Charlie’s Angel

By Cory Rosenke

The afternoon sun poured gold across the mountains as Charlie stepped into the waiting SUV, his laughter mingling with the excited hum of his team’s voices. He had known this rhythm for years—city to city, campus to campus—yet it always carried the spark of new beginnings. The familiar thrill coursed through him, like a living flame fanned by holy winds.

In and around the vehicle, yet unseen, a mighty presence lingered—a guardian who hadn’t left Charlie’s side since his earliest formation. This was Nuriel, an angel of towering majesty and steadfast devotion, whose radiant gaze and celestial power had thwarted the forces of darkness since the dawn of creation.

As they sped toward the university campus, Nuriel’s eyes rested tenderly on Charlie. The guardian loved him—not with the fleeting affection of mortals, but with an eternal devotion forged by the Almighty. It had watched Charlie grow, from a boy of boundless energy into a man of integrity and courage, his heart kindled by a fire for truth. Nuriel fondly recalled the child who debated teachers with earnest questions, his small frame veiling an indomitable spirit that roared like a lion—and the youth who stumbled through early speeches, voice cracking yet resolute, his wisdom growing with each hard-won lesson. Every step, every doubt, every prayer whispered in the dark—Nuriel had been there, cherishing the soul entrusted to its care.

The guardian watched over Charlie now, a radiant presence that cast no shadow, yet filled the space with warmth.

The vehicle moved steadily, its rhythm a backdrop to Nuriel’s memories—moments of intervention of which Charlie knew nothing. The angel recalled a stormy night, years earlier, when Charlie—barely out of his teens—stood boldly on a makeshift stage in a Midwestern town hall, his words slicing through apathy like a blade of truth. The air thickened with malice as a man in the crowd, his eyes glinting with bitterness, clutched a concealed knife. Nuriel had sensed the demonic influence, a sour tang coiling like smoke around the assailant’s heart. With a movement swifter than lightning, the undetected guardian knocked the man’s hand aside, sending the blade skittering across the floor like a fleeing scorpion. Charlie, oblivious, had pressed on, his words of salvation and freedom blooming like desert flowers after rain.

There had been many such moments, a tapestry of divine interventions woven through the years: the icy winter night in Chicago, when a drunk driver swerved across lanes on black ice, tires screaming like banshees. Nuriel had descended, its fiery form brushing the car’s undercarriage, melting the frost on the road just enough to grant traction, turning what should have been a fatal spin into a mere skid. Charlie had pulled over, heart pounding, unaware of the guardian cradling the vehicle.

Then there was the sickness that clawed at his lungs during a grueling tour. Nuriel had stood vigil, interceding with prayers of faith and healing that drove the microscopic invaders from Charlie’s body before he even sensed the attack.

Another memory surfaced: a rally where a heckler, goaded by dark spirits, violently hurled a bottle. Nuriel had deflected it with a flicker of radiance, sending it spinning harmlessly into the grass. Charlie, unfazed, had turned the moment into a call for dialogue and grace, unaware of the shield surrounding him.

Then there were the subtler battles—malicious whispers—doubts that slithered into Charlie’s mind during late-night preparations, serpents of despair hissing that his words were futile, that the culture’s tide was too strong. Nuriel would counter with gusts of assurance, planting seeds of life that bloomed in Charlie’s dreams, visions of countless souls turning to their Heavenly Father. The guardian had deflected countless snares of temptation, depression, anxiety, and the honeyed lies of compromise that came from false friends in high places, their smiles masking the rot of ambition.

These memories washed through the angel’s essence like rivers of fire, warming the core of its being. Charlie was no flawless saint—far from it. He stumbled, as mortals do, into moments of pride or haste, his zeal sometimes deafening him to the still small voice. Yet God had chosen him—this firebrand with a laugh that echoed with pure joy and eyes that burned with unquenchable conviction.

The SUV pulled into a space at the Utah Valley University and the engine ticked to silence. Thousands of students had already gathered in the courtyard, some hoping to be entertained, others earnestly seeking truth. Charlie stepped out, his team buzzing with energy as they headed toward the crowd. Nuriel drifted closer, eager to see what God would do with this moment.

Then came the Word of the Lord, a whisper like wind through leaves, resonating within the angel’s spirit. Nuriel, my faithful one, danger lurks in the shadows of this day. But you are to step back. Let it unfold as I allow.

The command struck like ice through the guardian’s fiery core. Nuriel trembled, its eyes of wisdom flickering, casting prisms that Charlie mistook for sunlight. Step back? For eons the angel’s mandate had been protection, faithfully shattering every threat. Confusion surged like a storm. Had it misheard? Was this a test, or a deception from the Adversary?

Nuriel cried out in spirit, its voice a blaze of supplication. Lord of Hosts, have I heard rightly? To withhold my hand when peril draws near? This is the one I love, whose growth I’ve cherished, whose light stirs nations. Speak again, that I may not err.

The response came, warm as Heaven’s breath, flowing through the guardians essence like a gentle tide of certainty. You have heard correctly, Nuriel. Trust Me. I hold him closer than you, and My plans are woven from strands you cannot yet see. Step aside, and behold the beauty I will draw from ashes.

Assurance washed over Nuriel—unshakable trust in the grace and goodness of its Maker. The angel bowed, the gesture rippling through the air like heat from a forge. Thy will be done, Adonai.

Charlie reached his spot under the white tent in the courtyard to the roar of the crowd, his larger-than-life smile beaming, his laugh, deep and infectious, echoing like Heaven’s joy. As staff and volunteers adjusted microphones, Charlie tossed hats into the crowd. A young woman donned one jauntily and a group of guys leaped to intercept another.

Nuriel’s love swelled, a fierce pride in the man who, though imperfect, faced storms of hate and opposition with good cheer and unwavering faith.

Then, the guardian sensed it—the presence of evil—a sharp chill in the spiritual winds. Nuriel scanned the unseen realms, piercing the veil where mortal sight failed. There, coiling like black smoke from a desecrated pyre, tendrils of malice wove through the crowd. Imps skittered in shadow, their forms twisted parodies of cherubim—hunched, leathery, with eyes like smoldering coals—whispering hate and division into susceptible ears.

But a deeper, darker nexus of corruption drew the angel’s gaze. It pulsed erratically from the rooftop some two hundred yards distant. Nuriel’s spirit recoiled; it knew this aura, had battled its like across millennia.

The guardian’s impulse was immediate, visceral—a surge of holy fire demanding release. Its mighty wings unfurled to their full span, poised to descend, to shatter the darkness as it had so many times before. The angel envisioned it: incinerating the threat in a blaze of glory that would ripple through the ether, scattering demons like chaff before the wind. Nuriel’s wings ignited preemptively, humming with restrained power, ready to weave a barrier of light impenetrable to any attack.

But the command echoed: Stand down. Let it unfold.

Agony lanced through the guardian, sharper than any mortal wound. This was Charlie—the one whose every breath the angel had guarded since birth, whose path it had illuminated through fogs of despair and opposition. Nuriel’s form flickered, its flames dimming to embers of torment. 

Lord, the guardian pleaded inwardly, the shadow grows. The blade is drawn. Must I watch it fall?

Trust Me, came the whisper, laced with patience and grace. He is Mine, Nuriel. His crown is ready, and I am drawing him to Myself. A greater light will dawn.

With a shudder, Nuriel obeyed, wings folding, sparks subdued.

Charlie was speaking, microphone in hand, voice rising over the hushed thousands. The crowd leaned in, listening intently. A girl wiped tears; a young skeptic scratched his head, processing Charlie’s message, cynicism cracking. Nuriel ached at the beauty. But on the roof, the assassin settled into position, scope trained. Nuriel sensed the darkness clinging to him, demonic whispers twisting his heart. A battle for the young man’s soul had long raged—and would continue.

The crowd cheered and laughed, but evil thickened, rolling over the gathering like thunderclouds. Imps cackled in delight, anticipating the coming feast of chaos.

Nuriel’s every fiber screamed to intervene, to divert the bullet, to blind the assailant, but the orders held: Stand down and trust God’s goodness.

The obedience was agony, but Nuriel’s submission was absolute.

Charlie pressed on: “Jesus lived the perfect life, He was crucified, died, and rose on the third day, and He is Lord and God over all.”

Thousands hung on his words, hearts synchronized. Nuriel’s love for Charlie burned fiercely.

The assassin steadied his breath, finger on the trigger, aim true.

The shot rang out.

The crack split the applause into screams.

Charlie jerked.

The microphone fell.

Wails pierced the air as panic spread like a contagion.

Demons rushed in to feed.

Students clutched each other, volunteers sprinted toward the stage, phones dialed futilely.

Satan laughed and darkness danced, imagining they had extinguished a great light.

But in that terrible moment, God blessed the angel with a vision. Nuriel saw Charlie, not broken, but whole—standing on crystal shores, robed in everlasting light. No pain lingered in his eyes; instead, joy radiated—abundant life beyond his wildest dreams, as if every unspoken wish, every whispered hope, now converged in perfect fulfillment. Charlie turned, beholding the Throne of God, and laughed—that same big, unrestrained laugh as he fell to his knees in awe-struck wonder. He was home, drawn to the heart of his Creator, where no shadow or striving remained.

Then, the vision expanded, revealing a greater plan, threads of divine mercy weaving through the eternal tapestry. Nuriel beheld the aftermath: news rippling across the globe like fire through dry tinder. Headlines screamed of the tragedy. Friends cried out in grief. Opponents laughed, determined to spread their lies. But embedded within all of it were Charlie’s timeless words, amplified and echoing throughout generations. Young people—millions now—who had dismissed him as a voice in the wilderness, paused, tears streaming as they listened anew. Campuses erupted—not in riots—but revivals; study halls became prayer rooms; social feeds flooded with testimonies of transformation. “He spoke truth,” one said, “and died for it. What am I living for?”

The schemes of evil had backfired. Satan’s rejoicing curdled to rage as he saw his blow rebound. What was intended to bring death and despair birthed life and resolve.

Nuriel’s grief turned to awe, its holy flames reigniting in cascades of praise. Oh, Lord, Your ways are higher, the angel sang inwardly, wings unfurling in exultation.

And then, as the vision faded, a new commission came, soft as dawn’s first light. Well done, faithful servant. Your vigil here ends, but another awaits. Go to Erika—Charlie’s beloved—and their little ones. She has Azrael as her guardian, but you, Nuriel, shall be her encouragement and strength—a harbinger of peace. Whisper My promises in her ear when doubt assails; fortify her steps as she raises champions for My kingdom; kindle hope in the children’s eyes that they may carry their father’s flame undimmed.

The angel bowed, its essence pulsing with renewed purpose.

Friends and paramedics still worked desperately to save Charlie, but he had crossed the veil, welcomed into his eternal home with love and great joy.

I will see you again, my friend, and you will see me—when my work here is done.

Nuriel watched the assassin flee across the roof into the gaping jaws of darkness.

“You have no idea what you've unleashed,” the angel murmured. “What you sought to snuff out in hate will kindle again—brighter, bolder—in countless flames of hope.”