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When I was a child and my parents tried to ferret out which one of us was in trouble for a wrong, my dad always told me in his most stern voice not to “tell stories.” 

In the deep South that was a polite way of saying “don’t lie.” 

I get a kick out of that memory because the South has such a strong and rich tradition of storytelling. I guess the joke is on my dad because I have made my career as a journalist telling the stories of others. Now I would like to tell you a story of my own:

On Christmas Eve when I was 6 years old, my father tiptoed into my bedroom to see if I was still awake because he wanted me to see something. Tired – but still wide awake with anticipation and excited about Santa coming – I rolled out of bed, put on my robe and followed him outside. I was wildly curious about where he was taking me. I thought maybe it was an early Christmas present. It was not.

As we stepped outside to the patio that sat above our sloping hill of a backyard, he pointed to the house just through the woods. It was on fire. 

I remember the still and black starry sky against that house as it burned to the ground. It was such a scary and beautiful sight: the bright flames against the unseasonably cold Birmingham sky. Christmas lights from nearby houses twinkled. 

I’ll never forget that Christmas Eve because it was so odd, in more ways than the house fire. I went to bed worried that my house would burn down. I went to bed worried about the people in the house that burned, even though my dad had told me they were OK. 

The next morning I woke (at the usual “ungodly o’clock,” as my mom says) and ran to the Christmas tree. Santa brought me a dollhouse! It was the most magnificent gift I had ever seen, even though it was sparse and bare and had no furniture and needed paint. (That was also the year I got the globe that I asked for. It was a very good year.) This, I thought, is the best Christmas gift I will ever get. 

About an hour later I would be proven wrong.

Six months before that, my cat, Murray Morgan, disappeared. (The name Murray Morgan was excessive and none of us remember where it came from, but that over-the-top naming is very on brand for me.) I was devastated. He was a long-haired, gorgeous, fluffy gray mutt cat that was almost the size of me when I held him. It was my first animal loss. He and I had been inseparable and, slowly over those months, my wish faded that he would come back to us. I thought he was dead or lost and just got confused about which house was his. I lost hope.

That Christmas morning as I played with my dollhouse I heard a clatter at the back door. Obviously, my family rushed to see what was the matter. 

Murray Morgan had returned. We were not sure why, or where he had come from, but in retrospect I think perhaps he had been living in the house – or basement of the house – that burned.

One of my favorite childhood photos is from that day of me in my new Christmas nightgown as I played with my dollhouse. Murray Morgan walks in front of it, checking it out and happy to be home, as my little brother toddles in the background with a lollipop in his mouth. (This was the late ‘70s – predigital – so that was quite a photographic feat on the part of my mom or dad. I’m not sure which one took the picture.)

This brings me back to telling stories. My parents always marvel that I’ve made a living writing and telling stories. More than that, I’ve been happy. Not everyone can say that, and I understand how privileged I am. 

Although I primarily teach now, I do freelance journalism and it is a gift to tell other people’s stories. Yet sometimes our own stories can give others hope. 

I hope you end the year by telling some of your own stories. I wish good things for you and hope that, like Murray Morgan, the things you want in your life come back to you when you most need them and least expect them.