| Sunny Side Up Dec. 31, 2003 �2003, Kathleen Gibson Kicking out the old donkey One of my kitchen cupboard doors brays like a donkey each time it's opened. It started years ago, when I last painted the cupboards. The first time it startled me so much I dropped the pot in my hand. I love donkeys, so I did nothing to stop the noise. Someone volunteered to fix it once, but by then the 'donkey' was part of the family, and I declined. Besides, it makes for interesting conversation. Most of my regular guests have grown accustomed to the blare. They watch my moves in the kitchen carefully, hands poised to cover their ears when they see me aiming for 'the donkey door'. But the first time, after the bray, after I've scraped them off the roof, I tell them. "Sorry, that's our kitchen donkey. Can't bear to part with him. Have you ever heard a donkey bray up close, really close?" Most say no. So I tell them about the donkey sanctuary we once visited in Devon, England, and what it's like to hear dozens of donkeys braying at once. Cacophony doesn't begin to describe the din, nor what it does to one's neck hairs. Nearly 9,000 formerly mistreated and neglected donkeys have been cared for at the Donkey Sanctuary. We saw hundreds. I remember Blackie most, a small shaggy beast rescued from a small village in Spain. We were told that each New Year's in that village, a black donkey, representing the old year, is led through the town. Villagers flail, flog, beat, stone, kick, and otherwise abuse the creature as he plods, terrified, over the cobblestones. Their aim is to kill the donkey (the old year), so that the new year, (a white donkey perhaps, but I don't remember) can be heralded in triumph. Miraculously Blackie survived the gauntlet. His rescuers brought him to the sanctuary, where he recovered and bonded with darling white donkey named Lola. Hoping to prevent future abuses, the rescuers provided the village with a 'mock' donkey to use for their parade It's New Year's Eve. While I detest the inhumane custom of donkey-beating, I identify with the villagers' need to thrash to death all the dark stuff in the old year. To remember it no more. Be gone, hasty words. Be gone, hurts. Be gone, grief. War. Pain. Ugliness. Sin. If only it were possible to eradicate the dark and start completely anew each Jan. 1. If only the world had a fresh white mount to flee on. The world isn't in my hands, or yours. But our hearts are where the dark starts, and from where it spreads. Jesus Christ, no stranger to donkeys, came to bring light there first. Somewhere near the end of each old year, I spend time reflecting. I ask the God of new starts to lead me through a tour of my unfinished old-year business. To light up my dark corners with his forgiveness. To show me how to make things right with others. He always does. You can respond to this column at [email protected] . |
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