Though it was many years ago, I vividly remember the bedroom I shared with my older sister JoAnn. It was the only living space upstairs. Its east and west walls were short, connected to sloping walls, and then to a flat ceiling—giving it the appearance of a large coffin. Though it was small, it was big enough for our twin beds which straddled a heat register in the middle of the floor. The only source of heat in the bitterly cold Maine winters, the register was a focal point in our room. A square box with an iron scroll grille on the top and the bottom, the top of the grille was in the floor of our bedroom and the bottom was in the ceiling of the room beneath us. At some point we discovered that the top could be removed, and we could fit one of our sneaky heads down into it, and though upside down, could watch whatever TV program our parents had sent us to bed early not to see. I often wonder what fear would have gripped me if Daddy had looked up to see my conniving eyes looking down.

The bedroom had one window that looked out over the meadow and woods, and it had three doors. One led down an enclosed stairwell to the kitchen, another was a short door to a small cubby, and the third opened into the attic which was beside the bedroom. JoAnn slept in the bed closest to the window. My bed was by the attic door. The door that led downstairs to the kitchen was at the foot of our beds. 

One evening, JoAnn fell asleep downstairs on one of the two couches in the living room. I awoke during the night and went downstairs for a drink of water. I left the upstairs door open. As I ascended the stairs, I saw a man, all arrayed in white, sitting on JoAnn’s bed facing mine. He was white from the top of his head down to his feet—his face, hair, and hands, every part of him was white. I am a logical person, and even at a young age, I looked for answers—reasons for this strange phenomenon. I did not turn and run, but quickly surmised the situation. I looked to the register to see if any light from it could be causing the image I saw. I checked the window and the attic door for any signs of light. There wasn’t any, and yet the being remained, eyes fixed on me.  He did not do or say anything, I suppose he waited for my reaction to him. He presented no danger to me, nor reason to fear him, but I did. I’m convinced that a staunch Baptist upbringing entrenched in unnatural fear gripped my young heart, of which I sorely regret. 

I inched my way over to my bed and snatched a pillow. Hurrying downstairs to the second couch, our family dog by my side, I didn’t sleep, but prayed for protection for the rest of the night. Who was that being, and what was his purpose? Did he have a message for me or perhaps a request? Dare I imagine I held some importance to him, or was he merely resting before continuing his journey? Unlike other spirits I would later see, and compare him to, he stands alone in uniqueness—no other spirit was completely white. I do know, as anyone would, that he was not of this world, at that moment at least. Perhaps he was an ancestor returning to stir my heart towards spiritual matters, or an angel of God, or maybe even the Savior Himself. But, at a young age, I believe I got the message—there’s more to life than meets the eye. And that’s why I write about angels. I know they exist.