The third candle is burning on the Advent wreath, the countdown is running and - every year again - cannot be stopped. Christmas muffleheads have a hard time these days. They seek comfort in cynical remarks about the festival of love, in mulled wine at the Christmas market or on a "grouchy forum" on the Internet. Depending on the type of grouch.
I am also a self-confessed Christmas muffle. Nevertheless, a Christmas angel has been delighting me for years. Paradoxical, but effective. My angel is a very special messenger from heaven: a handicraft from childhood, which is brought out of the basement at Christmas time.
Kneaded from papier-mâché, a bit chunky and a bit crooked, the curly blond hair disheveled, the wings crumpled, the lipstick smeared. You can tell right away: this is no Mr. Perfect from the ranks of the heavenly hosts. My angel is an earthly being, down-to-earth, funny and true to life. And a bit quirky. Not perfect, in fact. As if made for Christmas muffle like me.
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