captive to a false identity, trapped and tormented by the lies of abandonment, death, shame, and you’re not enough. Colossians 2:6–8 says, “So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live your lives in Him, rooted and built up in Him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness. See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition and the elemental spiritual forces of this world rather than on Christ.”

Like Charlie’s Angels, we have an investigative plan to catch this thief. We can practice using a private investigator’s techniques, research God’s Word, do surveillance on the life of Christ, and interview God through prayer. In other words, know that God the Father will never leave you nor forsake you, keep your eyes fixed on Jesus and always seek Him first. And just like Charlie told his Angels at the close of every episode, the Lord will tell you, “Good work, Angels!”

Shannon Johnson is a chaplain, private investigator, speaker and a writer. As a human trafficking advocate, she uses these skills to search for missing and exploited minors. Shannon is passionate about esteeming, equipping and establishing women in Christ, too. She lives in Dallas and has three teenagers.