When I was five years old my house burned down on Christmas Day. To the ground. Somehow this fact surfaced in a conversations with author Darnell Arnoult (Sufficient Grace) and she said, “Have you written about that River? You should write about that.” I said, “Nope. Never have. Isn’t that strange? I guess I should write about that sometime. “ So when my alarm went off to remind me that it was my day to post over on the southern authors collective, A Good Blog Is Hard to Find, of course the first thing I thought of was – oh great, it’s Christmas week. I will write something sweet. Then the next thing I thought of was the fact that my house burned down on Christmas Day and in any writer’s handbook that is considered great fodder for material. A blessing I assure you that at five years old I did not ask for. I have a friend who years ago declared her life was just ‘white bread’ so she had nothing to write about. I guess some folks do get all the good stuff. House fires, prison, or double trouble of any kind. BUT – it doesn’t take these kind of tragic moments to find something to write about. It doesn’t take losing your house, your dog, or your wife (in no particular order) to be inspired to write a great story. Stories abide in the soul. They ask, urge, cry out to be written. Particularly, the ones that house eternal truths. The important thing I believe is that we listen carefully, closely to the story that is calling our name.

We lost no family, friends, or animals on that tragic day. Only things. But still – I remember this . . .

Spending the night in an old, hotel by the bay. There wasn’t anything known as cable then and the reception to the television was poor to middling. Mostly poor. My mother sat whispering with my Grandmother who had come out of the woods to spend the night with us. Their voices droned at a steady hum, them going over and over the details of the day. The horrible phone call that shared the news and them trying to understand what had caused the fire. One theory was that the Christmas tree lights left on had eventually sparked the curtains, which had spread to the solid pine paneling, which had taken care of business in a hurry. I had been the one to plug the lights in before we ventured off to my Grandmother’s in the country. I remember thinking they would leave an impression on the neighborhood. It wasn’t the one I had envisioned. Eventually, I fell asleep but it was with a silent and heavy heart. One that plead guilty to the crime of our erased history and unknown future.

The following morning a gift was delivered to me by one of my mother’s best friends. It was an exact replica of a special present, a beautiful little stuffed donkey I had opened the previous morning that had been lost in the fire. I clutched it to my face and breathed in pure comfort. Somehow, against all possibility and in sprite of my guilt something had been resurrected from the ashes. In that moment there was a hope that life although forever altered, would continue. And that in that grace I would be forgiven.

To this day the presence of donkey gives me an unexpected joy. I love to hear the one that lives down the hill when he calls out in the twilight hours. I’m drawn to books on donkeys, pictures of donkeys, and once considered being a rescue home for wild, Jerusalem donkeys.

It’s still a simple wonder that something so simple, so small, and so humble could grant us an eternal Peace. But then, the best stories always do.

Wishing you a blessed and Holy Christmas.

River Jordan

(A version of this blog update first appeared over at A Good Blog Is Hard to Find)