It happened just after midnight in a hospital hallway. The nurse had turned out the overhead lights, and all was quiet but for the beeping of machines and the hum of fluorescent bulbs. A woman sat alone near room 206, her hands wrapped around a styrofoam cup long gone cold.
She whispered, “Lord, if You’re here, I need to know. I need something.”
And that’s when she saw him.
Not with wings, not clothed in light, but a man with eyes like fire. Just for a moment. He stood at the end of the hall, looking directly at her. Then—in a blink—he was gone. But somehow, she wasn’t afraid. She felt a warmth settle deep in her bones. Peace.
Maybe you’ve heard stories like that. Maybe you’ve had one. Or maybe you've dismissed them, imagining angels to be more like Victorian Christmas card cherubs than anything fierce or divine. But the Bible paints a different picture—stranger, wilder, more breathtaking than anything we've dreamed up.
In Ezekiel 1:5–14, the prophet writes of a vision by the Kebar River. He saw “four living creatures,” each with four faces—those of a man, a lion, an ox, and an eagle—and each with four wings. Their legs were straight, their feet like those of a calf and gleaming like burnished bronze. “The appearance of the living creatures,” Ezekiel says, “was like burning coals of fire or like torches… and the fire moved back and forth among the creatures; it was bright, and lightning flashed out of it.”
Isaiah saw something else in his vision of heaven’s throne. Above it stood the seraphim—each with six wings: two covering their faces, two covering their feet, and two with which they flew. And calling out to one another, they said, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory” (Isaiah 6:2–3).
Daniel’s encounter, too, shakes us out of any simplistic picture. He looked up and saw “a man dressed in linen, with a belt of fine gold... his face like lightning, his eyes like flaming torches…” (Daniel 10:5–6). Daniel was so overwhelmed, he fell into a deep sleep with his face to the ground.
Not a winged harpist in the bunch.
You see, God’s angels are never sent to decorate. They are sent to declare. Not ornamental beings but mighty messengers. At times terrifying. Always holy.
And maybe that’s the point: when the veil between heaven and earth is pulled back—even if just for a breath—what’s revealed is never tame. It’s never predictable. It’s never small.
Angels don’t arrive to sweeten the scene; they often bring the impossible. News of a virgin birth. A message in the lion’s den. Protection in a fiery furnace. And while we might imagine halos and feathers, Scripture offers fire and thunder—and sometimes, a still voice after the storm.
I used to wonder why their appearance was so strange. Why not something more acceptable, more comfortable? But then again, haven’t we all longed at times for a God who will meet us in the extraordinary? Who won’t just comfort us in the fire, but send heavenly beings into it with us?
God’s world has always run deeper than ours. And His angels reflect that—not just in what they announce, but in what they reveal: that we are not alone. Not now. Not ever.
I remember one night, grieving something I couldn’t put into words. I lay in bed with eyes wide open, prayers dry and cracked. Then suddenly, a calm I hadn’t earned settled on the edges of my soul. No vision. No voice. But peace—like light warming the edges of a cold room. Could it have been an angel? Maybe. Maybe just the brush of God’s hand. Either way, He was near.
So the next time you're tempted to think of angels as just frilly wings and fragile feathers, remember Ezekiel’s storm of fire. Remember Isaiah’s trembling temple. Remember Daniel’s knees buckling under glory. And remember that heaven is far more marvelous—and far more mysterious—than we can yet imagine.
There is more happening around us than we can see. Always has been.
And perhaps, just perhaps, the very next time life falls silent…and the hallway goes quiet…and the coffee sits cold in your hands…you just might catch a glimpse.
Not of comfort made small.
But of glory made near.
It happened just after midnight in a hospital hallway. The nurse had turned out the overhead lights, and all was quiet but for the beeping of machines and the hum of fluorescent bulbs. A woman sat alone near room 206, her hands wrapped around a styrofoam cup long gone cold.
She whispered, “Lord, if You’re here, I need to know. I need something.”
And that’s when she saw him.
Not with wings, not clothed in light, but a man with eyes like fire. Just for a moment. He stood at the end of the hall, looking directly at her. Then—in a blink—he was gone. But somehow, she wasn’t afraid. She felt a warmth settle deep in her bones. Peace.
Maybe you’ve heard stories like that. Maybe you’ve had one. Or maybe you've dismissed them, imagining angels to be more like Victorian Christmas card cherubs than anything fierce or divine. But the Bible paints a different picture—stranger, wilder, more breathtaking than anything we've dreamed up.
In Ezekiel 1:5–14, the prophet writes of a vision by the Kebar River. He saw “four living creatures,” each with four faces—those of a man, a lion, an ox, and an eagle—and each with four wings. Their legs were straight, their feet like those of a calf and gleaming like burnished bronze. “The appearance of the living creatures,” Ezekiel says, “was like burning coals of fire or like torches… and the fire moved back and forth among the creatures; it was bright, and lightning flashed out of it.”
Isaiah saw something else in his vision of heaven’s throne. Above it stood the seraphim—each with six wings: two covering their faces, two covering their feet, and two with which they flew. And calling out to one another, they said, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory” (Isaiah 6:2–3).
Daniel’s encounter, too, shakes us out of any simplistic picture. He looked up and saw “a man dressed in linen, with a belt of fine gold... his face like lightning, his eyes like flaming torches…” (Daniel 10:5–6). Daniel was so overwhelmed, he fell into a deep sleep with his face to the ground.
Not a winged harpist in the bunch.
You see, God’s angels are never sent to decorate. They are sent to declare. Not ornamental beings but mighty messengers. At times terrifying. Always holy.
And maybe that’s the point: when the veil between heaven and earth is pulled back—even if just for a breath—what’s revealed is never tame. It’s never predictable. It’s never small.
Angels don’t arrive to sweeten the scene; they often bring the impossible. News of a virgin birth. A message in the lion’s den. Protection in a fiery furnace. And while we might imagine halos and feathers, Scripture offers fire and thunder—and sometimes, a still voice after the storm.
I used to wonder why their appearance was so strange. Why not something more acceptable, more comfortable? But then again, haven’t we all longed at times for a God who will meet us in the extraordinary? Who won’t just comfort us in the fire, but send heavenly beings into it with us?
God’s world has always run deeper than ours. And His angels reflect that—not just in what they announce, but in what they reveal: that we are not alone. Not now. Not ever.
I remember one night, grieving something I couldn’t put into words. I lay in bed with eyes wide open, prayers dry and cracked. Then suddenly, a calm I hadn’t earned settled on the edges of my soul. No vision. No voice. But peace—like light warming the edges of a cold room. Could it have been an angel? Maybe. Maybe just the brush of God’s hand. Either way, He was near.
So the next time you're tempted to think of angels as just frilly wings and fragile feathers, remember Ezekiel’s storm of fire. Remember Isaiah’s trembling temple. Remember Daniel’s knees buckling under glory. And remember that heaven is far more marvelous—and far more mysterious—than we can yet imagine.
There is more happening around us than we can see. Always has been.
And perhaps, just perhaps, the very next time life falls silent…and the hallway goes quiet…and the coffee sits cold in your hands…you just might catch a glimpse.
Not of comfort made small.
But of glory made near.
