The Night the Veil Grew Thin By Dr. Phil Spears

There are moments in life when the ordinary world seems to pause—when the atmosphere shifts, when silence grows heavy, and when something eternal presses close enough to touch. Scripture calls these moments visitations, times when heaven draws near and the unseen becomes almost visible.

“For now we see through a glass, darkly…”—1 Corinthians 13:12

Last autumn, I encountered such a moment.

It began with a restlessness in my spirit. Not anxiety—an invitation. A gentle pull to step outside, as if the night itself had been stirred. The moment I opened the door, I felt it: the veil between the natural and the spiritual had thinned.

The yard was wrapped in a strange stillness. Not a single insect chirped. The trees stood motionless, like sentinels holding their breath. The moon cast a faint silver glow across the ground, illuminating everything with an unearthly softness.

A warm wind circled me, though the air was still. It didn’t move across my skin—it moved through me. It felt like the brush of an unseen hand. And in that moment, I remembered the words of the prophet Elijah:

“…and after the fire, a still small voice.”—1 Kings 19:12

This was that voice—not loud, not demanding. Gentle. Patient. Ancient.

Then it happened.

Not audibly, but clearly. A whisper to the soul:

“Remember who you are.”

I froze. The presence of God settled around me like a mantle. Not frightening—holy. The kind of presence that makes the heart bow even before the knees do.

A verse rose in my spirit:

“Be still, and know that I am God.”—Psalm 46:10

The atmosphere deepened. The world grew quiet again, as if creation recognized the presence of the Creator. I felt watched—not by something ominous, but by Someone who knew me better than I knew myself.

Then the whisper came again:

“The world is louder now, but My spirit is not silent.”

Those words pierced me. I realized how easily the modern world drowns out the divine. Screens, deadlines, voices, chaos—we live surrounded by noise. But God has never stopped speaking. It is we who have stopped listening.

Jesus Himself warned us:

“He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.”—Matthew 11:15

I closed my eyes, and what I experienced next was like a vision—not full, but glimpses. Like watching eternity through a thin curtain.

I saw:

A path of light cutting across a dark hillside. A figure standing on a mountain, radiant in the wind. A river shimmering as though made of crystal.

It reminded me of John’s words on the Isle of Patmos:

“And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal…”—Revelation 22:1

The images faded, but they left behind a stirring I cannot describe. A longing. A remembrance. A sense of belonging to something far older and greater than this world.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the veil closed. Night returned to its normal rhythm. The insects resumed their song. The wind lost its voice. But I was not the same.

Mystical moments—true biblical encounters—do not happen for entertainment. They happen for awakening. They remind us that the spiritual realm is not distant but intertwined with our world.

Jacob knew this when he awoke from his dream and declared: “Surely the LORD is in this place; and I knew it not.”—Genesis 28:16

That night, I understood Jacob more deeply than ever.

Since that encounter, I’ve learned something invaluable:

Mystical visitations are invitations. Invitations to slow down. To listen. To remember the ancient paths. To stand still long enough for heaven to whisper.

The supernatural is not for the few. It is not rare. It is simply unnoticed by most.

“Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you.”—James 4:8

Now, some evenings, I step outside not to chase experiences, but to remain available. To be still. To listen. And on certain quiet nights—when the moon hangs low and the air grows heavy—I can feel it again:

A presence just beyond sight. A whisper waiting. An invitation wrapped in silence.

Mystery was never meant to be solved. It was meant to be walked with.

And when the veil grows thin—when heaven breathes close—you discover the truth that was always there:

You are not alone. You are not forgotten. You are not ordinary. You are part of God’s unfolding mystery.

And the One who whispered long ago? He still whispers today.