ANGELS ARE WHITE

The small town of Willowbrook had always been a haven of tranquility, its picturesque streets lined with quaint cottages and blooming gardens. It was a place where time seemed to stand still, and the troubles of the outside world felt distant and unreal. Yet, in this idyllic setting, a shadow had fallen over the community.

In the heart of Willowbrook stood St. Michael’s Church, its tall spire reaching toward the heavens. Father John, the beloved pastor, had served the town for over three decades, offering guidance, comfort, and a steady presence. His sermons often spoke of angels, beings of pure light and goodness, guardians sent to protect and inspire.

One Sunday morning, a new face appeared in the pews. She was a young woman, her strikingly pale complexion and flowing white dress capturing the attention of the congregation. Her name was Angela, and she seemed almost ethereal, as if she had stepped out of one of Father John’s sermons.

Angela quickly became a fixture in Willowbrook, volunteering at the church, helping the elderly, and bringing a sense of peace wherever she went. The townspeople began to whisper that she was an angel in human form, sent to bless their community. Her kindness and gentle spirit touched everyone she met.

Among those most affected by Angela’s presence was Emily, a young girl struggling with the recent loss of her mother. Emily had withdrawn into herself, her bright smile replaced by a somber gaze. Angela took Emily under her wing, spending time with her, sharing stories, and teaching her about the angels Father John spoke of.

“Angels are white,” Angela would say, her voice soft and soothing. “They are pure, like the light of the sun, and they are always with us, even when we can’t see them.”

Emily clung to Angela’s words, finding solace in the idea that her mother was now an angel watching over her. Slowly, Emily began to heal, her laughter returning to brighten the days of those around her.

Despite the joy Angela brought to Willowbrook, Father John felt a growing unease. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something otherworldly about her. One evening, as the sun set and the shadows lengthened, Father John decided to confront Angela.

“Angela,” he began, his voice gentle but firm, “you have brought so much light to our town. But I must ask, who are you really?”

Angela turned to him, her eyes reflecting the fading light. “I am just a woman, Father, trying to do good in this world. But if you must know, I have a gift. I can see things others cannot. I can see the angels.”

Father John’s heart skipped a beat. “You see angels?”

“Yes,” Angela replied, her voice serene. “They are everywhere, guiding us, protecting us. And they are always white, pure and radiant.”

Father John nodded slowly, absorbing her words. Over the following days, he observed Angela more closely, watching how she interacted with the townspeople, how she brought hope and comfort. The unease he had felt began to fade, replaced by a deep sense of gratitude.

One evening, as the church bells tolled and the last rays of sunlight bathed Willowbrook in a golden glow, Father John gathered the townspeople in the churchyard. Angela stood beside him, her white dress shimmering in the twilight.

“Dear friends,” Father John began, “we have been blessed by the presence of an angel in our midst. Angela has shown us the true meaning of kindness, compassion, and love. Let us always remember that angels are white, not just in their appearance, but in their pure and selfless deeds.”

The townspeople cheered, their hearts full of joy and gratitude. As the night descended, they looked to the sky, imagining the angels watching over them, their pure white light guiding them through the darkness.

Angela smiled, her heart swelling with love for the community she had come to call home. In Willowbrook, she had found her purpose, and in the eyes of the people she had helped, she saw the reflection of the angels she spoke of. Indeed, angels were white, and their light shone brightest in the hearts they touched.