My suburban town has a waste drop-off center where residents can take items that don’t belong in the regular trash — things like chemicals, corrugated cardboard, and certain recyclables. I gladly hand over my aluminum and metal cans, which actually have some raw material value, in exchange for unloading the mountain of cardboard boxes I seem to collect.
The center also runs a moving-box exchange: new arrivals can drop off their flattened boxes, and anyone is free to take what they need. It’s one of those small civic gestures that, in theory at least, make a town feel like a community.
‘I think you might be an angel,’ she said. ‘Ma’am,’ I laughed, ‘I can assure you I’m not. You can call my wife and confirm.’
It’s also where I witnessed two moments I’ll never forget.
The first came just after my wife and I had moved from another state. We’d been through an ugly incident — one that left her physically hurt, shaken, and furious. I tried to console her, though I was rattled myself. More than anything, she felt afraid. She didn’t know a soul in our new town. She felt alone.
Still, life had to go on. We were setting up our new home, and on that Saturday afternoon we loaded the car with flattened moving boxes and headed to the drop-off center. After unloading the last one, I placed my hand gently on her back as we turned toward the car. Her face was heavy with sorrow, her body slack with grief.
As we neared our vehicle, a man and woman — both around 60 by my guess — walked toward us. The woman gently placed her hand on my wife’s arm and asked, “May we pray for you?”
The man explained that they had noticed her pain and wanted to offer her comfort through prayer. My wife, still shaken but open, nodded yes.
They each rested a hand on her shoulders. Without knowing a single detail of what had happened, they prayed. They asked God to bring her peace. They prayed for strength to carry the weight she was bearing. They asked that she feel God’s presence — that she know she wasn’t alone.
And then my wife began to cry.
These two complete strangers embraced her while she wept. In that moment, something shifted. Her healing had begun.
Afterward, my wife and I reflected on that moment. If angels walk among us, we agreed, they must look something like that couple.
About a year later, we had new neighbors whose garage was overflowing with empty boxes. As they unpacked, I offered to take the pile to the waste station while running errands. They accepted, and we broke the boxes down and loaded them into my SUV.
At the drop-off station, I noticed an elderly woman struggling with a single flattened moving box, trying unsuccessfully to wedge it into the back seat of her small Nissan. I approached and joked that she either needed a smaller box or a bigger car.
I offered to fold the flaps or crease the cardboard to help it fit, but she waved me off — it wasn’t worth the trouble, she said.
She explained that she’d heard about the moving box exchange and came to see what she could find. But she didn’t need just one box — she needed dozens. She was moving out of the home she’d lived in for decades, the house where she and her late husband had raised their children. They were all grown now and had moved out of state. It was time, she said, to downsize and move closer to one of them.
“It’s all so overwhelming,” she said. “I don’t even know where to begin. But I know I’ll need a lot of boxes — so much is being given away or won’t be packed by the movers.”
I nodded toward my vehicle, packed with dozens of flattened moving boxes, and said, “Let’s skip the middleman. I’ll bring these straight to your house.”
She hesitated with the usual “I hate to impose,” but eventually accepted. I followed her a couple of miles to her home.
As I carried the boxes inside and stacked them in a corner, her tone turned serious.
“Why were you at the waste station?” she asked.
“To drop off these boxes,” I replied.
“No, I mean why were you there at that exact moment? And why did you approach me?”
“Just timing,” I said.
“I think you might be an angel,” she said.
“Ma’am,” I laughed, “I can assure you I’m not. You can call my wife and confirm.”
She handed me some strapping tape, and I assembled a dozen boxes, showing her how to do it easily.
Before leaving, I scribbled my name and number on a slip of paper.
“Call if you need more boxes,” I said, “or help with anything else.”
As I walked out, she asked again, “Are you sure you’re not an angel?”
“I promise you I’m not,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure they hang out at the waste drop-off center. That’s where my wife and I met a couple of angels once.”
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