Cherubim don't really soil their diapers. They just think they have. They also do it for attention. The Cherubim are a perfect example of the kind of power mortals have over the divine.

They started out as winged creatures like my brothers and I after Adam began walking the Earth. They had four faces: human, leonine, eagle and ox. God used to sit on them, using them as sort of a living throne. It was their job to protect Eden – though as far as my brothers and I could tell, we never knew what exactly they were protecting Eden from. Lilith, maybe; but she found their odd forms repugnant, and when she left, she had no interest in the Garden.

It was a few hundred years ago when some artist got the idea that they'd better serve his vision of heaven if they looked like very young, mostly naked boys. (Which says more about the artist than it does about the Cherubim.) Soon the entire world imagined them as such, and heaven changed. Why? Because that's what your beliefs do – they alter the way that you see things. Sometimes Dad reflects that change, sometimes he doesn't.

But the change can go deeper, and soon the Cherubim were child-like, mischievous, and silly. In great numbers, they can be very intimidating. And annoying. After Michael and Raguel left, I called upon the Southern Baptist Belles' Cherubutantes to 'change' the Cherubim's didies. Great heavenly giggling ensued on both sides.

St. Peter's Gates are usually thought to artistically resemble the gates to Versailles. Thing is, souls began arriving in Heaven centuries before old Pete got here. They don't look at all like anything man-made. Which is understandable, since they were made by a woman.

The true Gates were made by Eve, out of wood from Eden's trees long before her Apple fiasco. She sang them from seedlings, and they grew as she sang: woods dark and light, blond and red, brown and white. You won't find that beautiful account anywhere in man's holy books. The male clergy erased all references of it and destroyed any artful depictions. Not a gift from God. Witchcraft, you know.

Women could make babies, but men couldn't. This meant that only men should make things, like gates and fences and swords and axes, houses and prisons and guns and bombs. Or statues and paintings and books and music. Allowing this jealousy of childbirth, this vengeful male fallacy, to fester is one of Dad's greatest errors of judgement. He even told men that he made childbirth extremely painful as punishment for eating the apple.

Which was a total fabrication. All female mammals had painful childbirths long before Eve ate that stupid apple. But the men bought it. To this day they have looked down on women for centuries. They took charge of the world. Is it any wonder why the world is the way it is? That you have children being murdered in school? That too many men love their things more than they love their children?

I'm sorry. I'm not shouting at you. I'm shouting at Him.

When I got to the Gates, there were thousands of souls waiting to enter. Tens of thousands. Did you know that on Earth, fourteen thousand or so souls die every hour? It was impossible for me to catch up, except by unorthodox means. I do my best while in your service, Dad. I raised my voice:

"Guardian Angels, appear and welcome your charges to Heaven. See to their wings, give them the talk and the tour. Then answer no more than 3 questions before returning for your new assignments. Blessed be the Trinity!"

"Blessed be!" they answered, their combined voices powerful as they appeared in front of their recently deceased human. Normally, they'd see that their human had an escort, and they'd enjoy a brief break without ever revealing themselves. Most were thrilled at a chance to do something differently. Some gave me incredulous looks. As one soul passed me, their guardian asked, "Is He back?"

I shook my head. I was stunned to see some 200+ souls stand still, wave their angels away, and let the line to enter Heaven pass them by. One by one, they slipped downwards through the clouds. Some were quietly crying.

Realizing I was going to need a continuous stream of helpers, I looked for volunteers among the faithful departed, beginning with nuns and priests. At one point my shoulder itched horribly. In and of itself, I should have been alarmed that I was feeling uncomfortable at all.

But as I scratched, one of my feathers came loose, and floated away on a sudden cold updraft. I was no longer anxious. It became a speck, and then burst into flames. Nope, no longer worried.

I was horrified.

The Flood and Babel's Destruction were the two instances when we lost a goodly number of archangels in the blink of an eye. Any one of us who professed a difference of opinion with my Dad's actions winked out of existence. The End. Or as today's kids would say, Game Over.

Those of us who remained were give a warning: every time we doubted Him, every time we disagreed with or said something less than supportive of Him, we'd lose a single feather. And, because He was furious when He decreed this, He declaimed it would happen dramatically, so that anyone who saw it would know, and be reminded of His Omniscience. (In fact, He made our wings self-aware. As I've said, He's not all-seeing or all-knowing.)

It's one thing if doubt happens to a member of the lower angelic orders. But if it's seen happening to an Archangel – great despair follows. Morale plunges. How had I transgressed? It took no time before the answer came to me.

Dad, I criticized Your lack of foresight. You left us with no contingency plan in case of Your absence. Looking back, I should have seen the signs – You spent too much time alone, not bothering to attend our gatherings, our concerts, our plays. You showed no interest in our earthly charitable works. You were seen visiting Nazareth, and Your Son's tomb. You hadn't spoken to a pope in decades.

We all thought You were meditating, when in fact...You...You were depressed. I can hear You denying all of this, but I am the Angel of Love and Comfort. And I offered You none. In my defense, You are after all The Supreme Being. But I forgot that You're also a Dad of Few Words. I am sorry for failing You.

Then again, You are the one who left. I have three words for that, and they aren't "I love You."

GET OVER YOURSELF.

I'm not a therapist. Love and comfort can be therapeutic, but they're not enough to help our Dad recover from a case of Divine Depression. First, I'll need a being more suited to wisdom.

I need to find Jophiel, and I think I know just where he might be. I enlist the help of those little-known Apostles, Saints James the Greater and James the Less, to work the Gates with Peter. And I take off for India.