And I Wait

Perched on the edge of Heaven, with the wind rustling my hair, I look down at what Paradise has become.

And I wish I could sleep.

But I can’t.

Angels were not made to rest.

I do not tire. My mind does not wander. I do not forget.

Sleep is for mortals—fragile beings who need time to retreat, to process, to heal.

I was forged for obedience, not reflection.

And so, I wait. As I have waited for thousands of years.

Not with weariness, but with something worse: purpose withheld.

I should have grown tired by now in this endless waiting game. But time is irrelevant for my kind. I live in eternity, where patience is required.

Time moves past me like the wind whispering against my ear—constant, insistent, pressing—while my eyes bear the pain of what His creation has become. The garden, once beautiful and fruitful, lies desolate. The life-giving waters that ran through it are dry or foul. The treasures buried within have been plundered. Its soil bleeds.

And still, I obey and continue to bear witness while I await His command.

There was a time when I was useful.

Sent often to Earth.

To cleanse.

To purify.

To force obedience into those disloyal mortals who so often forget why they were even made at all.

I have walked among them more times than I can count, in moments both hidden and terrible, but two remain carved deepest into my memory.

I do recall that night—for I never forget—when I walked the streets in search of those who had failed to mark their doors with the blood of the lamb.

A curious thing, to hear the prayers of those who were protected yet still afraid, while the doomed slept in peace.

The wailing that followed filled my spirit with the certainty that I had obeyed His command, for the firstborn of the unmarked—from the one who sat on the throne to the firstborn of the livestock—was dead.

For in those days the sons had to pay for the sins of the father.

But calamity brought forth obedience.

The Chosen People were freed.

My purpose had been fulfilled.

Centuries passed before I was sent again to cleanse.

But this time, I was to punish The Chosen. For their King had doubted—without cause—that the Lord would protect them, as He had done repeatedly, not with numbers, but with His will alone.

For three days, we moved without pause, carrying the plague from door to door. The city fell into a dreadful stillness as the afflicted lay motionless in their homes, their skin ashen, their breath shallow, their eyes clouded with the shadow of death.

Mothers clutched lifeless children. Fathers wept in silence. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of sickness, until the stench of decay crept into every street and settled over the city like a shroud.

Seventy thousand fell on those appointed days, to atone for the King’s pride. And once more, the innocent paid for the sins of their ruler.

But calamity brought forth humility.

The Chosen returned to His grace.

My purpose had been fulfilled.

But now I wait—though I had been prepared for His will so many times since.

And I don’t understand.

For the evilness of mankind has only deepened.

When His Son was crucified, I was ready.

Not just willing—eager.

The mob that shouted, cheered, and spat at My Master seemed to beg for punishment.

I was ready to raise my arm yet one more time, to strike those ungrateful souls and send them into damnation—because for once, there would be no livestock, no infants, no error—only the guilty. The innocent would not have to pay for the sins of their fathers.

But no orders came. Nothing.

I covered my eyes to be blind to the cruelty unfolding like molasses before me—thick, slow and suffocating—each beat of His heart an eternity between His suffering and my inaction. Their laughter scraped against my spirit like rusted metal, defiant and unrepentant, as if all Heaven were powerless. In their mocking laughter, I heard no fear. Only evil. Because they reveled in their cruelty.

And when His final breath came, the Lord wept—a torrent that filled the valley.

And thunder rolled to hide His cries.

I waited for the order—Go!

For a flare of purpose was burning inside of me.

But instead, the silence crushed me.

I, who had once moved with the power of Heaven, was reduced to become a mere witness.

And I burned, forced to watch the ones who murdered His Son go home untouched. For He had forgiven them.

And that is when I began to wonder: what is my purpose if I am denied action when it is so clearly deserved?

But I was forged for obedience, not reflection.

I obeyed.

And I simply closed my eyes and wished I could sleep.

But I can’t sleep.

And I don’t forget.

And my spirit still screams: why should I obey when those created in His image fail to do so? Where is the justice?

Why, oh why am I punished for obeying?

Why does He grant mercy to those who sin their entire lives, merely because they may repent in their final breath?

Why does He gift them the freedom to choose—when they hurt Him again and again?

Let me strike them down. Let me exalt You by punishing them—to force them, once again, into obedience.

But You are now merciful.

So I wait.

Not with peace. For I want to disobey. I want to be like them.

Not with certainty. For now I don’t know what is the right path. Should I act on my own? Should I bring justice into this unruly world?

But I have seen what disobedience brings. I have seen the Morning Star burst into flames. And yet I wonder, would my disobedience be treated differently. For I will disobey not for my own glory but for His.

I wish I could sleep—so that this question now lodged in my spirit like a splinter would stop hurting.

What is my purpose?

For I still long for His approval.

For His love.

But I no longer understand why He withholds my hand.

To force obedience.

To command respect.

But though I hunger for action—I do not act.

Not yet.

For I was made to obey.

At least for now.