The angels stand in awe of our mundane struggles and daily burdens. We hurl ourselves into heartbreak, consume our own livelihoods in the quest to acquire, and waste our spiritual inheritance like prodigals. We are drawn towards disaster like a magnet, and every time we smash ourselves against another tragedy, the watching angels gasp, "Ohhhhhh!" the way humans do at a fireworks display. We are a spectacle to the angels, not because they are pleased with our failures, but because they're such raving fans of God's artwork as he shapes us. "Look at that transformation! No one could acheive that but God!" they marvel.
Our lives are short, and angels, it seems, highly sensitive to the eternal nature of art. Glory is an attention-getter, but it does not cause itself. Glory draws honor and praise to its source, like the sunbeams at dawn bring our attention to the Sun. The watching angels anticipate the sunrise. They never take their eyes off the work of God; they see, feel, know the glory that streams from our light and momentary troubles here. Every time one of us breaks ourselves against our lives, "Ahhhhhh. . .There goes another one!" they sigh