A Reflection: The Morning We Met an Angel

Some moments feel like they belong to another realm.

They don’t come with fanfare or lightning — just a hush in the heart.

A shift you don’t fully name until much later.

This was one of those moments.

It was Derek’s birthday.

We were in Atlantic City — his favorite place.

We always stayed at the Tropicana, walked the boardwalk in the early morning when the world was still quiet, and the ocean felt like a secret just for us.

That morning, a woman approached us.

She was older — maybe in her 70s or 80s — slightly hunched, with eyes that held more than one lifetime.

She asked if she could stand with us, just to look at the water.

Of course, we said yes.

What began as small talk turned into something else entirely.

She told us stories — about being German, marrying an African-American man when the world wasn’t kind to that kind of love, raising children in the cracks of judgment.

She told us how, on the morning of 9/11, something told her not to go into work.

That whisper saved her life.

And then, she turned to Derek.

And it felt like the world quieted just a little more.

She began to talk about what it means to live a life with weight.

A life that matters.

She told him to love fully, to say the words, to give his all — not just when it's easy, but especially when it’s not.

To not hold back.

To leave nothing on the table when it comes to love and truth, and joy.

She held his hand before leaving.

Looked at him like she knew something the rest of us didn’t.

Then she walked away.

And Derek turned to me and said softly, “I think I just met my guardian angel… the one who’s going to walk me home.”

And here’s the thing — as I turned to look at her, I saw something I still can’t explain.

Her back straightened.

Her pace quickened.

She looked younger.

Lighter.

Like someone aging in reverse.

Like someone who had delivered the message she was sent to give… and was done.

I didn’t fully understand it then.

But now I know that morning marked a shift.

After that, other things happened — strange, tender things.

Derek saw my father.

He saw my grandfather.

Both long gone from this world.

Something was opening.

Something was preparing.

But here’s the truth I’m still learning:

Even when the universe gently readies you for someone’s departure…

Even when the signs show up in the form of strangers, dreams, or sacred visitations…

You’re never really ready.

Derek wasn’t preparing for death.

He was still living — fully, beautifully, with his whole heart.

He wasn’t making peace or tying loose ends.

He was just being — and somehow, the universe was wrapping us in a soft, invisible cocoon of preparation for what none of us could name yet.

Looking back, I can see the breadcrumbs.

But at the time, I couldn’t name what was happening.

Not then.

Not for years.

This story — this moment on the boardwalk — has lived in my head and my heart for so long.

I haven't spoken about this moment in a very long time.

I think part of me didn’t know how to.

Maybe I wasn’t ready.

But now… now, I can finally say it:

That morning was the beginning of something.

Not an ending.

A slow, sacred turning toward the mystery.

And somehow, it all started with a woman who just wanted to stand by the ocean.