Head in the clouds. Feet on the ground. Heart in the story. Christa Kinde is a cheerful homebody whose imagination takes her new places with every passing day. Making her home between misty mornings and brimming bookshelves in Southern California, she’s been writing for more than a decade, but the Threshold Series is her first foray into fiction. Learn about Christa’s books, Bible studies, short stories, weekdaily serials, and more at ChristaKinde.com.

With a word, a single life winked into existence, warm as the flame of a brave candle suspended among the stars. The newly formed angel was perfect from the tips of his ears to the wiggle in his toes. His heart fluttered, and he wondered why the voice had sounded familiar. Is this a dream? He tipped his head to one side as thoughts became ideas and understanding grew. I was a thought. Was I a good one?

“Very good.”

His breath caught, for he knew Who was with him. And why. A hundred questions whirled through the angel’s mind before settling into orderly patterns, neat as a row of books on a shelf. This is my beginning.

The word came again, warmed by a smile.

And this time he recognized it. That is my name.

“Our secret.”

Opening his eyes, the boy blinked stardust from his lashes, looked into the face of his Maker, and sneezed.

“Do you have questions?”

The young angel whispered, “Who am I to question God?”

“Ask, child of light.”

Love and reverence left him tongue-tied, but if the God of heaven wanted his questions, he would surrender them. “Who am I?”

“Someone new.”

“Am I Yours?”

“Mine, and mine alone,” Creator replied, offering a scarred palm.

The boy solemnly replied, “Yours, and Yours alone.”

They walked hand in hand. The Everlasting One told stories made from living words. He spoke of mysteries and promises and warned the angel of the terrible choice that could tear Creator and creation apart.

“I will be Faithful,” the boy promised.

“As I am faithful.”

“Indeed.”

Sometimes, God’s voice was like thunder, and his new servant wanted to hide his face. Sometimes it was as soft breeze, and he fell silent to catch every nuance. Either way, His words were good, and the boy wished he could capture them and keep them close. But how?

“Write them down.”

Yes, that sounded right. “Is that what I must do?”

“Write them on a page. Bind them into a book,” his Maker urged. “Fill an archive with the stories only you can tell. Your first heartbeat. Your first breath. Your first love.”

The boy’s dark eyes shone with adoration. “You.”

“I am going to Send you.”

“Away?” the boy said, surprised how much sadness that one word could hold.

“Where I am Sending you, you will neither see nor hold. But you will hear and know that I am with you.”

“I am Sent.”

“When you are Sent, you must go. Where I ask you to stay, you must remain. When I call you back, you must return.”

The young angel stood a little straighter. “Where will I go?”

“To the place where you will be found.”

He tipped his head to one side. “How will I find my way?”

Giving His new servant’s hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, God answered, “Follow me.”

The boy put one foot in front of the other, enjoying the steady rhythm of his steps. Should I accompany them? Words stirred in his mind, but before he could phrase them into a song, his Guide stopped. “Where are we?”

“What do your eyes tell you, Observer?”

His gaze slowly swept their surroundings, not wanting to miss a single detail. Chipped bricks. Crumbling mortar. Rusted wire. Broken glass. Peeling paint. He was knee-deep in weeds, and they were surrounded by birds. In the narrow stretch of blue sky above the buildings looming on all sides, a golden star blazed, and he understood. “We stand upon the earth You created, where Time holds sway. This is day.” He crouched to peer intently at one of the milling fowl. “And these are chickens.”

“Wait here.”

Straightening, the boy reached for his Creator’s hand. Is it too soon?

“Fear not. This is the right time.” He kissed his forehead. “Soon, you will be found.”

“Who will find me?” the angel whispered, opening his hand so God could slip from his grasp.

“I will Send Ofir, and he will call you friend.”

The urban chicken yard was filled with fascinations. Pebbles in the asphalt. Scents on the breeze. Webs in the corners. With keen senses and a sense of wonder, the new angel memorized every dandelion tuft and spotted feather; however, his excitement soared to new heights when a creak and slam heralded his first glimpse of a human.

An old woman in tattered bedroom slippers shuffled along the alley. She clucked her tongue at the chickens and twiddled her fingers as she passed. He mirrored her greeting, but she didn’t see the angel waving back.

Shadows inched along the ground, and he wondered what made this the right time. Very little was happening, and no one seemed to be searching for him. Suddenly, dogs started barking one street over. A cat with a puffed tail streaked past. And a worrying odor teased at the edges of the young angel’s senses. Someone was coming, but he no longer wished to be found.

Kneeling behind the rickety hen house, he peered up and down the alley. A crash rang out overhead, and he looked up in time to see colors explode in the patch of blue. Angels, but not like me. Protectors and Guardians with flashing faces and vivid wings tangled with fearsome enemies.

Scrapes and scratches echoed along the alley, and the boy shrank back, trying to make himself smaller. The chickens clustered uneasily around him. Did they think he could keep them safe? Or were they hiding him? He couldn’t say for certain, but their ruffled feathers tickled his nose.

From the alley’s shadows, a demon skulked into view, and the young angel’s eyes widened . . . then watered. He pinched his nose, but nothing could smother the sneeze that scattered stardust onto the milling hens.

Even before he opened his eyes, a hand clamped over his mouth. “Gotcha,” came a husky whisper.

He froze in fear then lurched away, trying to wriggle free.

“Hey, hey, hey now. Take it easy, friend. You’re safe!”

Friend? He stopped struggling.

His captor turned him around. “I’ll make sure of it,” a mostly grown angel with dark skin and a cap of black ringlets promised. “I’m a Protector. Do you know what that means?”

He traced the pattern on the older boy’s breastplate. “Cherub.”

“Through and through!”

“You found me.”

“Newfoundlings are dead easy to track down. It’s the sneezes.” The Protector’s wings drew closer, shielding them from danger in a swirl of lemon-yellow light. “Sit tight while my buddies chase off the bad guys.”

He reached up to touch the other angel’s shoulder. “Scar.”

“Just a nick. Hardly worth mentioning.”

Poking at a dimple, he said, “Smile.”

“As often as possible. You should try it!”

He nodded gravely and glanced around, cataloging more details. “Spear.”

“Never leave home without one. My sort need to be ready for a fight.”

Relieved to have been found by someone so capable, the boy nudged closer. “You are Ofir.”

The cherub’s eyes widened. “Too right! And who are you?”

“Your friend.”

“Let’s have a look at you.” The older boy ruffled straight, black hair, tweaked a pointed ear, then tapped his nose. “Caretakers usually do the finding and the naming. Should we wait for an expert?”

The young angel shook his head. “You will call me friend.”

Ofir’s brow creased, but then he brightened. “I know a name that means friend, and it suits you.”

“Indeed?”

“We’ll call you Koji.”

“We?”

“Me and everyone I introduce you to.” Ofir parted his wings to check on activity in the alley. “I’m posted with . . . uhh . . . uh-oh. Introductions will have to wait, Koji.”

“Why?”

“Because chicken wire is flimsy stuff.” The Protector’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We have company.”

Fear thrilled through Koji. “I do not know what to do.”

“Hey, hey, hey now,” Ofir said in warmer tones. “Your job’s dead easy. Just hold on tight.”

“To what?”

Lifting Koji as if he were light as a speckled chicken feather, Ofir readied his spear. “Me.”

Next Month: Angel on High, Part Two: “Milk and Honey.”