{"id":22436,"date":"2026-03-11T12:58:52","date_gmt":"2026-03-11T12:58:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/gpbookstore.org\/articles\/uncategorized\/roma-downey-an-angel-in-her-fathers-eyes\/"},"modified":"2026-04-10T06:14:13","modified_gmt":"2026-04-10T06:14:13","slug":"roma-downey-an-angel-in-her-fathers-eyes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/gpbookstore.org\/articles\/positive-living\/health-and-wellness\/life-advice\/finding-life-purpose\/roma-downey-an-angel-in-her-fathers-eyes\/","title":{"rendered":"Roma Downey: An Angel in Her Father’s Eyes"},"content":{"rendered":"

When you play an angel on television you\u2019re often mistaken for one. I should know. For nine years and some 212 episodes, I was Monica on Touched by an Angel.<\/em> Again and again people would stop me on the street and say, \u201cYou\u2019re that angel!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I wanted to correct them, \u201cI\u2019m an actress who plays an angel.\u201d I loved the role of Monica, but I didn\u2019t want anyone to be confused about who I really was, an Irish girl from Derry.<\/p>\n

A girl who dreamed of being an artist. But what kind of artist? I loved to paint and draw and there was inspiration all around in the ever-changing sky and sea of Northern Ireland, turbulent gray, deep blue, turquoise, celadon…I wanted to capture all the drama with my brush.<\/p>\n

READ MORE: TV IS ‘TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL’<\/strong><\/em><\/a><\/p>\n

I was the youngest of six. My mother died when I was only 10 and our father raised us. He was a schoolmaster, a reader and lover of poetry. Small and white-haired, he looked older than he was.<\/p>\n

One day he came to pick me up at school and a classmate asked if that old man was my grandfather. \u201cI don\u2019t know who he is,\u201d I said, embarrassed. Later I found my father and confessed what I\u2019d said. I burst into tears, I was so deeply ashamed.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you say that because of my white hair?\u201d Dad asked. I nodded sheepishly. \u201cDon\u2019t worry darlin\u2019.\u201d Then he hugged me. \u201cIt\u2019s only hair. At least I\u2019ve got some left!\u201d<\/p>\n

Dad led us in prayers every night around the dinner table. He always stressed that it was how we showed our faith that mattered. \u201cKindness is everything,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

We were expected to reach out to others, whether it was reading to someone with failing eyesight, helping an elderly friend with errands or bringing soup to an ailing neighbor.<\/p>\n

We didn\u2019t own a car and certainly didn\u2019t have luxuries like a dryer. Yet we were rich\u2014and certainly richly blessed\u2014as long as we could give.<\/p>\n

Those were the times of \u201cthe troubles\u201d in the North. Gun battles and bomb scares were all too common. Sirens wailed. Soldiers patrolled the streets.<\/p>\n

Several times we had to evacuate my school. Once we had to duck behind cars to avoid flying bullets. (It was years before I could hear a loud noise like a slamming door without diving for cover.) Dad made our home a refuge, a place of peace and protection.<\/p>\n

He knew I aspired to be an artist. \u201cIf this is your dream, Roma, then you should go to the very best college of art.\u201d The very best would take me far away. Sure enough I was accepted to an excellent school in England.<\/p>\n

I dreaded leaving home. I wouldn\u2019t see my father for months at a time. I didn\u2019t know if I could accept that. Dad was all I had.<\/p>\n

READ MORE: ROMA DOWNEY ON THE MOST DANGEROUS PRAYER<\/strong><\/em><\/a><\/p>\n

One night I came to him teary-eyed. \u201cDad, I\u2019m going to miss you so much,\u201d I sobbed.<\/p>\n

He took my hand and led me outside to our garden. A full moon bathed the grass and bushes in silver.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook to the moon,\u201d he said. \u201cWherever you go, this same moon will be shining on you and on me. I will leave a message for you there. When you miss me, just look at the moon and you will see how much I love you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sure enough I was dreadfully homesick in England. One night I was carrying groceries back to my boarding house and a passing car backfired. I immediately hit the ground, apples and cans rolling out of my bag.<\/p>\n

People stared at me as though I had lost my mind. You\u2019re far from the troubles,<\/em> I told myself, but my spirit was unsettled. I longed for the sea and the sky of Ireland and the reassuring sound of Dad\u2019s prayers.<\/p>\n

I wasn\u2019t even sure anymore that art school was the right choice. Lately I\u2019d been thinking of other ways to express myself.<\/p>\n

Then I looked up. The moon had slipped out from behind a cloud, its brightness three dimensional. My father\u2019s message was etched in the heavens: \u201cI love you, Roma. I love you.\u201d I could always find comfort there.<\/p>\n

One day I read a line by Van Gogh that spoke to me. \u201cI no longer wanted to be the painter,\u201d he\u2019d said. \u201cI wanted to be the paint.\u201d A light came on inside me. Acting seemed closer to being the paint for me.<\/p>\n

READ MORE: SIGNED, SEALED AND DELIVERED<\/strong><\/em><\/a><\/p>\n

With my father\u2019s blessing I transferred to acting school. I hoped to use my skills to tell moving stories, appearing in roles that would make my father proud. The training was thrilling, but did I have the will or stamina for the challenges of an acting career?<\/p>\n

I\u2019ll talk to Dad about this,<\/em> I thought. Soon we\u2019d have a break and I\u2019d see him.<\/p>\n

The night before I left I called him from the pay phone in the hallway of my boarding house. \u201cI\u2019ll be home tomorrow,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m getting your room ready, darlin\u2019,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ve put out your favorite sheets. The yellow flannel.\u201d Everything holds the dampness in Northern Ireland and I knew he\u2019d hung them on the kitchen clothesline to air.<\/p>\n

Early the next morning the ringing of the pay phone woke me up. I put on my robe and dashed to it. It was my brother and he had terrible news. My father had a massive heart attack during the night. He was dead.<\/p>\n

It seemed so cruel and impossible. Lord, how could this happen? <\/em>I demanded. I flew home in a daze. I trudged up our front steps. One of my sisters greeted me at the door. My father was laid out in the sitting room, as was our Irish custom, but I wasn\u2019t ready to go in there.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome into the kitchen for a cup of tea,\u201d my sister said. I followed her to the back of the house. There, next to the stove, were my yellow flannel sheets, hung out to air, just as Dad had left them.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe should take these down,\u201d my sister said.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, please don\u2019t.\u201d I held the flannel to my cheek. So soft and warm, my father\u2019s last message of love. \u201cLord, help me accept this,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n

My father would not have wanted me to give up on my dreams, and certainly not because of him. I returned to London, finished my studies and then threw myself into acting.<\/p>\n

READ MORE: MARK BURNETT ON BRINGING THE BIBLE TO LIFE<\/strong><\/em><\/a><\/p>\n

My work took me from England to the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, to New York\u2019s Broadway and eventually Los Angeles. Far-flung places where I could still look to the moon and feel my father\u2019s love with me, and hear him say that we must always be kind.<\/p>\n

One day in Hollywood I was asked to audition for an unusual TV pilot about two angels. I liked the script and assumed I needed to do the part in an American accent.<\/p>\n

\u201cWait,\u201d someone said at the audition, \u201caren\u2019t you from overseas?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m Irish.\u201d I was worried my accent was too exotic.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo it Irish,\u201d they said.<\/p>\n

And so I did. It worked. I was cast as the angel Monica.<\/p>\n

My father would have loved Touched by an Angel. <\/em>All those acts of kindness, all those answered prayers. The people on the show were wonderful, especially my costar and fellow angel Della Reese, whose wisdom I came to rely on.<\/p>\n

We were flooded with letters from viewers and I got invitations to visit hospitals, nursing homes, schools. I got to put my faith in action, just as Dad had taught. More and more it felt like he was still with me.<\/p>\n

Still, I was shocked when people wanted to believe I really was an angel.<\/p>\n

One day I visited the children\u2019s ward at a hospital. A woman came out of her daughter\u2019s room, obviously grief-stricken. She looked at me in tearful amazement. \u201cMonica!\u201d she said. \u201cI prayed for an angel and you\u2019re here.\u201d She threw her arms around me. \u201cAt last you\u2019re here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I murmured, not sure how to handle this. I prayed with her, of course, and tried to comfort her as best I could.<\/p>\n

But I was unsettled by it all. I called Della and told her the story. \u201cDon\u2019t be upset, baby,\u201d she said. \u201cYou were there for her.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI feel bad. This woman asked God for an angel and she thought he sent me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Della paused and then said, \u201cAnd who says he didn\u2019t?\u201d<\/p>\n

Indeed. God could do anything. God could send me places and give me roles I never expected. I had to step aside and let his grace flow through me.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m not an angel. I\u2019m just a human being. But if the moon can hold a message of love for a homesick daughter, then anybody can be an angel delivering comfort in a time of need. Kindness is<\/em> everything, just as my father had said all along.<\/p>\n

Did you enjoy this story? Subscribe to <\/em>Guideposts<\/strong><\/a> magazine<\/em>.<\/p>\n

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