Dear Heavenly Dad,

I want to say that children have been the same since Cain and Abel walked this earth – fratricide notwithstanding. I want to say that children grow up surrounded by Your love, Your caring, Your wisdom, and Your grace. I want to say that every child has an equal chance of growing up and discovering the world in all of its differences and similarities, its uniqueness, and its diversity.

But they haven't, and they don't, and I can't. Because Your Son didn't, and He wasn't, and I won't. The deck was stacked against him from conception. He was born for the sole purpose of dying, and he knew this. You gave him no choice, really. But he turned the tables on you, made it a choice, and he chose to 'die' anyway.

All the Angels, lesser and greater, rejoiced and sang and shouted praises. All except me, Dad. Because I'm the Archangel of love and comfort, and I can hear the things that aren't spoken, and the things that are said between the lines. He acted out the part you'd laid out for him, right up until the end.

Any of my brethren who think that the Resurrection was a happy ending – they weren't paying attention. The Book of Revelations followed – Doomsday, End of the World. You and the Holy Family, you've left it all to mankind, and the Doomsday clock keeps ticking. I often wonder if Luce gave humans the idea for that, just to get some sort of reaction from you.

I know – this is out of character for me. Me, Mr. Love and Comfort, being bile-bitter and vinegar-vile. Our humans have a saying: Lead by Example. You're not here. He's not here. So, I'm just following your leads. But I suck at being uncaring. That's not the way you made me. I am who I am, Dad.

Not quite respectfully,

Chamuel

Here's a bit of information left out of the Old Testament: every time an innocent life is taken, Archangels feel it. Literally, whether it's death by fire, a knife in the heart or a bullet tearing apart their face or their insides – we feel it. Innocent lives are usually children. Vuelda was – excuse my unfortunate choice of words – ungodly horrible and excruciating.

I wanted to personally tear apart the killer. Not something I am proud of, being the avatar of Love and Comfort. I had a demon inside me, and it laughed. Each time I was brought to my knees, it laughed.

I'd like to say that, had God been here, things might have played out differently. The demon might not have taken hold of me, the killer might have been taken down before he ever reached those kids. But I can't say it for certain. And that terrifies me. One day I tried talking to the demon. That terrified it, and it left. Pretty pathetic, for a demon.

God was different after Jesus died and came back. They barely spoke to each other. Centuries later, during The Black Death, the Son told me he was leaving to help me comfort the sick. One day he vanished, and Heaven's never seen him since – dropped off our holy radar, you might say.

Just before the U.S. Civil War, our Father did too. Then, when the World Wars came around, it was just the Archangels who were left to witness the horrors of Vietnam and every conflict since. When the schools became killing fields, though – the kids were joyless, hopeless, and even in our presence they were sad and drained of life.

It was when that first child was ripped apart in Vuelda, and four of us left Heaven, that we who remained made the Vow. And when we watched the girl fall, that was when I lost my courage and fled. First, to St. Jude's Children's Hospital in Los Angeles, "City of Angels." I don't have to disguise or hide myself; the staff and the patients can sense when I'm there, know when I'm blessing them or removing a fever, stopping a cough, or cooling a temperature. I am especially thankful that Father allows me these simple little miracles.

And, when I'm done, I visit Build-A-Bear shops in malls across the world, bless their stock, and surround myself with the healing joy that is only found in the laughter of children. Before he was born, the Son would join me on visits like these; in those days, it would be large gatherings of community families – often many generations – making homespun dolls and wooden toys for children.

He'd sit and smile, but never joined in the laughter. He hadn't yet been given his humanity, remember. He once asked if he would sound the same as they did. I tried tickling him, but he simply looked at me funny. I assured him that he would. Later, God asked me why I'd done that. For the first time, he appeared to be somewhat annoyed with me. I answered him truthfully, "If you have to ask the question, you wouldn't understand my answer, oh Lord." Like father, like son, I guess. 

"Thought I'd find you here," Raguel said behind me. It's nearly impossible for angels to sneak up behind another angel, but because of his role as 'Watcher' Raguel has almost mastered that ability. I tease him that it's because he smells of forgiveness – like warm, freshly baked bread. Manna from heaven is exactly that: nothing special, just good hearty bread like the stuff that's made by millions of people, over thousands of years.

"I almost envy you your charges. Justice, redemption, and mediation are ofttimes joyless, and never involve children. But then I remember diapers, and I invariably feel better."

He's left himself open, which is rare. I chuckle, "I promise you, there was a time when the Son himself was full of shit." I turn and grin, but he meets me with a wider one.

"Holy shit, Chamuel. There's a difference." We both laugh.

"Mary would disagree. No word from either her or the Son?"

"No," he answered. "We must discuss this, as to whether we uphold the Vow and go in search of them, or..."

"Or avenge the innocent?" I ask, because I know our other brother thirsts for it.

"If an archangel had such authority, you know who would have received it. But he's been troubled of late. Let's go!"

I inform the low-ranking seraphim at the gate to deal with any new arrivals by sending them to the waiting area. "Where is he?" I ask Raguel.

"Where else would our martial brother be?"