“Mom.” A five year old boy tugging on his mother’s skirts would normally have seemed endearing, but his mother certainly didn’t seem to think so.
“Not now, Max. Please just be quiet for a bit.” She looked downright anxious about it, really, already in enough of a frazzled state with the persistent evangelists at the door.
“But those people said you can see the face of God.”
“Max!” She cried. “Go back inside right now.”
One of the men at the door leaned down, “Are you interested in becoming better acquainted with the Lord, little boy?”
“No.” He said, “If God wanted-“
“You stay away from him!” His mother shrieked, picking Max up with one arm despite his size, and shoving the man away with the other, slamming the door in their faces.
“Honey.” His mother crouched down in front of him. “I know how much this means to you, but you can’t talk about this with anyone else. You know that, right?”
“I don’t understand.” He shook his head, again. “I’d make God sad if I acted ashamed of having fought by his side.”
Max’s mother looked absolutely exhausted. “I know, honey. I know. I just- Well, we’re not ashamed of you or God or anyone, really. But other people won’t understand.” She pushed his hair away from his face, smoothing his forehead softly, looking into his striking blue eyes, so similar to hers, and yet so deeply different in every way that mattered. “I just want to protect you, sweetie. Please, please just listen to me about this.”
“Okay, mom. I’ll try.” He said, but his mind was already off, spinning through more memories than most human brains should be able to hold, the most vivid of which were that of his first life. Standing by the side of God, with four wings and four sets of faces, three of animals, one not unlike the face he had now, with pitch black hair and sharp, bright blue eyes. As Lucifer faced God, Rachmiel drew his bow, firing arrows the Lord had given him personally at the enemy. When, in the end, a sword pierced his side, and one last arrow from his bow flew into the heart of the angel who had felled him, God placed a hand on his head, and Rachmiel knew at last why he had been named God is my comforter. The Lord had known from the beginning that all this would come to pass, as he always did, and that thought did comfort him, as much as the hand that was sending him off in peace.
He liked remembering that moment, and the little boy placed his hand on his mother’s head as if he could give her that moment for her own comfort, never noticing the deepening worry on her face every time he did so.