The Messenger of Magnolia Street (28 page)

D
EAR
R
EADER
,

You may be standing in a bookstore right now; perusing the pages of
Messenger
to see if the words speak to you, if they call you to carry them home. Or maybe you've just finished the novel and you're lying in bed still thinking of Shibboleth and all that it holds and listening to a late night rain falling outside your window. Or maybe you're a reader years from now, who inherited a peculiar box of life from your late great-aunt, and from that tangle of worldly goods, an aged and earmarked copy of
Messenger
falls into your hands.

Regardless, of how we've met or how much time lies between us, the important thing for you to know is this—I am grateful to you.

That wasn't the end of my surprises because what began to pour forth was not the story I had planned or formerly written. The essence of it was the same but the “goings on” in Shibboleth began to undergo some bizarre developments. What was happening to my sleepy, southern town and the people I had come to love who lived there? What strange turn was this going to take for Nehemiah, Trice, and Billy? Where would Aunt Kate and Magnus be left in the midst of such dark clouds of turmoil? And so, I did what any writer might do with such odd turns, I stopped writing.

I had moved to Nashville, Tennessee during the writing of the novel and this is where I was as the story began to evolve, take shape, and shift out from under the borders that I had so carefully mapped out. I turned off the computer and circled my desk warily, like a wild animal, desiring the offering of words but not trusting the ones being offered.

These were gray days garnished with wind, ice, and sometimes snow. Darkness came early and it was cold outside, and I knew almost no one in the city. I sat in front of the fireplace asking myself one question over
and over again. Would I write the story that I had planned or the one asking to be told? There was this and only this—the fire, the question, and the days of ensuing silence as I waited for the answer.

What you hold now in your hands was the determination that, come what may, regardless of all manner of strange symbolism and allegory, regardless of unknown reviews or the opinions of my peers—I would write the story that was asking to be told. Ultimately, it is you that I have trusted to unfold the mysteries layered within the pages of
Messenger.
Like biscuits and babies, friendships and forgiveness, mistakes and memories. And love.

You and I, we are the same. Flesh and blood and full of all the light there is in being human. Some seasons bring hardships impossible to understand. But there is within us, individually, collectively, this insane great spark that believes in right in spite of wrong, that prays for peace in spite of war. That loves life and all it holds and wants the best in us to continue. In this place, regardless of color, cultures, or countries, we find ourselves on common ground.

In this past year, as
The Messenger of Magnolia Street
took flight and my travels followed wherever those wings might lead, I discovered fountains holding shiny coins. No matter how small the space, how little the water, how inconsequential the fountain might be, the coins were there. I've never noticed them before but now, well, now I don't just pass them by. I consider them. I pause and wonder whose hands cast them in the water.

A child, I often think, young enough to still believe. Or perhaps some shaking, aged hand, childlike once again in wishing.

These pools, for me, have become a symbol of some small thing that might just be important. Maybe, just maybe, if we continue wishing, continue dreaming, there is hope abiding in the earth. Not just in fancy words or speeches written for grand occasions, but a simple grafted-to-the-bone believing.

I consider the coins waiting patiently, silently, hopefully, and imagine the fingers that released them, the heart and face attached to that small grace, and like some gypsy priest of well-worn wishes, I bless them before I turn to go.

Wishing you a safe and peaceful journey full of light, grace, and giving.

—River Jordan