I know they are out there. The stranger angels. The wonder scouts. Alone, in tiny teams. They are there. Working their liquid miracle without care for flair or fashion. The real ones. The deep ones. Most of them are hurt. Some badly. It can’t stop them. Nothing can stop them. Death doesn’t stop them.

You won’t tell when they do it. You won’t notice. A moment of tingle, a strange pause in the flow and that aneurysm that would have taken your mother… doesn’t. A moment of disorientation and then, suddenly, the world is recast inside you… in a manner so exquisite and obvious that you realize you had known this all along.

No one notices. The holy gestures. The gift. In fact, they hate it. There’s no parade. Off to the side a tattered figure recedes from view once more. To rest or sense the next chance.

A tattered figure with an unquenchable ache to change the whole world with an act so unexpected and beautiful that even the angels are shocked.

I know they are out there. I won’t tell you how. If you can’t tell, it wouldn’t help. The secret silent heroes. The children of the gift.