FALLEN ANGEL

They don’t look like the Christmas cards.
Most of the time an angel shows up, the first thing out of its mouth is “Don’t be afraid,” which tells you everything you need to know about how they look. Six wings, eyes all over the rims, fire where a face should be (Isaiah needed a whole chapter to stop shaking). Ezekiel saw four of them at once and basically gave up on language; the best he could do was “like burning coals” and “wheels within wheels.” Even the tame ones, human-shaped ones still radiate something that makes your knees forget their job.
People think angels are gentle because they bring messages of peace. They forget the same creatures were sent to slaughter every firstborn in Egypt in a single night, or to roll the stone away from a tomb with an earthquake for punctuation. They are kind the way a lightning bolt is kind: precise, unstoppable, and not especially concerned with your opinion of the weather.
I met one once, or think I did. Late night, empty road, car dying in the rain. A man stepped out of the dark (no umbrella, no car, clothes bone-dry) and fixed the engine with two fingers and a sentence I didn’t understand. When I turned to thank him the road was empty for miles. The hood was still warm, but the rain had stopped falling exactly where he’d stood, like the water itself decided to step aside.
They aren’t human. They never were. They don’t fall in love with us, don’t envy our messy little lives, don’t wish they had bodies or tears. They are orders of magnitude older than stars and still obey without hesitation. That obedience is why the ones who refused (Lucifer and his third of heaven) are such a scandal. Imagine a hurricane deciding it doesn’t feel like turning today.
Sometimes, when the world tilts a degree too far into despair, you can feel them standing just behind the air. Not comforting, exactly. More like the moment before a conductor lifts the baton: absolute attention, absolute power, held in perfect tension.
They are coming, the old texts say, with the last trumpet. Not to hug us. To finish the story.
Until then they watch. And when one of them leans close enough that you feel it in your marrow (an ache like homesickness for a place you’ve never been), remember the only proper response the prophets ever managed:
They don’t look like the Christmas cards.
Most of the time an angel shows up, the first thing out of its mouth is “Don’t be afraid,” which tells you everything you need to know about how they look. Six wings, eyes all over the rims, fire where a face should be—Isaiah needed a whole chapter to stop shaking. Ezekiel saw four of them at once and basically gave up on language; the best he could do was “like burning coals” and “wheels within wheels.” Even the tame ones, the human-shaped ones, still radiate something that makes your knees forget their job.
People think angels are gentle because they bring messages of peace. They forget the same creatures were sent to slaughter every firstborn in Egypt in a single night, or to roll the stone away from a tomb with an earthquake for punctuation. They are kind the way a lightning bolt is kind: precise, unstoppable, and not especially concerned with your opinion of the weather.
I met one once, or think I did. Late night, empty road, car dying in the rain. A man stepped out of the dark—no umbrella, no car, clothes bone-dry—and fixed the engine with two fingers and a sentence I didn’t understand. When I turned to thank him the road was empty for miles. The hood was still warm, but the rain had stopped falling exactly where he’d stood, like the water itself decided to step aside.
They aren’t human. They never were. They don’t fall in love with us, don’t envy our messy little lives, don’t wish they had bodies or tears. They are orders of magnitude older than stars and still obey without hesitation. That obedience is why the ones who refused—Lucifer and his third of heaven—are such a scandal. Imagine a hurricane deciding it doesn’t feel like turning today.
Sometimes, when the world tilts a degree too far into despair, you can feel them standing just behind the air. Not comforting, exactly. More like the moment before a conductor lifts the baton: absolute attention, absolute power, held in perfect tension.
They are coming, the old texts say, with the last trumpet. Not to hug us. To finish the story.
Until then they watch. And when one of them leans close enough that you feel it in your marrow—an ache like homesickness for a place you’ve never been—remember the only proper response the prophets ever managed:
holy, holy, holy.