Author's Note: It is very possible that I have been reading too much Rilke, as this just poured out of my pen the other night and demanded to be born on the paper. Somewhere between prose and poetry, it has an intensity enhanced by its brevity.
What if they are messengers, but not in the way that you think? What if their job is to demand that you wake up and change your life -- right now, no excuses, no hesitating.
And they do not do this gently. They do it with trumpets, with voices that resound to the vaults of the heavens, shaking everything.
They plummet like a thunderbolt into your life, brilliant and deadly, overwhelming in the sheer reality of their being.
There is nothing soft about angels. They are not beings of love, but beings of pure will. The unyielding logos of the godhead.
Their nascence was in the birth of stars -- those embers in the deepest dark, burning with a ferocity mortals can barely imagine. And some of that fire is still in them -- it is them -- and it sears all who dare meet their lambent gaze with the pure light of revelation.