The White Feathers Begin
In June of 2016, my wife Henny and I sat side by side in a small Mormon church, gathered for a celebration of life. We were there to say goodbye to Henny’s younger sister, Rosie. Like so many funerals, the room was heavy with grief. Soft hymns played in the background, and the air itself seemed weighed down by loss. We listened as people shared memories, searching for comfort in words that never quite feel like enough.
As the service continued, something happened that neither of us will ever forget.
A single white feather appeared in the air above Rosie’s casket. It did not drift in from a doorway. It did not fall from the ceiling. It simply appeared, suspended in midair for a brief moment, and then began to float downward. Slowly. Gently. With a grace that felt intentional. We watched as it moved through the air, untouched by any visible breeze, until it came to rest silently behind the casket.
Henny and I looked at each other. We didn’t say a word. We didn’t have to. We both knew something extraordinary had just happened. After the service, we quietly asked others if they had seen the feather. No one had. Not a single person.
That detail mattered.
This wasn’t a public sign. It wasn’t meant to draw attention or cause a stir. It was personal. It felt as though God Himself had leaned close to us in our grief and whispered, “I see you. I am here. She is safe.” This scripture came to my thoughts. “He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge; His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.” (Psalm 91:4)
At the time, we didn’t fully understand what the feather meant. But we both felt it. Something shifted inside us that day. That moment cracked open a door we didn’t even know existed. The feather was not the end of the story. It was the beginning.
When we returned home, the white feathers began appearing with regularity.
The first one appeared quietly, resting on a brown leather chair in our living room. That chair was not just a piece of furniture. It had come from Henny’s older brother, Henry. The chair made its way into our home, carrying with it years of memory, conversation, and presence. It was the place where I would often sit to pray, to think, and sometimes simply to remember. Seeing that white feather resting there brought a strange mix of wonder and peace. It felt placed, not dropped. Intentional, not accidental.
As days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, the feathers kept appearing. We found them in places where they simply did not belong — on my desk at work, nestled among papers. On my computer keyboard. On the kitchen floor in the early morning light. Sometimes even outside, on calm, clear days when there was no wind and no explanation.
One day stands out clearly in my memory. I stepped out of the post office under a cloudless blue sky. There was no breeze, no birds nearby, nothing unusual. And yet, a white feather floated down from above and landed softly on my chest. I stood there stunned, knowing deep in my spirit that this was not coincidence.
At some point, logic reaches its limit. When something happens once, you might explain it away. When it happens again and again, always at meaningful moments, you begin to listen differently.
We started collecting the feathers, placing each one carefully into a small jewelry box in our bedroom. Over time, that box filled with hundreds of white feathers. Each one became a reminder of God’s nearness — a quiet reassurance that He had not left us, that He was walking with us through grief, doubt, and healing.
The feathers were never about spectacle. They were about kindness. God’s kindness. His willingness to step into ordinary spaces and make them holy.
Time Marches On
Then grief returned. Henny’s older brother, Hank, went home to be with the Lord. Time is supposed to heal, but some losses cut deeper. Hank wasn’t just a brother. He was a confidant. A shared history. His passing reopened wounds we thought had settled.
Back at home, Henny found herself drawn again and again to that same brown leather chair. She would sit there for hours — sometimes praying, sometimes crying, sometimes simply sitting in silence. One night, overwhelmed, she whispered, “God, I don’t understand why You took him. But I’m choosing to trust You anyway. Please help me.”
What came next wasn’t an audible voice. It was peace. A presence that settled over her in a way that defied explanation.
Weeks later, she walked into the living room and found a white feather resting on the arm of Hank’s chair. Perfect. Still. Out of place — except that it wasn’t. In that moment, she felt the same peace she had felt at Rosie’s funeral. The same reassurance. The same sense that heaven was not far.
From that point on, the feathers appeared often in and around that chair, always when comfort was needed most. We began to sense that this was not random. This was God reminding us that death does not have the final word, and that those who are in Christ are alive with Him.
The Dream
Some nights pass quietly, unnoticed. Others leave a mark that never fades. This was one of those nights.
I lay awake, restless. The room was dark, the house still. Moonlight spilled across the floor in long silver streaks, and Henny’s steady breathing beside me was the only sound. My mind kept circling back to the white feathers — how they had appeared again and again, always at moments when grief felt close or faith felt thin. I didn’t fully understand why God was speaking in this way, but I could no longer deny that He was.
Sometime after midnight, sleep finally came. And when it did, I found myself in a place unlike anything I had ever known.
I was standing in a barren land — wide, empty, silent. The ground beneath my feet was cracked and dry, like it had never known rain. The sky above was dark and bruised, heavy with shades of gray and purple. There was no wind. No birds. No sound at all. The stillness pressed in on me, thick and overwhelming.
Then I saw Him.
A man stood a short distance away. His back was bent. His hands were bound. Roman soldiers circled Him like wolves, their presence filled with cruelty and contempt. The air felt heavy with the smell of blood, sweat, and injustice. I suddenly realized who this man was, it was Jesus, my messiah, “Yeshua Hamashiach"
Jesus’s upper body was bare. His skin was torn open by deep, raw wounds. Not an inch of Him was untouched. The soldiers raised their whips — long leather cords tipped with bone and metal — and struck Him again and again. Each blow tore through the silence like thunder.
Everything in me wanted to run to Him, to stop it, to scream. But I couldn’t move. It was as if the earth itself held me in place, forcing me to witness every strike, every wound, every moment of suffering.
Then Jesus lifted His head. Our eyes met. And in that instant, I felt both shattered and held at the same time.
In His eyes, I saw pain beyond words — pain deeper than anything I had ever known. But layered beneath it was something even greater: love. Not human emotion. Holy love. Love that knows every sin, every failure, every weakness — and still chooses you.
In that gaze, I understood something with terrifying clarity. Jesus was not enduring this because He was powerless. He was enduring it because He had chosen to.
He had chosen me. He had chosen Henny. He had chosen all of us.
Scripture came alive in a way it never had before: “He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:5)
The soldiers raised their whips again, but Jesus spoke. His voice was steady, even as His body trembled. “I did this for you,” He said. “So you could come home. So you could be free.” He was referencing Galatians 5:1, “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.”
Those words pierced my soul. Every doubt I had carried. Every regret. Every question I had ever wrestled with — all of it burned away in the fire of that truth. This was the cost of freedom. This was the depth of God’s love. This scripture immediately came to me, “He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed.” (1 Peter 2:24)
Then the scene shifted. I now stood at the foot of the cross. The sky was nearly black. The air was thick with grief and glory all at once. Jesus hung there — broken, bleeding — yet still radiating that same unshakable love. And somehow, I knew this was not defeat. This was victory. The greatest victory the world has ever seen.
And then, just as suddenly, everything changed again. I was sitting in the brown leather chair in our living room. A single white feather rested in my hand. The room was quiet, warm, filled with a Presence that felt alive and holy.
And in my spirit, I heard the whisper of the Holy Spirit: “This is what the feathers have been pointing to all along.”
I woke up with tears streaming down my face. The images were still vivid — the barren ground, the soldiers, the eyes of Jesus, the sound of His voice. I reached over and gently woke Henny and told her everything. As I spoke, her eyes filled with tears. Neither of us doubted what had happened.
This was not just a dream. It was an encounter.
In that moment, I understood with absolute clarity: the white feathers were never the message. They were signposts. They were pointing to the cross. To the resurrection. To the living Christ who still walks with His people today.
The feathers were not symbols of death. They were symbols of life. They were reminders that the cross was not the end, that the tomb was not the conclusion, and that the stone had been rolled away. They spoke the Gospel in its purest form: He is not here; He has risen.
The feathers were sermons. Jesus was the message.
The Healing Encounter with Jesus
Months had passed since the dream, but it never loosened its grip on me. The images were still vivid. The eyes of Jesus. The sound of His voice. The weight of what He had endured. Every time I thought about it, something stirred deep in my spirit. And the white feathers kept appearing, always at moments that felt deliberate, always reminding me that God was still near.
But alongside the wonder, I carried something else — pain.
For more than six months, my shoulders had been locked in a constant ache. At first, it was just discomfort, something I could push through. But over time it grew sharper, deeper, until even simple movements hurt. Sleep became difficult. Rest didn’t help. I tried to ignore it, like men often do, telling myself it wasn’t that bad. But the truth was, it was wearing me down — physically and spiritually.
One night, the pain became unbearable. I sat upright in bed, unable to find relief. Henny lay beside me, asleep, her breathing steady and peaceful. Moonlight poured across the floor, casting soft silver light across the room. The house was silent, but the air felt heavy — almost expectant.
For the first time, I prayed with a different tone, desperate but passionate. “Yeshua Hamashiach… if You’re here, please heal my shoulders.”
The moment the words left my mouth, everything changed. It wasn’t a sound. It wasn’t a flash of light. It was Presence. Immediate. Heavy. Holy.
The air itself seemed to come alive, as if every molecule in the room was suddenly aware of eternity. A warmth settled over me, not just around me but through me. And without question, without doubt, I knew — He was there.
Then I saw Him. Jesus stood beside the bed.
This was not a dream. I was fully awake. This was not imagination. His presence was more real than the bed beneath me or the floor beneath my feet. I couldn’t make out every detail of His face, but I didn’t need to. I knew who He was. His presence carried authority, peace, and love all at once — a love so deep it felt overwhelming.
Jesus looked at me and spoke. “Stretch out your right hand.”
I obeyed without hesitation. I extended my hand toward Him. Jesus took it, His grip firm yet gentle, and the moment He touched me, power surged through my body. It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t frightening. It was life itself flowing through me — through my fingers, up my arm, across my shoulders, and into places that had been locked in pain for months.
In an instant, the pain was gone. Completely. Not dulled. Not fading. Gone.
Relief washed over me, but something far greater followed — love. Pure, unearned, unstoppable love. The kind of love that doesn’t just comfort the body but pierces straight into the soul. I understood in that moment what Scripture means when it says that nothing can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus.
Then Jesus spoke again. His eyes met mine, steady and full of compassion. “Everything is going to be alright.”
Those words reached deeper than my shoulders. They settled into fears I had never voiced, into worries about the future, into questions I had carried quietly for years. He wasn’t just healing my body. He was reassuring my heart.
And then, as suddenly as He had appeared, the vision faded. The room returned to stillness, but the Presence did not leave all at once. It lingered, thick and holy, like a blessing that refused to rush away.
I rose quietly from the bed, my body light, my movements free. I tested my shoulders. There was no pain. None. I walked into the living room, still stunned, still processing what had just happened.
And there, on the brown leather chair, lay another white feather. Perfect. White. Waiting.
I picked it up and sat down, holding it in my hand. And in my spirit, I heard the whisper of the Holy Spirit: this was not just a sign of My presence — this was a sign of My power. I am the same yesterday, today, and forever.
A holy heaviness settled over me, not oppressive but glorious. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to. Time seemed irrelevant. Minutes passed that turned into hours. I wept — not tears of grief, but tears born from the realization that Jesus had come into our home, had spoken, and had healed.
When morning came, Henny found me sitting there, in our brown chair, Henry's chair. The first light of dawn spilled across the room, painting everything in soft gold. I was still holding the white feather, my face peaceful in a way she hadn’t seen in months.
She whispered my name, careful not to disturb what felt like sacred ground. When I looked up, she knew immediately that something had happened.
I told her everything — how, sometime after midnight, Jesus had appeared beside our bed, how He had spoken, how He had taken my hand, how the pain that had plagued me for so long was completely gone.
“I saw Him, Henny,” I said through tears. “He was right there. And He told me everything is going to be alright.” Her tears spilled over as she listened. She could see it in my eyes. This was not imagination. This was not exaggeration. This was encounter.
Then I told her about the feather. How it had been waiting on the chair, as if heaven itself had placed a seal on the moment.
She fell to her knees beside me, placing her hand over mine as we held the feather together. The room felt like an altar — quiet, holy, filled with gratitude and awe.
Jesus had come. He had spoken. He had healed. And in that moment, we both knew with unshakable certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.
Why Us?
The morning after Jesus came, everything felt different.
The house was the same. The furniture hadn’t moved. The world outside our windows looked no different than it had the day before. But something inside me had shifted. The air itself felt lighter, almost charged, as if the presence that had filled the room the night before had left a lingering imprint.
My shoulders were still pain-free. I moved easily, naturally, without even thinking about it. But as incredible as the physical healing was, I knew that wasn’t the greatest thing that had happened. The deeper change was in my spirit. Something had been awakened.
Something that could not be undone.
Henny noticed it immediately. “You’re not the same,” she said quietly as we sat at the kitchen table. She wasn’t accusing me. She wasn’t questioning. She was observing.
I nodded. “No,” I said. “I’m not.”
We sat there for a while in silence. Not an awkward silence, but the kind that comes when words are too small for what you’re carrying. Yet even in the stillness, a question began to rise between us, unspoken at first, but persistent.
Why us? Why would God choose to speak this way? Why would He send these signs, these encounters, these moments of undeniable presence to us? People lose loved ones every day. People pray for healing every day. People sit in grief and pain and silence all over the world. Why would God step into our lives so personally?
That question followed us through the day and into the days that followed. One evening, we sat in the living room, the brown leather chair between us. A white feather rested on the coffee table, catching the light from the lamp. Henny finally voiced what we had both been thinking.
“Why would God show us all of this?” she asked softly. “Why us?” I leaned back, staring at the feather that I found after Jesus had appeared in our bedroom. I didn’t have a quick answer. I didn’t want to offer something shallow or rehearsed. After a long moment, I spoke honestly.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But maybe it’s not about us.” She looked at me, waiting. “Maybe it’s about what He wants to do through us.”
The room was quiet again. The idea hung in the air, heavy and unsettling. Because if that was true, then what we had experienced wasn’t meant to stay within the walls of our home. It wasn’t meant to remain a private comfort. It carried responsibility.
Henny broke the silence. “But what if people don’t believe us?” she asked. “What if they think we’re crazy? What if they explain it away or dismiss it?” I understood her fear. I had felt it too. This kind of story invites skepticism. It opens you up to judgment. But the answer came to me with a clarity that surprised even me.
“That’s not our responsibility,” I said. “Our responsibility is to tell the truth. What people do with it is between them and God.”
That night, Scripture came alive in a way it never had before. “We cannot help speaking about what we have seen and heard” (Acts 4:20).
Those words from Acts weren’t written by people who had safe, comfortable testimonies. They were written by men who had encountered the living Christ and could not remain silent, even when it cost them everything.
As the days passed, the feathers continued to appear. Sometimes on the chair. Sometimes by the coffee maker. Once, tucked beneath Henny’s Bible, as if placed there deliberately. Each time, it felt less like surprise and more like confirmation. God was still speaking. Still reminding us that this story was unfolding on purpose. “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever” (Hebrews 13:8).
Then something else began to happen. Henny was at the grocery store one afternoon when she ran into an old friend she hadn’t seen in years. Their conversation drifted, as conversations sometimes do, toward life, loss, and faith. Without planning to, without even realizing she was about to, Henny told her about the white feathers.
Her friend stopped in the middle of the aisle. Tears filled her eyes. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that today,” she said.
When Henny came home and told me what had happened, we both knew. This was no longer just about us. The story carried weight. Not because it was dramatic. Not because it was supernatural. But because it pointed people back to God.
“They triumphed over him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony” (Revelation 12:11).
That verse took on new meaning. The power was not in the feathers. The power was not in the experience. The power was in the testimony of what Jesus had done.
We began to look back and see the pattern with new eyes.
The first feather above Rosie’s casket. The one placed on the chair from Henry’s home.
The feathers that appeared in moments of grief. The dream. The healing.
Each moment was a stitch in a tapestry we hadn’t known was being woven. And when we stepped back, we could finally see the picture. This wasn’t about coincidence or comfort alone. This was about the reality of God.
The same God who parted seas, fed thousands, healed the sick, raised the dead, and conquered the grave was still moving. Still speaking. Still reaching into the ordinary moments of everyday life.
And slowly, unmistakably, we understood the answer to the question we had been asking.
Why us?
Because God wanted someone to say, “He is real.”
Because God wanted someone to say, “Jesus is alive.”
Because God wanted someone to say, “You are not alone.”
And because once you have seen what we have seen and heard what we have heard, you truly cannot help but speak.