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Around five months ago fires devastated much of  Northern California Mendocino Valley mountain area where, coincidentally, was Adam’s first stop on this journey.  I had wondered why I brought to this area, and at times, still do.

The land that I was brought to was spared within inches of the fire.  You can see the burn marks and still smell the burnt ashy wood as you drive the winding roads.

One evening I was out with Joe for a drive to the local lumber yard which is 25 minutes away.  Joe is the owner and father figure for everyone at the property, his very presence requires respect.

He drove slowly, even stopping, as if still in wonderment, showing me how close the fire was and how much damage it caused.  He looked over at me, his blue eyes so deep, and in his stern yet open and pure of heart stare, said “it was a miracle.”  He couldn’t believe how fortunate his property was from the destruction – and, even, looked humbled by the experience as if he now carried extra weight on his shoulders to do something good with what was saved.

People say the fire halted like a soldier at the very outskirts of his property.  An invisible wall not allowing it to touch the land that Adam and I were to walk through a few months later.

As he told me the story, I felt a hand on my shoulder, gripping firmly as if I should pay special attention.  Yet, it was not Joe’s hand – it was a nudge, a sign – I don’t necessarily believe in miracles just the perfect lining up of events orchestrated by something I do not even deserve to know or to understand.

Miracles?  Our life itself is evidence enough for even the weariest of those that still don’t believe.

My faith becomes even more absolute as I watch my fingers type these words because I now see everything as something of a miracle – the smile of a child, the riddled drug addict on the side of the road who is lost and needs compassion, and even the air I breathe.

With every miracle I can conjure for you to be blessed with in your life,

Mr. K


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