My dad likes to recite the story of 'Pablo the Donkey' before

Host: The house was dressed in gold light and the smell of roast turkey and pine. Snow clung to the windowpanes like old lace, and the sound of faint laughter drifted from the living room, where the fireplace burned with steady, nostalgic crackle.

It was Christmas Eve, and the family was gathered around the long, wooden table, the kind that had absorbed decades of secrets and wine stains. Garland and candles ran down its center like a miniature runway of memory.

Jack sat at the far end, shoulders broad beneath a worn grey sweater, a small glass of bourbon in front of him. Jeeny sat opposite, her brown eyes soft with warmth and mischief, the faintest curl of a smile playing on her lips. The rest of the family’s voices faded into the background as a familiar ritual began—Jack’s father, now in his late seventies, stood up and cleared his throat with that signature theatrical cough.

The annual story was about to begin.

And there it was—the same sentence, spoken with ceremonial weight and a hint of mischief, every year:

“Once upon a time, there was a humble donkey named Pablo…”

Jeeny: (whispering across the table) “Here it comes.”

Jack: (smirks, eyes glinting) “The annual suffering.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “You’d think after forty years he’d add a new moral.”

Jack: “He doesn’t need to. For him, that donkey’s a saint.”

Jeeny: (leans closer) “For us, it’s a hostage situation.”

Host: The room filled with the rhythm of their father’s voice—slow, deliberate, filled with reverence for a story only he believed still mattered. The tale of Pablo the Donkey, who carried Mary to Bethlehem and felt unworthy of his burden, had become more than a story; it was family mythology.

Jack’s mother smiled from across the table, mouthing the words in unison like a prayer. The youngest cousins rolled their eyes. The older ones smiled politely, resigned. It was an ancient ritual of love and discomfort—the kind every family guards like a secret.

When the story ended, the room filled with clinking glasses and the soft sigh of relief that comes after duty.

Then came Jeeny’s quiet laugh, breaking the trance.

Jeeny: “You know… the more I hear that story, the more I think your dad’s right.”

Jack: (raises an eyebrow) “Don’t tell me you’re converted.”

Jeeny: “Not exactly. But think about it—Pablo, this tired, ordinary creature, thinking he’s not worthy of carrying something sacred. Isn’t that just… us? Isn’t that Christmas?”

Jack: (leans back, skeptical) “It’s sentimentality. People project meaning onto whatever makes them feel warm inside. It’s a way to survive the holidays.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s a way to remember them.”

Jack: “Remember what? Guilt? Nostalgia? Half the people in this room can’t stand each other.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And yet they show up.”

Host: The fire crackled louder, as if responding to her words. The snow outside thickened, swirling in quiet devotion. Jack’s gaze drifted toward his father, who was laughing now, refilling everyone’s glasses. The old man’s hands shook slightly, but his eyes—they burned with life.

For a brief moment, Jack remembered himself at twelve—sitting cross-legged by the same fireplace, listening to the story, not with irony but with wonder.

The donkey had seemed real then, noble even.

Now, all he saw was a ghost of his father’s faith.

Jack: “He tells that story like it saves him.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it does. Every year, he brings Pablo back to life. Maybe that’s his way of believing the sacred can still visit him—even in this house, with all its noise and broken things.”

Jack: “You talk like it’s a liturgy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Every family has one. The repeated rituals, the same stories, the jokes that don’t age well. We cringe, but we still come back. Because under the laughter, there’s love trying not to embarrass itself.”

Jack: (smirks) “So the cringing is holy now?”

Jeeny: “Maybe holiness looks exactly like that—awkward, human, repetitive. A bunch of people pretending they’re not crying while the turkey burns.”

Host: A bell chimed from the kitchen—the oven timer, sharp and bright. Jack’s mother stood, brushing her hands on her apron, laughing that tired but tender laugh of women who’ve seen a thousand Christmases and still hope the next one will be better.

Jack poured himself another drink. The bourbon caught the firelight, glowing like liquid gold.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, when I was a kid, I used to believe that story meant something—that Pablo carried not just Mary, but the whole world. That anyone who kept walking, even when they felt small, mattered somehow.”

Jeeny: “And you stopped believing that?”

Jack: “I think I stopped believing the walk leads anywhere.”

Jeeny: (reaches across the table, her hand touching his wrist) “Then maybe that’s why your father keeps telling it—to remind you that it does.”

Host: The firelight flickered across their faces. Outside, the wind softened into silence. For a moment, the world felt small enough to hold in their hands.

Jack looked toward his father, who was now retelling the story to a younger cousin, his voice growing livelier with each exaggerated line.

And suddenly, Jack didn’t see an old man clinging to a story. He saw a man protecting wonder.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You know… maybe he’s not the only one who keeps it alive. Maybe every eye-roll, every groan—it’s part of the ritual too. Like a hymn we don’t realize we’re still singing.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “Exactly. We mock it because it means something. You can’t cringe at something you don’t care about.”

Jack: “Then I guess we’ve been worshipping Pablo the Donkey all these years.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Amen to that.”

Host: The family burst into laughter around them, the kind that felt unplanned and honest. Someone put on music. The youngest cousin started a snowball fight outside the window, his small form glowing beneath the porch light.

Jack leaned back, his glass half-empty, eyes brighter now. The sound of his father’s voice drifted across the room, retelling a moment of the story he’d heard a hundred times before—

“…and Pablo realized that carrying love was the greatest honor of all.”

Host (final line):
“The fire hissed softly, the laughter rose, and Jack finally understood what his father had been saying all along—that every Christmas, every retold story, every familiar cringe, is its own small miracle: the sound of love remembering itself.”