It was her favorite question these days.
“Grammy,” little Norah piped up, legs swinging off the Sunday school bench, “when we die, do we become angels?”
I saw the other grandmother—a faithful woman with silver hair and a lavender Bible—pause before responding. She smiled gently, brushing a curl back from Norah’s forehead.
“No, sweetheart,” she said. “We don’t become angels. We become something far more wonderful.”
Norah blinked. “Better than an angel?”
And there it was—the innocent wonder, the sacred curiosity only a child can hold so plainly.
That quiet corner of the church basement stayed with me all week. Maybe you've heard it too—maybe you've said it. “Heaven gained another angel.” The phrase slips out in grief, a warm attempt to bring comfort. But what if the truth is far more comforting than the myth?
Scripture paints a different picture—one richer, more personal, more eternal.
“You have come,” the writer of Hebrews says, “to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem. You have come to thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly... to the spirits of the righteous made perfect” (Hebrews 12:22–23).
Spirits of the righteous—human beings made whole. Not angels become wingless, not transformed into some higher creature, but redeemed souls restored to the fullness God always intended.
We aren’t meant to be angels. We’re meant to be His children in glory.
Jesus Himself draws a line between the two. In Luke 20:36, He says, “They can no longer die; for they are like the angels.” Like them, not turned into them. We will be immortal, yes—like angels—but not identical to them.
And then there’s Psalm 8:5, which hums with David’s astonishment: “You have made them a little lower than the angels and crowned them with glory and honor.”
A little lower now. But crowned by God Himself. We’re not destined to ascend into some generic celestial status. No halo. No wings.
Just a crown.
Because He made us for something more intimate.
Angels were created to be messengers. Brilliant, holy, fierce when needed, yes—but watchers and warriors for the will of God. You and I? We were made to be loved. Known. Adopted. Redeemed.
He didn’t send His Son to become an angel. He became one of us.
Sometimes I wonder if we shrink in moments of loss—as if saying our loved one became an angel comforts more than saying they are held in Christ’s presence. But maybe we just forget the wonder of who God says we already are.
When the grief fog rolls in and the questions rise like tidewater, I find peace in remembering that death doesn’t make us something else—it reveals what we were always becoming in Him. The “spirits of the righteous made perfect.” That phrase stirred something deep in me.
Maybe it will in you too.
Because in heaven, that faithful husband isn’t polishing his wings. He’s resting, whole and healed, in the arms of the One who shaped his soul. Your grandmother isn’t perched on a cloud with a harp—she’s worshiping freely, fully, having shed every earthly ache.
She didn’t get demoted to some distant flame of light.
She became who she was always meant to be.
So no, Norah, we don’t become angels. But it’s even better than that.
We become the children of the King—gathered in joy, made perfect by grace, welcomed home.
Maybe you’ve wondered it too. Maybe in the quiet of loss or the ache of saying goodbye, you reached for a simple line to make sense of it all. That’s okay. But know this:
God didn’t create you to fill heaven’s choir as an angel.
He’s writing you into the story of redemption only people get to live.
That kind of love? That kind of hope?
That’s worth more than wings.
And that’s who you are.
Still becoming. Still beloved.
Held now—and home one day.
It was her favorite question these days.
“Grammy,” little Norah piped up, legs swinging off the Sunday school bench, “when we die, do we become angels?”
I saw the other grandmother—a faithful woman with silver hair and a lavender Bible—pause before responding. She smiled gently, brushing a curl back from Norah’s forehead.
“No, sweetheart,” she said. “We don’t become angels. We become something far more wonderful.”
Norah blinked. “Better than an angel?”
And there it was—the innocent wonder, the sacred curiosity only a child can hold so plainly.
That quiet corner of the church basement stayed with me all week. Maybe you've heard it too—maybe you've said it. “Heaven gained another angel.” The phrase slips out in grief, a warm attempt to bring comfort. But what if the truth is far more comforting than the myth?
Scripture paints a different picture—one richer, more personal, more eternal.
“You have come,” the writer of Hebrews says, “to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem. You have come to thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly... to the spirits of the righteous made perfect” (Hebrews 12:22–23).
Spirits of the righteous—human beings made whole. Not angels become wingless, not transformed into some higher creature, but redeemed souls restored to the fullness God always intended.
We aren’t meant to be angels. We’re meant to be His children in glory.
Jesus Himself draws a line between the two. In Luke 20:36, He says, “They can no longer die; for they are like the angels.” Like them, not turned into them. We will be immortal, yes—like angels—but not identical to them.
And then there’s Psalm 8:5, which hums with David’s astonishment: “You have made them a little lower than the angels and crowned them with glory and honor.”
A little lower now. But crowned by God Himself. We’re not destined to ascend into some generic celestial status. No halo. No wings.
Just a crown.
Because He made us for something more intimate.
Angels were created to be messengers. Brilliant, holy, fierce when needed, yes—but watchers and warriors for the will of God. You and I? We were made to be loved. Known. Adopted. Redeemed.
He didn’t send His Son to become an angel. He became one of us.
Sometimes I wonder if we shrink in moments of loss—as if saying our loved one became an angel comforts more than saying they are held in Christ’s presence. But maybe we just forget the wonder of who God says we already are.
When the grief fog rolls in and the questions rise like tidewater, I find peace in remembering that death doesn’t make us something else—it reveals what we were always becoming in Him. The “spirits of the righteous made perfect.” That phrase stirred something deep in me.
Maybe it will in you too.
Because in heaven, that faithful husband isn’t polishing his wings. He’s resting, whole and healed, in the arms of the One who shaped his soul. Your grandmother isn’t perched on a cloud with a harp—she’s worshiping freely, fully, having shed every earthly ache.
She didn’t get demoted to some distant flame of light.
She became who she was always meant to be.
So no, Norah, we don’t become angels. But it’s even better than that.
We become the children of the King—gathered in joy, made perfect by grace, welcomed home.
Maybe you’ve wondered it too. Maybe in the quiet of loss or the ache of saying goodbye, you reached for a simple line to make sense of it all. That’s okay. But know this:
God didn’t create you to fill heaven’s choir as an angel.
He’s writing you into the story of redemption only people get to live.
That kind of love? That kind of hope?
That’s worth more than wings.
And that’s who you are.
Still becoming. Still beloved.
Held now—and home one day.
