Vision of an Angel

As a boy, I used to look up at the quiet ceiling of my room and wonder if, one day, an angel might step gently out of the unseen and let me know I wasn’t alone. Scripture planted those seeds early. In Genesis 3, the first glimmer of the heavenly appears—cherubim set to guard Eden’s gate, a solemn reminder that heaven and earth touch, even if at a distance. Then, in Genesis 16, the story becomes tender and close: the angel of the Lord finds Hagar in the wilderness, a woman wounded and wandering, and speaks comfort into her fear. He names her future, names her child, and sends her back with the strength of a promise. It is hard to read that scene and not feel the warmth of God’s nearness to the overlooked and the aching.

Angels stir again around Abraham and Lot in Genesis 18 and 19, moving through the text like quiet messengers in plain clothes—holy presence wrapped in ordinary appearance. Perhaps that is part of their mystery: they are seen best by those who are willing to look twice. No wonder that, as a churchgoing boy, angels lived vividly in my imagination. The pages of the Bible made them feel not only possible, but personal.

Now, somewhere in the middle of my eighth decade, I believe I have seen two angels of God—each arriving the way grace often does, in dreams that feel more like visitations than sleep. The first was my mother, returning a few months after she passed, her presence so familiar that I asked her to stay a while longer. The second was her brother—my uncle, almost my peer—who came in the same manner, gentle and sure.

I am waiting for my son. Before he died in 2018 after a brief illness, I asked him to visit me—just once—to let me know he arrived safely where love is full and pain is finished. He said, “Dad, if the Lord will permit it, I will.” So, I wait for that holy night when grief gives way to reassurance, and he slips into my sleep like a kindly messenger with news from home.

Have you seen an angel? Do you believe in them? I wonder how any of us would respond if one stood before us—would we recognize the light beneath the ordinary, or would we only feel the steadying peace they tend to bring? I remember the tug in my chest as my mother rose to leave in that dream; I wanted just a little more time, just one more word. Perhaps that yearning is its own kind of prayer—one that angels carry on our behalf. There is wisdom in the old admonition from Hebrews 13:2: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” It makes me think angels are not only winged messengers but also moments of unexpected kindness  — the nurse with soft hands, the neighbor who shows up with a meal, the stranger who smiled when the world feels heavy. If that is true, then I meet angels often—and I suspect most of us do. How could I not believe in them, when each day’s small mercies feel like messages, and each remembered voice sounds like love that refuses to be silenced?