Which Life Did You Choose? Angel or Human?

Which Life Did You Choose? Angel or Human?

I heard about it somewhere.
Maybe in a tabloid,
maybe in a book,
maybe from a philosopher,
or from someone’s near-death experience story—
who knows?

The tale goes something like this:

Before we were born,
we sat down with the Creator.
No thunder.
No clipboard.

God asked us one simple question:
Angel or human?
Which do you choose?

Angel means no body—
no knees, no skin, no belly laugh.
Angels drift, winged and holy, untouched by pain,
offering help wherever they go.

Human means skin,
bones,
blood,
and a veil.

We pondered.
And pondered more.
We held the weighty question,
felt the possibilities unfold.
Then we looked up at God and said,
“I choose being human.”

We can’t remember the encounter.
Yet something of it lingers,
a veil-thin memory,
a wordless knowing,
a homesickness rooted in our bones.

As life unfolds, people wound us.
We wound ourselves.
Fear creeps in through the back door.
Anger settles into our brittle bones.

We stagger under the weight of loss,
of longing, of missed chances,
and look up to God, whispering,

“I want to come home.
I want a re-do.
I want to be an angel.”

God smiles,
warm and quiet,
like sunlight spilling across our hands.

The Creator replies,
“You’ve already chosen.
You chose this life.
One life.
No second choices.”

So here we are
humans in bodies,
blood and bones alive with spirit,
flesh humming with the presence of God.

And now that we’re here on earth,
we face a second choice:
Do we survive or do we awaken?

If we choose survival,
we trudge through life like shadows,
eyes down, chest tight.
We count every calendar moment
like a prison sentence.

We protect ourselves,
grab what we want,
blame others when things go wrong,
feed pleasure while the world waits for our love.

Every laugh feels hollow,
every connection fleeting,
every day another attempt
to keep ourselves “safe.”

We carry fear like armor,
pain like a secret weapon,
always waiting, always guarding,
as though joy is a distant rumor
we cannot trust.

If we choose to awaken,
we step into the raw, the real, the tender.
Every laugh, every tear, every breath
threads the tapestry of our lives.

Our bones, our blood, our belly laughs,
our wounds and our tears
prove we are fully alive.

We awaken to our True Self in God:
God’s love expressed in our human form.

And as we awaken,
we learn how to love—
to love God,
to love ourselves,
to love others.

When we stumble,
we turn back to God for help,
to get it right,
to choose the path of compassion once again.

Our souls become our guides.
We awaken to the wisdom of being fully human and fully divine.
We learn to embody God’s love with every word, every action.

We come to see why Jesus came.
Not to rescue us from being human,
not to lift us out of flesh and blood.

But to walk the road alongside us
with dust on his sandals,
sitting at worn tables,
sharing bread with ordinary people,
touching the sick, the scared, the forgotten,
listening to our stories,
staying when others walk away,
and awakening us to this truth:

“Life isn’t a survival test.
It’s a classroom.
The lesson is simple:
you are love, and you are loved.
You are here to create more love in the world.
That’s it.
That’s the whole course.”

And slowly, gently,
we awaken.
We remember.

Not with our minds,
but with our hearts,
our bodies,
our breath.

We remember the conversation before we were born.
We remember the choice we made.
We remember Emmanuel walks with us,
our friend, our guide, our comfort.

God is with us.
Here.
Now.
Always.

We can go home someday,
but we need not wait for eternity.

Home is the quiet sanctuary within our souls.
Home is the rise and fall of our chest
as we feel God’s breath flowing through us.

Home is the warmth of sunlight on our skin,
laughter spilling
from our bellies.

Home is the spark in our hearts
as we offer compassion and
forgiveness to one another.

Home is the gentle weight
of our human and divine presence in the world.

Here
now
always.

Do you remember?
Are you awakening?

—brian plachta

From the Quiet

This poem arose during one of my monthly God-dates into solitude and silence. As I sat in the quiet, I noticed a familiar grumbling within me—“Why do I long to go home? Can’t I go back? Can’t I be an angel instead?”

Rather than answering those questions, I stayed with them, and this poem rose up.

Your Turn

Breathe.
Pause.
Consider your life for a moment.

Are you moving through it in survival mode,
eyes down, counting hours,
protecting yourself with fear?

Or are you awakening each day to life—
alive to every breath, to every ache, to every laugh,
feeling your body, your heart, your soul,
fully present, fully human, fully awake?

Here, in each moment,
a choice quietly meets you.

You can remain in survival,
or you can awaken.

Which path do you choose—
with this breath,
with this heartbeat?

—brian plachta

P.S. If you’re seeking a gentler start to your mornings—one you can carry with you into your day to find more inner peace—I invite you to join DivineFlow Daily, a free short reflection and quote sent to your inbox each day. In under a minute, it’s meant to help you slow down, breathe, and remember what truly gives life before the noise sets in.

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