"Angels Amongst Us" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Raphael began his life as something small and imperfect—an angel with a slightly crooked wing, stitched from stiff lace and dulled silver thread. His halo was forever tilted, his expression frozen somewhere between wonder and worry. For more than fifty years, he had been the last ornament placed on the Christmas tree, wired carefully—if never delicately—to the highest branch of Liam’s family evergreen.
Liam had been a boy when Raphael first arrived, brought home in a crumpled box from a church bazaar on a snowy December afternoon. His mother had smiled and said, “Every tree needs an angel, even a humble one.” And so Raphael took his post, year after year, watching life unfold beneath him.
From that high perch, Raphael became a keeper of moments. He watched children crawl beneath the boughs, tugging at tinsel. He witnessed laughter, grief, quarrels, reconciliations. He saw the tree lit first by trembling candles, then glowing glass tubes that buzzed softly, and finally by tiny LEDs—cool and bright, like captured starlight. He watched time move forward, as angels do, without judgment.
This Christmas Eve, the house was quieter than Raphael remembered.
Liam—now an old man—stood alone in the living room. Snow whispered against the windows. A small fire hummed in the hearth. Only one box of decorations sat at his feet. His hands trembled slightly as he lifted each ornament, memory weighing more than glass.
“One more,” Liam murmured softly, reaching upward. “Just one more, Raphael.”
As his fingers brushed the angel, a spark leapt from the fireplace—small, reckless, alive. It landed unseen in a nest of dry ribbon and aging tinsel. A faint orange glow bloomed, hungry and quiet.
Raphael felt something he had never known before.
Warmth.
Not the imagined warmth of memory, but a living, breathing heat that surged through wire and lace alike. The crooked angel leaned—not by will, but by instinct older than fabric or time. The rusted wire hanger strained. There was a soft metallic snap.
Raphael fell.
But angels, even forgotten ones, do not fall as ordinary things do.
As he tumbled, the world seemed to slow. The heat did not consume him—it transformed him. Lace softened into light. Thread dissolved into clarity. Silver unraveled and reformed as glass—clear, radiant, alive with color. Wings unfurled, no longer stiff but fluid, etched with swirling patterns that caught and bent the firelight into blues and golds and violets. Raphael became what he had always been meant to be.
He landed gently upon the smoldering ribbon, his newly formed glass wings spreading wide. The glow vanished instantly, smothered by beauty itself.
Liam looked up just in time to see light fall from the tree.
Startled, he knelt and lifted the angel from the floor. His breath caught.
“Well now,” he whispered. “Aren’t you something.”
The angel shimmered in his hands, reflecting the fire, the lights, the years. Liam noticed the singed ribbon nearby and understood how close the night had come to loss. He pressed the angel briefly to his lips—an old habit, a quiet blessing—and wired Raphael back to the highest branch.
Outside, snow drifted softly from the heavens.
Raphael watched once more, radiant and whole, keeping his ancient vigil—not as lace and wire, but as light.
* * * * * * * * * *
The temperatures are milder this morning. A gentler December breathes at the window.
Pentatonix is singing “Angels We Have Heard on High,” and the harmonies draw me out of my morning-dreaming even as they deepen it. Coffee warms my hands. The room feels hushed, expectant.
I think about angels.
Years ago, during an angel reading, I was told I am watched over by two. One is ancient and stern—unyielding, purposeful, the kind that nudges me firmly when I stray, reminding me to do better. The other is younger, softer, arriving quietly when I am weary, offering comfort instead of correction. I have carried that image with me ever since.
And then there are the angels we don’t always name as such.
There’s a saying—more a shared knowing than a single quote—that angels don’t always have wings. Sometimes they have fur. Sometimes paws. Sometimes they pant or purr or curl beside us when words fail. Dogs and cats, with their unfiltered devotion, teach us how to love without condition and how to live fully in the present moment.
As I think of the furry friends who have walked beside me through the years—those bright eyes, those familiar rhythms—a tear forms. They were angels too. Of that, I am certain.
Are we not, in so many ways, surrounded by angels?
Some are stitched from memory. Some are made of light. Some walk on four legs. Some sit quietly at our shoulders, unseen but felt.
I take another sip of coffee. Outside, the gray morning begins to stir, slowly waking to itself. I think of the angels at my side. I think of the angels in my life.
And so, with gratitude and wonder,
I begin this day.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Some angels are appointed to guard us from above.
Others are sent to walk beside us."
~Wylddane
Liam had been a boy when Raphael first arrived, brought home in a crumpled box from a church bazaar on a snowy December afternoon. His mother had smiled and said, “Every tree needs an angel, even a humble one.” And so Raphael took his post, year after year, watching life unfold beneath him.
From that high perch, Raphael became a keeper of moments. He watched children crawl beneath the boughs, tugging at tinsel. He witnessed laughter, grief, quarrels, reconciliations. He saw the tree lit first by trembling candles, then glowing glass tubes that buzzed softly, and finally by tiny LEDs—cool and bright, like captured starlight. He watched time move forward, as angels do, without judgment.
This Christmas Eve, the house was quieter than Raphael remembered.
Liam—now an old man—stood alone in the living room. Snow whispered against the windows. A small fire hummed in the hearth. Only one box of decorations sat at his feet. His hands trembled slightly as he lifted each ornament, memory weighing more than glass.
“One more,” Liam murmured softly, reaching upward. “Just one more, Raphael.”
As his fingers brushed the angel, a spark leapt from the fireplace—small, reckless, alive. It landed unseen in a nest of dry ribbon and aging tinsel. A faint orange glow bloomed, hungry and quiet.
Raphael felt something he had never known before.
Warmth.
Not the imagined warmth of memory, but a living, breathing heat that surged through wire and lace alike. The crooked angel leaned—not by will, but by instinct older than fabric or time. The rusted wire hanger strained. There was a soft metallic snap.
Raphael fell.
But angels, even forgotten ones, do not fall as ordinary things do.
As he tumbled, the world seemed to slow. The heat did not consume him—it transformed him. Lace softened into light. Thread dissolved into clarity. Silver unraveled and reformed as glass—clear, radiant, alive with color. Wings unfurled, no longer stiff but fluid, etched with swirling patterns that caught and bent the firelight into blues and golds and violets. Raphael became what he had always been meant to be.
He landed gently upon the smoldering ribbon, his newly formed glass wings spreading wide. The glow vanished instantly, smothered by beauty itself.
Liam looked up just in time to see light fall from the tree.
Startled, he knelt and lifted the angel from the floor. His breath caught.
“Well now,” he whispered. “Aren’t you something.”
The angel shimmered in his hands, reflecting the fire, the lights, the years. Liam noticed the singed ribbon nearby and understood how close the night had come to loss. He pressed the angel briefly to his lips—an old habit, a quiet blessing—and wired Raphael back to the highest branch.
Outside, snow drifted softly from the heavens.
Raphael watched once more, radiant and whole, keeping his ancient vigil—not as lace and wire, but as light.
* * * * * * * * * *
The temperatures are milder this morning. A gentler December breathes at the window.
Pentatonix is singing “Angels We Have Heard on High,” and the harmonies draw me out of my morning-dreaming even as they deepen it. Coffee warms my hands. The room feels hushed, expectant.
I think about angels.
Years ago, during an angel reading, I was told I am watched over by two. One is ancient and stern—unyielding, purposeful, the kind that nudges me firmly when I stray, reminding me to do better. The other is younger, softer, arriving quietly when I am weary, offering comfort instead of correction. I have carried that image with me ever since.
And then there are the angels we don’t always name as such.
There’s a saying—more a shared knowing than a single quote—that angels don’t always have wings. Sometimes they have fur. Sometimes paws. Sometimes they pant or purr or curl beside us when words fail. Dogs and cats, with their unfiltered devotion, teach us how to love without condition and how to live fully in the present moment.
As I think of the furry friends who have walked beside me through the years—those bright eyes, those familiar rhythms—a tear forms. They were angels too. Of that, I am certain.
Are we not, in so many ways, surrounded by angels?
Some are stitched from memory. Some are made of light. Some walk on four legs. Some sit quietly at our shoulders, unseen but felt.
I take another sip of coffee. Outside, the gray morning begins to stir, slowly waking to itself. I think of the angels at my side. I think of the angels in my life.
And so, with gratitude and wonder,
I begin this day.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Some angels are appointed to guard us from above.
Others are sent to walk beside us."
~Wylddane
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