Divine Accidents – Jordan and the Music of Healing

My car was broken into again. That’s two times in ten days. No smashed windows, no alarm—just the quiet violation of someone rummaging through my things while the world slept.

The first time, they left everything in disarray but didn’t take anything—probably because there wasn’t anything of value to take. This time, they upped the ante. Drained the battery somehow, so I had to call for a tow. And this time, they left me a gift: a pile of break-in tools, a handful of keys, and a burnt glass pipe—clear evidence of drug use.

One of the keys belongs to a mailbox right here on the property.

Now, maybe that mailbox key belonged to another victim—someone who, like me, was just unlucky. But another thought lingers in the back of my mind: Have I found the perpetrator? Did they break into my car… and unknowingly leave behind a trail that leads right back to them?

I filed a police report, more for the paper trail than out of any expectation. I’ve played this game before. The complex says there’s security at night, but I’ve yet to see a soul. Not even a flashlight beam in the dark.

And here’s the thing—this is the part that stings a little deeper: I want to believe these people are my neighbors. I want Nomad Santa to say that. But I’m struggling.

Part of me wants to shake them by the shoulders and shout, “Can’t you find something better to do with your life?” Another part of me thinks of all the scam calls, the phishing emails, the fake tech support lines targeting seniors (like me). There’s this rising tide of desperation masquerading as hustle.

“Get a job,” people say. But what if your mind is swimming in chemicals? What if your past has anchored you to the bottom? What if your “Sitz im Leben”—your place in life—is a storm-damaged raft drifting with no land in sight?

Homelessness. Addiction. Mental illness. It’s a mess we haven’t figured out yet. A wicked, tangled problem.

And I—Nomad Santa—sit here with a handful of someone else’s keys, wondering what door they no longer open.

I’m angry. But I’m also sad. And maybe a little tired.

But I’m not giving up. Not on my neighbors. Not yet.

This is Nomad Santa, reminding you: In this small world, we’re all neighbors.

I call them Divine accidents—those chance encounters that feel anything but random. My usual place in Brisbane wasn’t available, so I booked a quirky little boutique hotel with a communal deck that overlooked the street. Great spot to write. Across the street stood a massive, church-like building. Curious, I wandered over. Turns out it wasn’t a church at all—it was a concert hall built in 1891. The building showcases a distinctive Romanesque style, with Byzantine-inspired turrets and intricate brickwork made from over 1.3 million red bricks, all produced locally. (I borrowed that description from their website—lest you think I actually know what I’m talking about.) That night, there was an acoustic guitar concert. Jordan Brodie and Elias Bartholomeo. They were… wonderful. I enjoyed the music tremendously. At one point while listening to an unnamed composition I closed my eyes and found myself on a busy street, walking, in the middle of it I found myself wandering past a peace filled park. Then back to the busy street.
Jordan also plays guitar at a local hospital for cancer patients. Gentle chords that offer a kind of medicine all their own. And me? I transport stem cells and bone marrow— for those same cancer patients. A different kind of healing, brought in from far away. We met that night—by pure chance. His concert, my unplanned stay across the street from the Old Museum. Two paths, quietly converging. Two ships passing in the night. Not arranged. Not expected. Just… meant to be.

“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” — Albert Einstein

“In the tapestry of life, we’re all connected by invisible threads. Sometimes, the knots are the most beautiful parts.” — Anonymous

This is Nomad Santa, reminding you: In this small world… we’re all neighbors.