The Unexpected Magic of Life

The Unexpected Magic of Life

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Life’s funny, isn’t it? One minute, you’re riding high, convinced you have all the answers within your grasp, and then out of the blue the universe unleashes hell on you. You think you’re heading in the right direction, and then bam, a curveball. It’s messy, it’s chaotic, and let’s face it, sometimes it feels like you’re just trying to keep your head above water. But here’s the wild part: amid all that noise, all that chaos, something beautiful is brewing even if you can’t see it yet.

If I had to compare life to anything, I’d say it’s like making gumbo. Seriously. Whether you’re a meat lover or a veggie enthusiast, gumbo is life in a pot. You begin with whatever’s hanging around the leftovers, the bits and pieces you forgot to cook. It’s not the dish you think you’re trying to make, but if you give it enough time to simmer, and if you stir it long enough, it coalesces into something flavorful, rich, and surprising. Life’s not about perfection. It’s about creating something significant out of whatever you have.

I haven’t always felt that way, though. When my firstborn son, Gabriel, died from hypoplastic left heart syndrome, I needed a way to capture the sense that the entire universe had just crumpled my life into a ball and thrown it away. Grief was a heavy weight I couldn’t shake, a cloud that always lingered behind me wherever I went. For months, I just kept sleepwalking through my life numb, lost, questioning everything I thought I knew about love, faith, and my relationship with the Creator. It felt as though I was not firmly grounded in anything, not even my own reality, just adrift in a sea of grief.

One day, feeling the weight of it all, I wandered into City Park. There’s a huge oak tree there. I swear it seems as though it’s been standing there for ages, branches spread out as if calling on to the sky. I sat underneath it, so empty, just waiting for something to make sense again.

And all of a sudden, I heard it: a gentle whisper carried by the breeze. It was slow and mournful at first, like a sad jazz song that reflected the hollow ache in my chest. But then the tempo changed, the saxophones roared, and suddenly it began to feel alive as if the music was talking to me. “Hey, Kateb. You’re still here. You’re still breathing. Don’t give up.”

It didn’t take away all the pain, but it did something for me something small but powerful. It reminded me that life was still in progress. That I wasn’t done. The Creator had not yet concluded with me. It wasn’t the final page of my story.

Gradually, a few months in, I began to look at life differently. I realized that life is a lot like a roux. For those who don’t know, you make a roux by combining oil and flour. It’s the foundation for so many great dishes, particularly gumbo. But here’s the thing: it’s easy, sure, but it takes attention. Rush it, and it’ll burn. But if you give it time, if you handle it with care, it becomes something incredible. It’s a stepping stone to something larger.

What we think of as the hardest parts of our lives the ones we think will break us are often the ones that lead us to something better. As terrible as grief is, it also has a strange way of cracking us open. It softens us. It teaches us to love hard, to appreciate the little things, to find beauty in the places we least expect it. The loss of Gabriel not only broke me it transformed me. It has given me new eyes to see joy amid the sorrow, light in the darkest days.

I see this truth all around me, especially in my city, New Orleans. After hurricanes sweep through, we don’t just rebuild. We reinvent. We take the ruin and the wreckage and turn it into something good, something beautiful. Art rises from the ruins. Music fills the air. We create something meaningful from what has been frayed.

And here’s what I’ve picked up from this city, from the storms that seem to always hit: Life’s not about dodging the rain. It’s about finding the joy in how to dance in it.

And if you’re navigating your own storm right now, I need you to hear me: You’re not alone. It may seem as if the world is falling apart at your feet, as if there is no escape, but believe me when I tell you this is not the end. You’re still I mean, you’re just at the bottom of your roux.

It’s messy. It’s frustrating. At times, it seems like it’s all about to go up in flames. But don’t quit. Keep stirring. Keep moving forward. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, even when it seems like everything’s falling apart.

Life will never be perfect. There can and will always be chaos to move through, challenges to overcome. But that’s where the magic is. It’s in the shattered fragments where we find power. It’s in the mud that we find meaning.

And here’s something I’ve realized: sometimes, when life feels like it’s going bad, it’s actually becoming something better. Think about milk it’s just liquid, right? But if it goes bad, it turns into yogurt, which has more value, more depth. And if it goes bad again, it becomes cheese something that’s even more valuable. Or take grape juice it starts sweet and simple, but let it ferment, and it turns into wine, which is richer and even more expensive than the juice. Life’s the same way. You’re not ruined just because you’ve made mistakes. It’s those very mistakes, those experiences, that add richness to who you are. They’re what make you more valuable, more interesting, more human.

The Creator has this amazing way of redeeming what we believe to be the point of no return and making it beautiful. Know that wherever you are right now, however bleak it feels, you are held. It’s all shaping you; it’s all prepping you for what’s greater than you think.

Life’s magic is ever in action, transforming heartache into joy, confusion into coherence, struggle into serenity.

So hang on. Keep stirring that roux. But no matter how rough it gets, keep going. Believe that God, the Creator, is working in the background on your broken life, piece by piece, moment by moment, to create beauty.