Who Is the Angel?

The Book of Ron · 33 of 48 · 4 minute read

One July afternoon, with the temperature hovering around 103 degrees, I knocked off work early. It was around three o’clock. I had just finished pouring concrete — tired, overheated, and ready to get home. After loading up, I drove about two miles from the job site and came to a four-way stop sign out in the country.

As I sat there, a bicycle rider approached from the opposite direction. He veered toward my truck, so I rolled down the window, the air conditioning blasting out into the heat. He asked, “Would you happen to have a spare bottle of water?”

I apologized immediately. I could see he was hot, dehydrated, and pushing himself hard on that bike. But I had emptied my cooler earlier that day. I told him, “This is the country. Folks are friendly. Just go up one of these long driveways, knock on a door, and ask if you can use a water hose.”

He looked at me in a way that told me everything. He was like I was — the kind of man who would endure rather than impose, who would push forward instead of asking for help. His pride would not easily allow him to walk up to a stranger’s house and ask for water. I felt bad for him, but there was nothing I could do.

So I drove on toward home.

But I could not get his image out of my mind.

About two and a half miles down the road, it hit me suddenly — like a bolt of lightning. In the back seat, under some blueprints, I remembered there was a bottle of water I had placed there the day before. It wasn’t cold, but it was unopened, sealed, clean.

I kept driving for a moment, arguing with myself. He could be gone. He might have turned down a side road. He might have already found water somewhere. There was no way I would be able to find him now.

But the knot in my spirit only tightened.

Finally, I turned the truck around and headed back down the highway, scanning the road ahead. I drove several miles. He had made good progress. By now I had gone three or four miles past the original intersection in the opposite direction.

Then I saw him.

I pulled alongside, handed him the bottle of water, and watched as he took it with both hands. He opened it and drank immediately. We spoke only for a few seconds before he continued on his way.

But in that brief moment, I saw something in his eyes that I cannot fully explain. It was gratitude, relief, appreciation — pure and unguarded. He didn’t need to say anything. His eyes said it all.

There was no doubt in my mind that something deeper had taken place. Some might call it coincidence. Others might call it divine prompting. I simply know that I could not have driven on in peace without turning back.

Now, I could tell this story in a way that makes me the hero — the one who listened, the one who returned, the one who helped. In one sense, perhaps that is true. But as I reflected on it later, I realized the true angel in this story was not me.

It was the rider on the bicycle.

When he looked at me, the gratitude in his eyes became a gift. His appreciation, his quiet thankfulness, his dignity even in need — all of it blessed me in a way I had not experienced all day, perhaps all week. In that single moment, I received far more than I gave.

We all have the ability to be angels each and every day. When someone deserves a pat on the back, a blessing, a moment of encouragement, appreciation, respect — even to be cherished for a second — withholding it is not simply failing to give. In a way, it is taking something away. We are faced with a quiet choice in countless ordinary moments: to care for people or to diminish them, to give life or to drain it, to leave someone stronger than we found them or weaker.

That afternoon, on a hot country road, a thirsty cyclist asked for water.

And a tired concrete worker went home carrying a blessing.

There is a companion workbook for this story. Open the workbook (PDF).