Do Angels Still Fall?
by
Rob Swanson
Copyright 2011 Rob Swanson
Published by Prevail Press LLC at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedicated to...
...my wife Lynette, and children, Ben, Charli and Alyx, without whom this novel would not exist
...and my dear mother, Joan Elizebeth Swanson; she believed in me every day of my life and I look forward
to seeing her again in the Courts of Glory!
Chapter 1
Angels don’t ask questions. It’s not that we can’t; we just don’t. When you exist forever, and know for a fact that everything happens for a reason, you can afford to be patient. Unlike humans, who ask questions all the time.
Take my last human charge, for example. He was born in 1319, given a fine Christian education, and died an old man of 33 (humans did not live so very long then. Plague was sweeping Europe and my charge survived just long enough to see his friends and family swept under first). I had stood as his Guardian Angel since before he was born, and in the eye blink it took to travel from filthy French streets to the Master’s courts, he saw me for the first time.
In that eye blink, Raunard (for that was his name) realized that his body was no longer diseased, that it was, in fact, transforming into flesh of considerable substance, and his mind was rapidly sharpening into the genius reserved for your race… and his thoughts were not on the horror of his previous condition, they were on me.
He had already recognized me as his Guardian and did not waste breath on confirming it. He did not inquire as to his destination, for his education assured him he was heaven-bound.
No, he asked a question that had been bothering him since he was a child. He asked in French because he had yet to learn the Kingdom language, and since you do not know French, I will translate it for you.
He asked, “Do angels still fall?”
I had expected, “Why does God allow suffering?” which is a much bigger question to humans, but Raunard asked, “Do angels still fall?” as if it were the most important question he could ask.
It irritated me. Both because I did not know the answer, nor had I ever thought of the question before.
In the beginning, shortly after the Creation of your planet and the Master breathed life into man, Lucifer led a rebellion against the Master, and Lucifer lost (of course). He was cast from the heavens; he and a third of the angels with him. They “fell” and exchanged their robes of light for coats of shadow.
That’s not quite accurate. We don’t wear robes or coats, but explaining our true forms to you would be like describing music to a deaf person.
I was not a Guardian at that point, naturally. There was nothing to guard against. I was a librarian of sorts. Enjoying and cataloging the Master’s creations both inside and outside Eden.
The Holy Spirit had informed us of the coming rain… one minute I was watching a ladybug explore a fern and the next I knew to look up and anticipate angels falling. That’s the way it works, you know. One moment I don’t know a thing and then knowledge of whatever I need to know is supplied like sunshine on your cheek, warm and comfortable. Only not so much this time.
Angels had rebelled? The Master was not surprised, but I was.
Spirit is hard for your kind to understand. The best description I’ve found is from a church architect who likened spirit to light passing through a stained-glass window. Light is everywhere, and some of it is colored; the colored light is like spirit, a visible gathering of different light. Only it’s not visible to humans unless we choose it to be.
Now imagine looking at a stained-glass window in the sky with light oozing through it. Only mentally subtract the window and imagine just the oozing light, not of green or blue or red, but of shadow. Blobs of shadow pushing through to your world and falling heavily to the Earth. Angels have no weight, but these did.
I remember wondering what would make an angel fall, but I have never wondered if angels still fell.
I’m wondering now.
The Black Plague was a horrible time on Earth, and once I delivered Raunard to the Courts of Life, I looked forward to some easy librarian duty. Perhaps I would be sent to a different galaxy to catalog stars and planets. Or maybe count the atoms in a baseball; that would be simple duty.
Spiritually weary, I made my way back to the Hall of Assignments. It wasn’t strictly necessary; I could be given my new assignment in the same way I am instantly given knowledge, but the Hall is a place of angelic fellowship as well. Our duties as Guardians give us no down time. All contact while on duty is fleeting and professional. In the Hall we can meet as friends. Usually.
Rather than basking with friends in the Nebula Lounge (a real nebula – better than a hot tub), I was summoned immediately to the Duty Manager. I was not grieved. As wonderful as friendship is, basking in the creation of the Master, counting, scoring, or singing was the best way to wash the spiritual filth of Earth out of my spirit. You see, no one is ever given Earth duty two assignments in a row.
No one until now.
I wasn’t given restful duty.
I was given a new charge.
I was given you.
And I didn’t understand. Knowledge was not given me; just a destination. June 10th, 2011, Orangewood Hospital, Room 236.
There was one other thing that happened in the Hall of Assignments before coming here. Something else that didn’t make sense. The Duty Manager gave me your name, Bungy Halstead (“a nick name,” the DM told me. “Real name is Thurmon, but no one calls him that.”)
You’re probably wondering how my assignment can be in 2011 when my last was in 1352. Happens all the time; my assignment after you might be before Jesus came to Jerusalem. Time is different for us. But one thing is constant. We Guardians begin our duties before your birth–before your mother is even pregnant.
“I’ve been to Orangewood Hospital. Room 236 is the children’s wing.”
“Yes,” said the DM. “You’ll be replacing the current Guardian.”
Replacing the current Guardian?
“Why?” I ask, and the Hall went suddenly quiet.
I’d asked a question. Remember, I said it’s not that we can’t, just that we don’t. And now I have.
Too much time with humans.
The DM said one more thing as I was leaving. “You may reveal yourself to Bungy.”
The silence deepened, but I didn’t ask. Angels don’t reveal themselves to humans; at least not in a way that humans would know for certain we were angels. Oh, it has happened, but not since the time of Scripture. Why now? Okay, I wouldn’t ask the question out loud…
So here I am, and there you are, in a hospital bed with tubes in your arm and one in your nose. A machine beeps loudly beside your bed and still you sleep.
And you’re a twelve-year-old boy.
I don’t understand.
Chapter 2
Sound, like time, is also different for me than for you. In full spirit form I can see it and feel it as well as hear it. The sound of the respirator, the mechanical thing that made you breathe, throbbed through the air. A heart monitor sent high beeps dancing in the room, and I wondered if your physical condition was the reason your previous Guardian had been reassigned.
Had he somehow failed? Or, a new thought, had he somehow fallen?
I did not require instruments to determine what was wrong with you. No angelic knowledge filled my mind as to your problem. Instead I peered closer, looking beneath your skin (as well as blankets, a sheet, and an uncomfortable looking bed gown).
I saw the residue of water in your lungs, but the wilt of your health was not respiratory distress… not all of it. A corruption spread across your circulatory system; there was something wrong with your blood.
Looking even closer, I examined your spirit and realized my mistake – yes, angels can make mistakes; it is no sin to be mistaken. You, the boy in the bed, are not my charge. Had I been looking for angels instead of humans, your Guardian would have been obvious. He was filling the room and spilling over into the rest of the hospital. He knew I was here, of course, but had not concentrated himself into a small space to greet me.
The door opened and a small boy slunk into the room. He was identical to you, without the tubes, ill health or uncomfortable bed gown. Instead, he wore blue jeans with holes at the knees and frayed pant cuffs. A baseball jersey, the kind with a button up front and Tampa Rays emblazed on the back, hung half in and half out, over his belt.
Five charges ago, my human was (or will be, as you count time) a major league baseball player. A first baseman who made the deciding run in the 2152 World Series. Julio was 16 years old at that time. He’d been a professional ballplayer for two years. The game is not played quite the same way as it is now; it has a digital element that allows younger and older players to compete. It takes place in a room the size of a two-car garage, but it’s still baseball and I admit to a strong fondness for the game.
The child in the Tampa Rays jersey, who now stood on the side of the bed away from the medical equipment was Bungy; the identical twin of the boy in the bed. A quick under-the-skin scan told me he did not have the weakened blood of his brother. Bungy was downcast, but completely healthy.
“I’m sorry, Court,” said the boy, with no reaction from his brother.
For what, I did not yet know. This was another first. Angels, by nature, are an observant bunch. Normally, I would know exactly what each twitch of my charge’s eyebrow meant. A quickening heartbeat or a skin temperature change was the text of my charge’s emotions, but I had not learned to read them. I had not known Bungy as an embryo or an infant. I hadn’t seen what mischief he’d discovered in his toddler years. I had a pre-teen charge of whom I knew nothing.
The Duty Manager had said I could reveal myself to Bungy. Perhaps now was a good time.
I drew myself in, like an invisible cloud tightening into a water glass. I chose the form of an adult human, with darkly tanned skin (Guardians almost always take the same skin color as their charges, though of course, as spirit we are every color and none. Still, I preferred to take the hue of an out-door worker who has tanned to almost the same natural shade as the incarnate Jesus was. In human form, all angels take on gray eyes the exact color of our Lord’s when He was on Earth. They could be piercing or modest at the will of the individual, allowing us to blend into a crowd or stand out as necessary. In this case, I would only be appearing to Bungy, but grey eyes are a habit by now). My clothes were similar to Bungy’s, but my jeans were clean and whole, and my baseball jersey promoted the Seattle Pilots (that was the first name of the Seattle baseball team, long before the Mariners, and in several decades it will be that name again). My hair was perhaps a little too long for this time period, but I don’t often have hair and I like to feel it on the back of my neck.
Bungy felt my revealed presence and he turned to me quickly.
“Do not be afraid,” I said.
“Why should I be?” he replied.
I have never heard that response before, but then, I’ve never revealed myself before as anything other than an undercover angel. “You shouldn’t be. That’s why I told you not to be.”
“Who are you?” Bungy asked.
“My name is Donael.”
“Don-eel? Weird name.”
“Donael, and you should talk, Thurmon.”
He straightened up to his full height, which was not impressive. “I’m Bungy, not Thurmon.”
“And that is supposed to be an improvement?”
“It would have to be,” he muttered, slumping back over the bed. I resisted the urge to tell him stand up straight.
He truly was not afraid. I chose the form to prevent fear, of course, but in the stories I had heard, people were always afraid when they saw angels. Bungy, it seems, had lost interest in me, so I continued to study him.
He had an unruly shock of bright red hair, with freckles that seemed to have dripped from his bangs all across his face. When he had spoken, gaps in his teeth suggested he would soon need to visit a dentist for “teeth railroad” (as my first baseman had called braces).
And his eyes were red-rimmed.
“You have been crying,” I said.
Bungy swiped at his eyes. “Have not! I’ve been swimmin’ and my eyes always look like that from the chlorine. Why should I cry?”
“Because your twin brother is sick.”
“Shows what you know. He’s not sick, he’s drowned. In the pool.” His shoulders slumped. “I shoulda been the one to pull him out, but Mom had to jump in.” Bungy’s eyes searched mine. “He musta bumped his head. He’s a really good swimmer, better’n me. I shoulda noticed.”
“Is that why you apologized?” I asked.
“How’d you know that? You weren’t here when I said that!”
“But I was. Why are you sorry?”
Bungy hopped into the chair beside his brother’s bed. It was too large for him and his feet dangled above the floor. Beeps and shudders came from the machines.
“I made him go swimming. We’re not supposed to swim alone and he said he was tired. He’s always tired… lately anyway. But I made him, and now he’s here.”
I considered this. “Would you trade places with him?”
Bungy looked at his brother, concern filling his eyes. “Sure I would.”
I accepted this, but then Bungy looked down at his fingers as they wrestled each other. In a small voice he confessed, “…no. Probably I wouldn’t.” His head remained down, refusing to meet my eyes.
Honesty. Refreshing in a human.
I sat across from Bungy, which made him look up in alarm. “You’re not supposed to sit on the bed! Mom said!”
I smiled at him. “I’m not sitting on the bed. I’m sitting above the bed.”
His forehead creased, parting the freckles like the Red Sea. He launched off the chair and circled to my side. Though seated, there was a full inch between me and the bedcover. I crossed my legs, just to heighten the drama.
“How are you doing that?”
“I’m sitting on the air molecules above the bed. They teach us that in Angel School.” There isn’t an Angel School, of course; we were created with full knowledge. Telling a small joke isn’t a sin, not if the truth is self-evident.
Bungy backed slowly away.
“Remember, you’re not to be afraid,” I said.
“You’re creeping me out.”
I stood and he scurried back. I held out a hand and said, “I am Donael. Your Guardian.”
“I don’t need a guardian, I have parents,” Bungy replied, moving further away.
Presuming he wouldn’t shake my hand, I dropped it to my side. “Guardian Angel. It’s my job to watch over you.”
His movement stopped, and he stood taller, wearing bravado as a shield. “An angel. Right.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t believe in angels,” he said.
“You don’t?”
He thought about it. “Well, I do, I mean, I guess. I believe in God and Jesus and stuff…”
“I would be part of the ‘stuff,’” I said, remaining where I was, unwilling to spook him further. He seemed unconvinced. “Hasn’t your mother said you have a guardian angel?”
“Well, yeah.”
“So here I am.”
“Prove it.”
I stepped forward. “Touch me, I’m right here.”
“No, I mean, prove you’re an angel.”
“How?”
“Show me your wings.”
“Don’t have any. Never have.”
“What about a halo?” he said.
I decided to shine a little bit, giving myself a yellow glow. Bungy backed up to the wall.
I felt spirit gathering around me, and suddenly Bungy’s brother’s Guardian appeared beside me. He retained his angelic form so Bungy couldn’t see him, only I could.
“What are you doing!” demanded Morel, in a voice that Bungy couldn’t hear.
“It’s all right. I have permission from the Duty Manager.”
“Who are you talking to?” Bungy demanded.
“Your brother’s Guardian. He’s right here.”
“Court has a Guardian Angel, too?”
“Everyone does. It’s part of the Earthly deal.”
Bungy looked past me to the bed and his twin brother. “Tell the other one he does a lousy job!”
“I did what I was supposed to!” Morel rumbled. It was a shame no one but me could hear it, because Morel has a voice Hollywood would love.
“Everything happens for a reason, Bungy,” I said as gently as I could – which wasn’t very gentle, since I have very little practice at it.
“There’s a good reason to drown? I’d like to hear it!” Bungy had overcome his fear, though I’m not sure if he believed I was an angel. That would be proved to his satisfaction in a moment, I was sure.
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” I said.
“I’m gonna get my Dad!” Bungy yelled, but did not move from the wall.
“Feel free in four, three, two, one…” I pointed to the door as it swung open. Bungy’s head swung around and he watched his mother rush in, straight to Court’s side – which was also straight through me without so much as ruffling my hair. Did I mention that only Bungy could see me? To his credit, he didn’t make a peep.
Bungy’s dad seemed to move in slow motion. His arm went out, seeking Bungy’s shoulder, wrapping it around to cradle his son. I’m sure Bungy would have spilled the beans about me, but he’d noticed something he’d never seen before. His father was crying. Not the loud kind of the emotionally free, but quietly, with more tears and mucus than sobs or shudders.
“Come here, son,” his father said, pulling him toward the chair Bungy had just abandoned. His dad missed me completely, but Bungy had to do a jig to prevent from passing through me. He wasn’t ready for that, yet. Bungy’s dad failed to notice, or assumed his son’s antsy-ness was caused by the surroundings and not a revealed angel.
“Bungy, your brother is… he’s very sick.”
“What’d you mean sick? They got the water out of him!”
“Yes, yes they did, but they had to run some tests and those tests… the reason Court’s been so tired lately…” The older man’s voice cracked, and he started over. “Court has leukemia, Bungy. It’s a kind of cancer…”
“I know what it is,” Bundy said. “That girl at our old church had it.”
“Right. And she’s better now, isn’t she? You see, Bungy, they can treat these things if they catch them in time.”
“And did we, Dad? Did we catch it time?”
His father nodded his head. “Because of the accident, maybe, I hope so. I never thought almost drowning could be a good thing, but in this case it really was!”
Silent to the human ears around us, Morel puffed up. “I told you I did what I was supposed to!”
Chapter 3
Walking is an odd experience. Strictly speaking, I don’t have to walk. I don’t really even have to move. Just as Morel, Court’s Guardian, filled the whole hospital before condensing in Court’s room, I could expand my consciousness and be everywhere. But for some reason, when Bungy’s father asked his son to join him in the hospital chapel, I chose to follow. To walk.
It took some experimentation to keep my knees from colliding with each step. It wasn’t my first time walking, but it is rare. Bungy was aware of my presence, peering behind him as he walked hand in hand with his father.
“What are you looking at?” his father asked.
“Do you believe in angels, Dad?”
“Oh, yes. When I first met your mom, I thought she was an angel.”
“What about demons?”
“Well, there’s you and Court…” and just like that the truth of his other son’s condition crushed in on him. “We need to believe right now, Bungy.”
The little boy craned his neck to look at his dad. “In which, angels or demons?”
Father looked down at son. “In God.”
“Sure, Dad, but angels…”
His father cut him off. “Angels and demons both serve God, so put your focus on the Master, not the servants.”
I liked this man. He understood. Which all the more made me wonder at being told to reveal myself to my charge.
The chapel was on the bottom floor of the building. As we approached the elevator, a nurse wheeled an occupied stretcher in, leaving just enough room for father and son. I could have joined them, but that would require standing through the gurney, which I was sure would bother Bungy. Instead I sank through the floor, still leaving my spirit with Bungy. He couldn’t see me, but I could “see” them.
They didn’t speak as they descended. Bungy seemed to shrink though, as he looked at the patient sleeping in the gurney. It was a little girl with no hair. Her skin was dark brown with an undertone of gray instead of what should be a healthy glow. Even her eyebrows were missing. Staring is considered impolite to North American humans, but instead of chiding his son, Bungy’s dad squeezed his son’s shoulder instead.
The nurse and patient vacated the elevator first; I moved to allow them by, though I didn’t really have to. I fell in step with father and son, heading the opposite direction of the nurse.
“What is your father’s name?” I asked, admiring the art on the walls.
“Adrian,” he answered. Apparently odd names ran in the family.
“Hmmm?” Adrian asked.
“That’s your name,” said Bungy.
Adrian opened his mouth to respond and then shut it again. Adults rarely understand adolescent children, which is odd since they have all been one before.
“Here’s the chapel,” he said, pushing open the door and ushering his son in. I sidestepped through space and beat Bungy into the room, drawing a confused look from the boy.
“Cool,” he said.
“It’s smaller than I thought it’d be,” said Adrian.
It was small, even by human standards. There were two rows of green plastic chairs facing an altar. The altar was a low, gleaming wood table with red velvet panels on the sides and a kneeling pad in front. Two candles, the electric kind, shone on either end of the altar and an ancient Bible lay open at the center. A cross that looked nothing like the historical cross hung on the wall. A musty smell was everywhere.
“Is this what Heaven smells like?” asked Bungy.
“Hardly,” Adrian and I chorused. As I said, I liked this man.
He sat in the first chair of the first row and pulled his son around to face him. Bungy was a few inches taller than his seated father, so Adrian looked up at him. With hands on his son’s shoulders, Adrian said, “Heaven will smell like sunshine.”
Ever literal, Bungy replied, “Sunshine doesn’t smell.”
“Sure it does. It smells like summer and picnics, hope and happiness!”
“I don’t think all of those smell, either.”
Adrian regarded his son carefully. “They do, and someday you’ll realize that. Before that, we’re going to learn a lot of new smells.”
“Hospital smells?”
Adrian nodded. “Court’s really sick, son.”
“Am I going to get sick?” Bungy asked.
Concern pinched Adrian’s face. “No. Of course not.”
“But we’re identical, Dad. Everything he has, I have.”
“Ah, no, not everything. He has a birthmark that you don’t have, and you have a cowlick he doesn’t have.”
Bungy wiped his hand over the stubborn hank of hair that insisted on standing up on his head.
“Leukemia isn’t exactly genetic, Bungy.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Oh, uh, it means… you’re not born with it. It’s not part of what makes you, you. It’s complicated, but rest assured it’s true. You won’t get it.”
“For sure?”
“…Almost for sure,” his father said.
“That means maybe I will.”
Adrian sighed. “Highly unlikely. Our chances are probably a teeny bit higher than someone unrelated to us, but not much. You’re still more likely to win the lottery than come down with leukemia.”
“Then how did Court get it?” Bungy asked.
Adrian looked for an answer and couldn’t find one. “I don’t really know. We’ll find out, though. We’re going to be learning a lot of new things.” Tears welled in Adrian’s eyes and he looked down so his son wouldn’t see. Bungy did, though.
“What are the doctors going to do to him, Dad?”
Adrian shook his head. “Things are going to be different for awhile, Bungy. Really different.”
“Bad different?”
“Probably. Bungy, things are going to be hard for awhile. This is unfair, but you’re going to end up on the short end a lot.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I’m going to be working a lot, you mom is going to be busy taking care of Court, and while this is the last thing we want, it means you probably will feel like you’re not getting enough attention. You’re going to have to do a lot more than you have before. I’m telling you this so you can get ready. It doesn’t mean we don’t love you, because we really, really do…” Adrian grit his teeth to hold back the emotion and pulled his son into a bear hug. “We always do, even when it seems we don’t.”
“I don’t understand,” Bungy admitted.
“No, I don’t suppose you do. I think… no, I know… we need to pray right now. Pray that God will give our family strength, that He would prepare each of us for what we need to do… because Bungy, there may be something you have to do for Court. Maybe not, but… maybe.”
“What is it?”
“We’ll discuss it when the time comes, but if it does, it’s going to be a big deal. Let’s pray”
A booming voice filled the tiny room: “May I join you in such a worthy endeavor?”
Bungy, bless him, jumped and looked up as if God were shouting down. Adrian spun and stood blinking.
A short, round man with a few white wisps of hair over a gleaming dome of chocolate skin lit the room with his smile. More than just the contrast of brilliant teeth against dark skin, he shone with almost a heavenly light. I peered closely to make sure he wasn’t one of my kind.
“Who’re you?” demanded Bungy.
Adrian recovered, allowing manners to subsume surprise. “This is Mr. Clark. Mr. Clark, my son Thurmon.”
“Call me Bungy. Who’re you?”
Mr. Clark considered the question, as if it were very important. He seemed to chew on several possible answers, his jaw working behind his lips. “I’m an old man who has had the pleasure and honor of knowing the good Lord who made me for over sixty years.”
“So, you’re a pastor?”
Laughter rumbled forth as suddenly as summer thunder and the old man shook with wholesome mirth, his round frame dancing within his clothes. “No, young man, I’m a jeweler and a watchmaker.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Bungy, don’t be rude!” his father said. I thought the question a good one, but seeking truth is a layered ritual for humans. “Mr. Clark is a business partner of mine, son.”
“And a friend, I hope!” Mr. Clark said, looking up at Adrian.
Adrian blinked and regarded the older man. “What are you doing here, Mr. Clark?”
“I thought we were praying,” Mr. Clark said with a sincerity that distracted Bungy’s father who nodded and sat in one of the chairs. Bungy sat beside him and Mr. Clark perched next to Adrian. He seized Adrian’s hand as they closed their eyes. Adrian was startled, but did not remove his hand. Instead he fumbled for Bungy’s and began to pray, haltingly at first, then with growing strength.
Prayer is perhaps the second most amazing gift God has given Man. The first was his Son, the second was His ear, and yet humans treat it as if it was nothing unusual. They become tongue-tied when speaking to a human of celebrity, such as an actor or a politician, but prayer—not just speaking to the Creator of All, but actually being heard by Him—is barely given a thought. Some people talk in stilted language as if God doesn’t speak common English, while others talk as if it were an empty ritual, performed because it was expected and not because they were actually communicating.
Perhaps if they could see it with an angel’s eyes they would understand the incredible gift they’ve been given. Adrian’s prayer was simple, long, and honestly a bit repetitive. He spoke freely of his fears, showing a maturing intimacy with God, but he spent no time listening. Which is a shame. Angels see prayer. It ushers upward in golden light, but that’s not the amazing thing, as beautiful as it is. It’s the returning light, straight from God’s lips that is inspiring. So few humans understand that talking with God is a conversation, not just a declaration.
As Adrian prayed, golden light burst from Mr. Clark. He was actively praying silently, and when he took over the spoken prayer, hope and the Holy Spirit guided his words without a tinge of fear. The light spilling from Adrian paled slightly, his own spirit receiving quietly from the Creator as he listened to the older man’s prayer.
I glanced at Bungy, whose head was bowed with tightly closed eyes as Mr. Clark began to offer words of quiet prophecy that should have been soothing to the boy. His father’s body seemed to relax with his sending light blaring brightly in silent agreement.
Bungy, however, didn’t hear a word. No light flared from his spirit. All his concentration was focused on staying still—no doubt a difficult task for the energetic boy.
Finally, Mr. Clark fell silent, leaving a space for Bungy to offer a few words. When he didn’t say anything, Adrian squeezed his hand and whispered, “Amen.”
Bungy took the cue and opened his eyes.
“Thank you, Mr. Clark,” Adrian said.
“My pleasure, sir. Bungy?” Mr. Clark called.
“Uh?” Bungy said, when he realized he’d been addressed.
“This disease will be a test of your brother’s character.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It will also be a test of yours.”
“It will?”
“It will. Do you think you will pass?” Mr. Clark said.
“Sure,” Bungy said.
I, however, was not so sure.
Chapter 4
Dreams are another one of those things that we angels look upon in wonder.
Angels don’t sleep. No one in Heaven sleeps. Humans who have passed from Earth to Heaven do not sleep, either. Spirit, which angels are made of, and glorified bodies, which humans become, are continually renewed by the power and glory of God.
As a result, Earth is the only place where creatures dream.
I don’t know what dreams are like. Contrary to popular belief, angels cannot read minds. Your thoughts are between you and God, who is as familiar with your mind as you are. Well, that’s not really true. He knows your mind far better than you do.
A boy’s sleep is even more bewildering.
Bungy, who used a great deal of energy even when he was just walking, bounded from the hospital chapel and raced to the elevator. His father caught up just as the doors opened, and Bungy fidgeted on the ride up.
When he sprang into his brother’s room, I noticed his mother hovered over breakable objects, just in case.
With all the brightness of a burning sun, Bungy bounded into the chair beside Court’s bed, and then winked out into sleep, as if someone had flipped a switch.
Mother and father had an unheated argument about who should stay, and who should take Bungy home. Mother won and it was Adrian who roused his son, not to wakefulness, but to mobility. Without regaining consciousness, Bungy was wrangled down to the family car, driven home, wrangled to his bed and into pajamas, and spent the remainder of the night in holy slumber.
I suppose we should talk briefly about demons. I’d rather not, because I regard my fallen brothers with embarrassment. Much human literature and not a few comic books describe fallen angels as horned, tailed, and fire-breathing. They do smell something like fire, because in falling through the early Earth’s atmosphere, they burned. In their unnatural state, rather than glorious spirit, they are charred spirit, more darkness than light.
Nor do angels and demons fight in pitched battles. We don’t carry swords or their spiritual equivalent (at least Guardians don’t; in the last minutes, Archangels will, but we aren’t there yet). That is not to say that demons aren’t loathsome. They are, and they hate humans because of their place in the Father’s heart.
Humans, under the blood of the cross, may be forgiven. Demons cannot. Angels find this bewildering; demons find this unbearable.
It is because of the love of God, though, that angels and demons do not fight in the traditional sense. While demons would dearly love to rend humans to tatters, they must have the Father’s permission to do anything. Angels do not restrain them, God does. And if, for the purposes of God, they are allowed to harm humans, it is only as much as God allows.
And such permission is rare.
The truth is, humans are darkened with sin. They do not need a demon’s help to harm themselves or others. The devil does not make you do it; your sinful heart makes you do it.
While each human has a Guardian, there are not enough demons for each human to have their own. Demons play a “zone” offense. If they happen to be around, they’ll do their worst. If they’re not, your own sin will do its worst.
Probably, you’re wondering what they do, and, if we are Guardian Angels, what do we guard against?
Words.
Lies.
Fears.
There was a demon in Bungy’s bedroom right now. It had not been given permission to attack Bungy, but it had standing permission to speak, to murmur lies to the sleeping boy.
It’s your fault. You’re next. You’re bad, bad, bad. Nobody loves you. Everyone is out to get you.
This particular demon had no idea what was going on in Bungy’s family. It was just passing through, spewing nastiness in its wake. It glared at me as it passed through Bungy’s wall, seeking Adrian before the spin of the Earth carried it out of the house all together.
I, of course, was defending Bungy, as I could hear Adrian’s Guardian doing the same.
We defend by singing.
We sing of God’s glory. We sing the truth. And if I do say so myself, we sing beautifully.
Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty. Blessed are you with the love of God! By the cross of Christ you are healed!
Heaven echoes with the angel’s refrain. Earth, sadly, echoes with the Fall. Demons are not louder, but a sinful heart hears lies with eager ears. Bungy twitched in his sleep. I could not be sure, but I feared his dreams did not reflect my song, but the words of a passing fiend.
Without leaving Bungy’s side, I looked in on Adrian. It had taken him hours to fall asleep, but when he did, his own Guardian’s song called up the words of Scripture that Adrian had written on his heart through hours of time spent with God. Despite the pressure of tomorrow, Adrian slept with a smile.
I could not help but contrast the contentment of the father with the twitching of my charge. Bungy had been well taught, but what his mind accepted, his heart had not heard. He knew Bible stories, he knew church, but this boy did not yet truly know the saving grace of Jesus Christ.
The heart that did not know Jesus found worship in other things that were unworthy: personal pleasures, entertainment, food, video games, and the things of this world. But now Bungy had been confronted with the supernatural. He had seen his Guardian.
Having had revealing myself, would it not be possible that Bungy would worship… me?
Chapter 5
“You’re still here!”
Bungy woke up the same way he fell asleep. Abruptly.
Guardians miss nothing. We are never caught by surprise. This was close.
His red hair stood in swirls and tufts. His grin was lopsided. Bungy bounded out of bed and stood on the invisible line that separated the room in two. He slept on the bottom of a bunk bed. The top bed, presumably Court’s, was still made. I recall last night that Bungy’s was not, the blankets heaped on one end.
The room shared the same divided condition. One side was neat and ordered; the other was a pile that wandered across the floor and onto a dresser with drawers that were not properly closed.
Bungy bounced on the balls of his feet in the center of his room and then spun to his right – the ordered side – and drew folded shorts and a Miami Heat t-shirt from different drawers. He somehow managed to fall into them on his way to the bathroom.
The Halstead home was small, on a quiet street. There were three bedrooms; one was a study of sorts, though I assumed it would be turned over to Court when he came home from the hospital. I wondered how the twins would take their separation.
The garage was oversized for the house. The sound of a band saw worked its way through the home. Adrian, Bungy’s father, was a woodworker of some kind. I took a peek and determined he made furniture. Very good furniture.
“Court! Hey, Court!” filtered from the street. Another peek, this time outside the house, revealed a boy about Bungy’s age, but much bigger, shouting through cupped hands. He stood at the sidewalk instead of coming to the door. As I watched this boy drum his left foot, I also watched Bungy rocket out of the bathroom, through the small house and out the front door. He hadn’t washed his hands.
“Hey, Tony!” said Bungy.
“Dude. You playin’ ball or what?” said Tony.
“Sure! Lemme grab my mitt,” he said, rocketing back into the house and rummaging in a closet. Tony trailed him to the door.
Tony whispered loudly, “Your brother doesn’t have to come, does he?”
Bungy froze, looked at me, looked away, and said, “Naw, he’s not here.”
“Good deal. Let’s go.”
Interesting.
Bungy failed to inform his father where he was going, among other things.
The field was at the end of the street and the day’s heat, blistering in few hours, was just ramping up. A crumbling playground stood in one corner of the large lot. The all-purpose grass field, more weeds and dirt than grass, claimed the rest. A group of boys and a few girls who looked like boys waited impatiently as Bungy and Tony ran up.
“Hey, Court,” said a blonde boy. “Bungy comin’?”
“Naw,” said Bungy.
“Good deal. I’ll take Court.”
“I got Court,” said Tony.
Blonde boy considered. “I get the next two picks, then.”
“’Kay.”
The teams divided up, with Bungy refusing to look at me.
The bases were deeper holes than the other holes in the lot. Bungy’s team was up first. I took up a position behind home plate, because where else would a Guardian be?
Baseball, I may have mentioned, is a wonderful game, even if these kids weren’t playing particularly well. The blonde boy pitched to a girl in a Yankee’s baseball hat. He claimed every pitch was a strike, even when they weren’t. He claimed each hit was a foul, even when they clearly weren’t. No one listened to him, though, so it didn’t slow down the game.
One out, two runners on first and second, and Bungy was batting cleanup. He was extremely aware of me without making direct eye contact. Just as well, since no one else could see me.
“All right, Court! Let’s do it, buddy!” called Tony from second base.
Bungy chewed his lower lip, wiped sweat from his forehead and stepped into the box. Blonde boy wound up and released. I made sure it came right down the pipe.
Bungy closed his eyes and swung, spinning completely around and barely managing to hang onto the bat. The ball thumped into Yankee girl’s mitt.
“Strike!” I called.
“Aw, man!” yelled Blonde boy, throwing down his glove.
“Unbelievable!” shouted Tony, stomping from second, past the pitcher, and up to Bungy. Without stopping, Tony shoved Bungy hard in the chest, throwing the smaller boy to the ground. “Why you keep doin’ this, Bungy! Huh? Why?”
“I just wanna play!” bawled Bungy, tears streaking through the dust on his face.
“Go play with the girls!” shouted Tony.
“We don’t want him,” said Yankee girl.
Bungy kept his place in the dirt, his shoulders shuddering in time with his sobs.
“I don’t even know how you guys can be twins,” Tony said, stomping back to second. “Go home, Bungy.”
I sat beside Bungy in the dirt. “Two things,” I said. “We can work on the baseball.”
Bungy looked up at me through swollen eyes. “And?” he said.
“And,” I said, “God wants you.”
Bungy stood and swatted dirt from his shorts. He trudged off toward home. “He has a funny way of showing it.”
Blonde boy shouted after us, “Cry baby!”
I made sure he didn’t throw a single strike for the rest of the game. Or get a hit. Blonde boy’s Guardian sighed and agreed with me.
Chapter 6
His tears faded quickly as we walked toward home, but the hitching of his chest seemed to move around his body. Now that he was no longer pretending to be Court it was as if his bones were uncomfortable being in his skin, as if different parts of his body wanted to go in different directions.
“Nobody likes me,” he said.
“Why not?”
Bungy started; so wrapped up in his misery that he’d forgotten that heaven was so near. His statement had not been to me, but to himself. Apparently he’d never questioned his belief, so he had to think about it for a moment.
“Because they like Court instead,” he said, and shrugged with his whole body.
“Why can’t they like you both?”
“Are you really an angel?” he said. Walking became forward hops, then he turned and faced me, moving backwards to keep ahead of me.
“We’ve covered that and you’re avoiding the question.”
“Because they don’t. They only like Court.”
“Who does?”
“Everybody.”
“Do you know everybody?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know everyone dislikes you?”
Another shrug that raised his entire body into the air. “Everybody around here.”
I looked around. We were alone on the street. “There is no one around here.”
He threw a hand back in the direction of the ball field. “Them.”
“Every child on that field dislikes you?”
“Yep.”
We stopped and turned toward the field. I cannot read their thoughts, but awareness provided by the Holy Spirit filled my mind. “You’re right. They do all dislike you.”
“Really?” he said. “All of them?”
“All of them.”
He considered for a moment.
“Thought so,” he said. And he set off again for home. I followed.
“You don’t seem to care,” I said.
He shrugged.
“You cared a few minutes ago.”
He shrugged again.
“You were crying.”
“They were mean to me.”
“You pretended you were Court.”
He shrugged again.
“You lied to them,” I said.
“I wanted to play.”
“Lying is not a likeable trait,” I said.
“Haven’t you ever told a lie?” he asked.
“No.”
“Really?”
“Angels don’t lie.”
He thought about it for a moment. “Do you like me?”
Before I could answer, a loud voice cut across the sidewalk. “Bungy!”
Bungy leaped and managed to spin at the same time, facing his father across the yard. “Hey, Dad.”
“Who are you talking to?” his father asked.
“You.”
His father sighed. “Before me. Just now.”
“My Guardian Angel,” Bungy said, shrugging.
His fathered nodded his head slowly. “Okay.”
Bungy smiled at him.
“Where have you been?” his father asked.
“Ball field.”
“You’re supposed to let me know where you’re going.”
“You were working.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t tell me.”
“Okay.”
“Come on, we need to go to the hospital,” his father said, turning to close the door.
Bungy’s face darkened. “I don’t want to go.”
He turned back toward his son. “Don’t you want to see your brother?”
“I want to stay home.”
“Bungy, I can’t leave you by yourself.”
“You leave Court by himself.”
His father sighed. “Noooo, we leave you both home sometimes, never alone.”
“I don’t need Court to babysit me.”
“You’re going to the hospital with me, Bungy. Now let’s go.”
“I want to stay home.”
“Bungy…”
“The place smells and I don’t want to see Court sick!” Bungy ran past his father and into the house.
His father stood blinking for a moment, then slowly followed Bungy through the door. He watched as Bungy flung himself into the couch. He knelt beside his son and placed a hand on his knee. “I’m sorry, Bungy, I guess I didn’t really think about it.”
“S’okay,” Bungy said, chin to his chest.
“It must be hard for you seeing him there. It must be like watching yourself.” Had he not looked away in that moment, Bungy’s father would have seen the surprise on his son’s face. The thought had never occurred to him. Then Bungy realized he could use it to his advantage.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s like that. So, can I stay home?”
His father shook his head slowly, unconvincingly. “Bungy, I can’t leave you by yourself.”
“I’m not alone, Dad, I’ve got my Guardian Angel!”
“Ummmm… that’s true, Bungy… but… an angel can’t use the phone, so if you were in trouble, he couldn’t call for help.”
Completely untrue. I can handle physical objects when I want to. Bungy eyed me over his father’s head.
I shrugged.
Bungy looked at his father and spoke quickly, “I can use a phone, Dad, I’ll call if anything goes wrong, and I’ll keep the door locked and not let anyone in, can I stay home, Dad, can I, huh?”
And then he smiled brightly. Innocently.
It was quite a performance.
His father looked at him sternly. “Stay away from the pool.”
“I won’t even go outside, Dad. Promise.”
And despite his father’s reservations, he drove off to the hospital alone, locking the door behind him.
As the car wheeled out of the driveway, in the living room, watching his father leave, Bungy began to bounce up and down on his feet. He did it without awareness, and I knew that’s where his nick name came from. He looked as if he were dangling from bungee cords, the springy ropes that stretched and pulled.
I couldn’t help but remember that Eve did exactly the same thing when Lucifer tempted her in the Garden of Eden.
Chapter 7
“I can show you how to hit a baseball,” I said.
“Naw. Do you know how to play Legos?”
“Is that a game?”
“How come you know about baseball, but not Legos?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought angels were supposed to know stuff.”
“We know the important things.”
“Like baseball.”
“Like baseball,” I said.
I followed Bungy into the spare bedroom that held two desks, several toys, and a many- colored table with hundreds of small knobby blocks, also of many colors. Bungy stood, wiggling his fingers at his sides, looking from the table to the living room. Or more accurately, through the living room and out the sliding glass door at the pool.
He seemed to make up his mind. He dragged the Lego table to the living room, positioning it carefully in front of the sliding glass door. He then dragged a small chair from the office, picking up several stray Legos (but not all of them) on his way back to the table.
“Wanna play?” he asked.
“I’ll just watch, thank you,” I said.
“Suit yourself.”
He turned his attention to the Legos, at first not touching them. His body went completely still. Throughout the morning, Bungy had always been in movement, even if it was just his hands, as if he were uncomfortable in his own skin. But now the small colored blocks captured him completely.
When he reached out, it was without hesitation. With a fluid grace that would have surprised me if I had not been an angel, he began to assemble the Legos swiftly. In a very small amount of time, a castle grew from the table with amazing detail. Soon there were animals and, curiously, an army tank parked outside the gates of the castle.
“You are a creator.”
“Huh?”
“You build things.”
“It’s just Legos,” he said, building a car.
“For now. Someday it will be with other things.”
He turned to me. “Do you know the future?”
“Only what I have watched.”
“Huh?”
“I have been in the future, but I do not know your future. I learned about baseball in the future.”
“That makes my head hurt.”
“I’m sorry.”
“S’okay. Do you know what this is?” He pointed at a ribbon of blue blocks that ran in front of the castle.
“Tell me.”
“It’s a moat. That’s like a pool around the whole castle.”
I had seen moats in France several hundred years ago.
“We have a pool,” he said, pointing out the sliding glass door.
“I see that.”
The Legos in his hand were forgotten as he gazed through the glass. The pool shimmered in the late morning sun. The pool deck was cluttered with floatable toys and swim gear.
Moments ago, Bungy was exploring one of the many gifts of God that he had been blessed with. Bungy’s ability to create meaningful shapes out of plastic blocks was a tiny picture of something wonderful that God had given him. Without being aware of it, Bungy had been completely comfortable as he played at what he was meant for.
And just as quickly, he was now contemplating sin. Swimming, of course, is not sinful. It is, in fact, yet another blessing of God. Disobeying his father, though, is sin.
“I’m a good swimmer.”
“So is Court.”
“He’s better than me. He’s better than me at everything.”
“Except for yesterday.”
“Yesterday he drowned.”
“Almost, yes.”
“That’s because he was sick.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sick.”
This ability of humans to dance from light to darkness was nothing short of amazing. Bungy was artfully avoiding the truth, building a case for swimming when he knew he shouldn’t.
“See that green stuff on the side of the pool?” Bungy said, “That’s algae.”
There was, indeed, a faint green film clinging to the inside of the pool.
“I should probably clean that off,” he said.
And with that, he disappeared into his room, rummaging in his dresser (the messy one) for a swim suit.
By the time he got out to the pool, he’d completely forgotten the algae, ran around to the deep end and dove head first into the water. It lacked the grace of his Lego building, splashing water high into the air. More water splashed as he swam, soaking the pool deck. A smile stretched his face in clear delight.
“Can angels swim?” he called from the pool.
“We can.”