Clad in my crisp, blue Service Dress, I creep unnoticed through Houston rush hour traffic.

Today, I am an angel of death.

To get into a gated community and a secure apartment complex, I wait in the shadows off to the side until I can pass through the gate and enter the door without alerting anyone at my destination.

Today, I am an angel of death.

Blue Air Force staff car parked in the street, I walk carefully to the front door undetected or ignored by the neighbors.

Today, I am an angel of death.

Knock, knock, knock...the sound resounds ominously through the door, echoing in the spacious entryway and reaching unassuming ears inside.

Today, I am an angel of death.

The door opens. Tears well up instantly. Everyone immediately knows. Air Force officers don't show up in dress blues with good tidings.

Today, I am an angel of death.

"On behalf of the Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force, I regret to inform you..." No other words are heard.

Today, I am an angel of death.

The Hebrew and Greek words we translate as 'angel' mean simply 'messenger.' As a Air Force chaplain, my message is not always one of hope and promise. Some days, like today, I am called upon to be a member of a casualty notification team. On those dark days, my message is one of death, loss, and destruction.

That message changes families forever. That message marks a day of mourning on a calendar forever. That message changes those who bear the burden of delivering the news forever.

For those who go on living, there is, however, always a message of hope. In this Holy Week, with Easter right around the corner, that message is welling up and about to resound again upon the Earth and in the heavens. Thanks be to God, that message can penetrate even the deepest darkness and sorrow.