An angel’s song for Christmas
Michael moved through time, the soft beat of his wings bearing him effortlessly through the night sky.
His job was to watch out for those in need, those whose lives were on the wane. Filled with the compassion and love inheritant to his kind, he often shed many a tear when he took the cold hand of a recently dead child, warming it in his own, as he guided the precious soul to its final destination.
The other angels in his group would poke gentle fun at him for this, but they didn’t understand; his tears were not of sorrow, but of joy at being able to give the gift of solace and peace.
Michael glanced around the star speckled, moonlit sky, and smiled. The coldness of the air did not trouble him. He glanced down at the city below; tonight was special, tonight was Christmas, and he had a final call to make.
He bore downwards, invisible to all, apart from the soul he had come to collect.
Winter’s breath swirled about Michael, ruffling the pure white feathers of his wings, as he flew towards his destination. The city was soon left behind and the misty shapes of suburbia took its place.
The frost covered pavements sparkled in the glow cast by the streetlights. Michael cupped his hands. A glow filled them. Nestled within it lay the celestial watch, issued to each angel – he was right on time.
He glanced up. The person he’d come to find was more than ready to leave. He could feel the soul’s yearning to be free from its pain and confusion. It twisted and turned, the colours of its aura shifting and changing. A mass of emotions emanated from it: fear, anguish … but most of all regret.
Michael landed soundlessly outside the house of retreat, made specially for those whose time was over. He entered, then glided along a corridor, until he reached the place where his passenger lay alone in a darkened room.
The old man lay on his bed, and gazed up at Michael, dark eyes filled with sudden hope. His troubled expression smoothed out, as a childlike smile touched his lips. Michael lay a hand on the man’s forehead, before stepping back, arms spread wide in a gesture of welcome.
Behind him, the room filled with light, and as the angel began to raise his voice in song, a heavenly host shimmered into view. Music, glorious and filled with wonder, drifted into the dying man’s ears. A sigh escaped his lips, his eyes closed, and his body, so recently racked with pain, relaxed.
‘Welcome home, my son,’ Michael whispered and held out his hand.
The old man took it and replied, ‘This’s the best Christmas present I’ve ever received. Thank you.’