First of all, this is a fairy tale. And we know: fairy tales usually don't come true. But sometimes I do.
The angel looked down at the ground. He was sitting on a concrete-gray rain cloud and he didn't get wet only because the rain, according to its good habit, trickled down from the cloud, not the other way around. However, the mood before Christmas Eve was still sufficiently gloomy. The angel felt this well, since this was his job, among other things: to sense what was going on in the souls of people, down there on earth.
The angel shook his head like a rain-and-wind-beaten tree branch. (Let's not open a debate about whether an angel has a head at all, because it's invisible, at least to the human eye, and then how would we know what it really looks like. In this fairy tale, this angel has a head. And it's shaking in the rain. Period.) He must go down on this holy evening. Because, right, the angel is coming. The catch was that so much bitterness, anger, and hopelessness flowed towards him from Earth (apparently from those pieces of land where people used to make friends with the angel, even around Christmas), that compared to that, the rain falling on Earth could even seem like a peaceful snowfall. The angel reached out to humanity, shaking his head. For two years, people hid in their houses (someone had one) and were terrified of the epidemic. Then they barely breathed a little (without a mask), war came suddenly. And with war, everything that the four horsemen of the apocalypse could bring: death, poverty, homelessness, flight. Of course, this did not happen in other places. But it also got out for those people: uncertainty, a dark future, rising prices of bread and other soul-depressing things were around their necks.
The angel scratched his concretely existing head. I give up, he whispered to himself. Because in an average year (when only the usual good and bad things happened in people's lives) the angel came easily. Everywhere. That's how he is. In the blink of an eye, it reaches every house, every soul, where the door is open. Without any help. But now…
And as he sat there, gloomy (almost as concrete-grey as the clouds below), something suddenly knocked on his head (how does he have a head?!). The angel looked at what it was. He didn't see anything. Then again: knock! Now the angel has jumped up, hey, who's joking here, where neither is the bird... And then he suddenly realized. He shook himself, the boo just bounced off him like plaster from an old wall. And he already saw the next knock. It was the Word of God. The angel's head really hurt, because God's Word usually has weight.
And the angel already knew what to do. He took out his trumpet and blew it, divinely so. Well, the area above the clouds came to life, the angels began to flock. Not even a minute passed, and the army of angels lined up in front of him. It was a majestic sight: angels dotted God's open sky to the horizon and back.
The angel pulled himself out and called out: Humans… that is, angels! (Let's forgive him for the slip of the tongue, he was quite nervous due to the situation. Of course, there were difficult moments in the history of humanity and angelicity, not once, but in those moments the marshal's baton of decision was not in his hands, in the spirit of angelic democracy.) This Christmas Eve, we're going in droves! And…
But he couldn't continue, because he fell down next to her with a slightly cloudy, muddy, slightly worn ski shoe and whispered in her ear: Are you sure we'll have enough? The angel looked away. At first he would have answered that of course, there are more of us than the stars in the sky. But then he got a little unsure. What if not? He scratched his head again. He looked at the skating angel, the question burning in his eyes. He pulled out a trumpet from under the shroud with the cane. So as not to confuse my words: the trumpet that the angel blew earlier was a shining golden color. This other one is dusty black. The host of angels looked at him in horror.
Are you sure? - the angel asked the squire. He nodded. They will also be needed this Christmas Eve. The angel then took the dust-black trumpet and blew into it. The world rumbled and another black army sprang out of space. He was hovering right there... Lucifer, who else.
The angel down there to his other leader. Faith and strength somehow hardened in him. My friend, he said to the black warlord, you are an angel even if you have failed. So let's make peace, or if that's what you want, a truce. On this Christmas Eve, we need the angelicity of all of us. So that the angel can come into the world. What do you think? The fallen archangel looked at the outstretched right hand. And the black began to melt from him like snow. Then the two palms became smooth.
The angel smiled. And they started preparing for Christmas Eve.
Featured Image: Pixabay
