Three days after graduating high school, I moved to the big city of New Mexico to live with my brother for the summer before starting college. I spent a week in Albuquerque looking for a job before I learned we were getting evicted from our rented house. The landlord decided suddenly that she wanted to sell the place. Feeling I had failed in my first attempt to leave home, I moved back to my home in Clovis where I spent one more summer. My parents drove us back, tugging a small U-Haul extension which contained my brother's furniture. All of his stuff was stored in a vacant room and not touched until we brought it back to the big city three months later.

In that pile of furniture was a comfy little chair. It sat very low with an abnormally long seat. People naturally sank deep into the back of it, and it would often take hours before they rose out of it again. During the first full year in Albuquerque, my roommates and I raved about the chair that we kept in the back room by the TV. It was good to sit in if you were drunk, hungover, sleeping, reading or just killing time.

After a year of living with four to eight roommates (the number always fluctuated), tensions heated up, and my brother and I were told to leave. The house was owned by the parents of a good friend of mine from Clovis, and this roommate served as the landlord de facto (don't get me started on landlords). After a few more heated squabbles between nineteen-year olds, I parted ways with the buddies from my hometown, and I took the comfy chair with me even though I had no place to put it in the apartment where I was moving. I couldn't bear to have those guys enjoying its comfort.

A friend helping me move suggested that I store the chair at the Drum House. This was a place where four to six percussionist studying at the college lived. I had partied at the place a few times and knew a couple of the guys living there, so it seemed like a good place to keep the comfy chair. The drummers accepted it with pleasure as they were always stockpiling as much furniture as they could. I would stop by every now and again to party or visit someone, never failing to sit in the chair. When I finally moved back into a house that had room for the chair, I promptly went to the see the percussionists and reclaim my property.

I was, however, not the only person to realize the unique quirks to the chair. One of the drummers assumed it was part of the Drum House, and therefore, he would not part with it. I protested, but ultimately agreed to let him have the chair. It had been at the Drum House for longer than it had been in my possession, and I could still visit it any time.

Years went by. Tenants of the Drum House continued to change, and I also switch dwellings a few more times. I had one roommate move from my house to the Drum House. He wanted to be part of the bizarre legacy, but every legacy comes to an end. The Drum House was put on the market last year and ultimately purchased by one of the early members and his wife to live there.

Out of the blue, I got a phone call last month that the comfy chair was sitting in the garage out back, and I could snag it if I still wanted it. Last week, I finally got around to picking it up. It has a few more tears and stains than it used to, but when I sit down, it still takes the greatest of efforts to rise out of it again. I threw a cheap Mexican blanket over it, placed in front of the TV, and sit in it much like I did nine years ago. It's funny how the past can become the present again.

It may seem like reuniting with an old chair isn't that special, but miracles come in all sorts of comfortable shapes and sizes. I remember a story about a baby boy being born in a stable to a destitute family, and not too many people thought it was special at the time either.

If you revel in the tiny miracles, you will be amazed how often they occur in your life. Merry Christmas, Everyone.

Chris Jungle plans to sit around a great deal in the future.