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ALONG THE ABYSS’S WALLS lingered a residual holiness from the Father of Lights. It coated every surface in diamonds, turning the cave into one dazzling geode.
Nechum set his tired self down. He drank in his new memories—the battles, the victories, the struggles—all pieces of a narrative God had orchestrated and would continue to compose. Releasing a sigh, he laid back, folded peaceful hands, and reveled in thoughts of a long overdue nap.
Laszio and Eran knelt on either side of him. They sported new pairs of wings, larger and grander than before.
Laszio rubbed Nechum’s shoulder. “Eager to return to your village?” he asked.
Nechum laughed, “Yeah. I think I’ve had enough excitement to last me a few hundred years.”
Eran shook his head. “What are you talking about? Excitement is, as humans say, our bread and bagel.”
Nechum rolled his eyes. “You mean ‘bread and butter’, and don’t apply terms you don’t understand.”
“We are gonna miss you, though,” said Laszio, as his eyebrows dipped.
“Yeah,” Nechum replied. “I’ll miss you too.”
“Oof!”
Nechum turned his head to see Akela bear hugging Alameth, and Alameth straining for balance. “You didn’t have to do that,” Alameth coughed, as he patted Akela with a demure smile.
Akela released Alameth and brushed an unruly curl behind his ear. “I know. My hugs are rough. It’s just, the last time I saw you, you were...and I, um...”
Alameth chuckled. In quiet strength, he wrapped an arm around Akela’s shoulders and pulled him into a gentler hug. “Thank you. For everything.”
Nechum relaxed contented. No hurts soured the moment. No unwarranted suspicions or fears tainted the relief. Everyone’s hearts brimmed with thrilling joy, and their eyes shone hues richer than their first day together.
Closing his eyes, Nechum broke away from the present. The mission was now truly complete. As he set his hands down, Nechum’s fingers hit metal. His brow furrowed. He turned his head and brushed dirt off the mystery object, revealing a familiar sword.
“Wait a minute,” Akela remarked. He patted his sides and spun around as he searched the floor. “Hey, has anybody seen my satchel?”
***
Jediah raised his head and found himself back in the Paris garden. Akela’s satchel leaned against him. Its flap had been left open, and he recognized the torn pieces of Nechum’s shawl inside. It confused him to discover Akela’s belongings here. Still, he snapped the clasp closed and pulled the satchel strap over his head.
The rain had stopped. The clouds cleared, and resting on the park bench where Jediah’s last fight began, laid Chloe with her head cradled in the lap of Jesus Himself.
Jediah arose and knelt before the Messiah.
“Well done, my good and faithful, servant,” Jesus said. “Well done.”
Jediah heard rustling fabric. Then a small strip of crimson adorned his shoulders. Confused, he fingered the cloth and recognized the stitched pattern. It was his scarf, and it bore the captain’s crest.
Then Christ’s palm, calloused from carpenter’s wood, touched Jediah’s sore back. A healing warmth grew beneath those tender fingers, and Jediah could feel new feathers blooming like seeds. They expanded, voluminous and strong, and soon Jediah could once again see his beloved wings, fully restored. Too joyful to think, Jediah forgot formal etiquette and grabbed the hem of Christ’s robe and kissed it.
To hear the Son of God’s laughter was soothing music. “Do not cling to me,” Jesus said. “Arise.”
Rising to a stand, Jediah wiped off his moist cheeks.
Jesus, who had scooped little Chloe in His arms, passed her to Jediah. “I now send you to deliver her to her family.”
Unable to speak. Jediah nodded. He turned to go on his way, but then stalled. He stared at the Mark not yet complete on Chloe’s chest. “Lord?” he asked. “Will she be saved?”
Jesus tipped His head. His eyes brimmed with an understanding kindness, yet He said not a word.
“Right,” Jediah relented. “Only You will know.”
Nodding, Jesus ushered him on his way.
***
Cameras and news anchors scrambled to get the story. Tow trucks hissed as they pulled the wrecked ambulance away from the edge. Police officers spoke through the static of their radios while their chiefs barked orders, and crowds circled the site of the incident.
Kenneth struggled with his ill stomach as he stood beside the bridge rail, watching motor boats dredge the rough waters. Little hope remained of finding Chloe’s body. The grief of outliving his own granddaughter, the worst tragedy he hoped to never endure, consumed him. He wanted to die.
He couldn’t bear it anymore. His growing sobs caused him to cave over the cement rail, and his tears joined the Seine. He opened his wrinkled hands toward heaven. “Heavenly Father. My faithful Father. Long have You carried me through the trials of my life, but this...this,” Ken leaned harder against the rail as his arthritis attacked his knees. “I have agonized and agonized over my granddaughter, Lord. You have heard me lift her up in prayer so many times for her heart to open and for You to send her others besides myself to minister to her. Maybe even one of your holy angels.”
Kenneth raised and lowered a fist. The veins protruded through the thinned skin. “You know the plans You have for us. Plans to prosper us, to give us a hope and a future through the gift of Your Son’s blood which can save us from our sins. But Chloe never yet sought Your Son.” He blinked back more tears. “But You hold power over the grave... So I humbly ask again, Lord, for that ministering spirit. Please... please, Lord, send Your best angel to bring her back to us.”
As Ken finished his prayer, his anxiety calmed. The Holy Spirit moved within him, teaching his heart to let faith keep hope’s candle alive.
A car door opened and shut.
Perplexed, Ken turned around to check on his vehicle. No one was there, except a little round head that poked just above the window’s edge.
It moved.
Struggling with disbelief, Ken ignored his arthritis and swung the door open. Chloe laid asleep, looking somehow healthier than before.
“Chloe?” Ken almost feared his aging mind, thinking dementia might have finally caught up with him, but then two bright eyes opened.
“Grandpa?”
Sobbing freely, Ken wrapped his granddaughter in his arms and rocked her back and forth. “Thank you. Thank you, Father God.” He pulled back and studied her. “Are you okay, Chloe?”
Chloe squinted. She looked around as if searching for something. “Where’d he go?”
“He?” Ken asked. “Who are you talking about, sweetheart?”
“The nice man who sang to me.”
Adrenaline coursed through Ken’s body, and an awed realization forced him to sit down on the car floor. He gripped her hand. “What did this man look like?” Noticing a lump in her fist, Ken opened her hand and discovered a braided lock of reddish-brown hair—just like the ones Chloe braided in that odd man’s hair.
Chloe drifted back into slumber, yet she smiled as though returning to a beautiful dream. “He was real shiny, Grandpa.”
A knowing smile etched itself upon Ken’s face as he nodded. “I’m sure he was, sweetheart. I’m sure he was.”
***
Jediah watched the scene from a distant rooftop. He almost laughed to watch Chloe’s family drown the poor girl in kisses amidst the claps, whistles, and astonished faces of the crowds. He then noticed a ministry angel, Chloe’s guardian, limping his way to them. Even from afar, Jediah could see the angel’s thrilled reaction to Chloe’s return.
The night trudged on. The throng dispersed. Police and medical crews vacated. The news media packed their equipment, and the one section of broken bridge, now fenced in by traffic cones, remained the sole clue that any accident ever happened.
As Jediah continued his vigil over the resumed parade of coming and going cars, for the first time, in the longest time, he felt unhindered peace. No more guilt. No more anxiety.
He searched Akela’s satchel. His hand withdrew the soft pieces of blue fabric. He smiled to himself. One last mission.
The task, though tedious, never became a chore. Jediah assembled the torn shawl beside himself. Certain of their pattern, he set two pieces at a time on his lap and stroked the frayed threads. Popped stitches mended, and bit by bit, through hours of careful work, the restored shawl draped Jediah’s legs like a cashmere blanket. He folded the fabric, then placed the silver cross pin in its center.
He heard footsteps.
Jediah turned his head, and Nechum was already there, carrying his sword in both hands. The battered blade had been recently polished. Not a scratch remained. Nechum smiled as he offered it back. “I believe you lost this, brother.”
Jediah chuckled and presented the shawl. “Care to trade?” He drew up to a stand. “Besides, I think this suits you better.” Draping the shawl over Nechum’s narrow shoulders, he filled with joy to see it returned to its compassionate owner. The angelic crest pin reflected its tiny glow off Nechum’s face.
Nechum smiled, and as he handed Jediah his sword, their eyes locked. They nodded in unspoken appreciation. Then Jediah slid it back in his scabbard.
Nechum folded his arms in thought. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? We angels enjoy God’s grace, but hopelessly lost, rebellious humans get to experience all of His righteousness in full measure.”
The feathers across Jediah’s sides and back warmed. Their soft down buzzed with the thrill at the thought. Christians: the ultimate manifestation of His love—Bearers of His Complete Image.
Nechum stared at the blue haze in the east and sighed, “A new day is coming.”
“Indeed it is,” Jediah whispered.
Silent moments passed as they awaited the sunrise. Blue warmed to pink. Pink turned to gold. Then the first rays of the sun’s crown peeked. A few sparrows chirped in the waking world, and Nechum sang with them—a song which Jediah joined in perfect harmony.
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Praise God from whom all blessings flow...
Praise Him all creatures here below...
Praise Him above ye heavenly hosts...
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost...