Once, many years ago, my sister took me to her churches Christmas service. As the pipe organ slowly exhaled, I heard the floor boards creaking and groaning behind me and I turned around and gaped at the Devil of Gluttony. She was enormous, a giant stomach on two feet. Supported by three trembling assistants, they excavated her heaving and sweaty, to the front and sat her down on three metal folding chairs. As words of faith floated by, I created evil stories about how weak and simple she was because she couldn’t control herself. I hated her.

Towards the end I got up to go to the bathroom. On my way back I heard the most beautiful voice singing “O Holy Night”. I rounded the corner and there she was, standing and singing. She sang to me: “Fall on your knees, O hear the angels voices!” and, deep inside myself, I fell hard in disgrace upon my own splintered floors, ashamed but truly enlightened.

Since then I have never judged a person on appearance. After all, who really knows what an angel truly looks like?