A businessman walks the airport concourse, on his way to baggage claim. His flight is late in arriving, and his mood is melancholy. This is the end of a long business trip, his energy spent and his emotions raw. If not for the late arrival, he'd head to the local pub for a nightcap.
On the flight he read a book about business and success. About how to make your life really matter. He liked its emotional and motivational intensity, and made a mental list of his own life priorities and goals.
He picked up his suitcase, and knew that if he was lucky, and the timing worked with the airport parking shuttle, he'd be home by nine. He would be home in time to say good night to his daughter Leila. He smiled and quickened his steps.
It had been a longstanding ritual; after each of his business trips, he would bring his daughter a gift, some token of his trip, some reminder that he thought of her. Or, more truthfully, some way to make up for the fact that he was gone.
During his layover (in a sprawling Texas airport), he stopped in one of the souvenir shops (designed for forgetful or bored or guilt-ridden travelers), and picked up a t-shirt with a picture of a funny looking armadillo.
"What size is right for a six-year-old girl?" he asked the clerk.
She shrugged and said, "Is that all you're buying? Credit or cash?"
The businessman pulled his car into his driveway just a few minutes before nine. He dropped his suitcase at the door, kissed his wife and headed for his daughter's room.
"Daddy," she said, "We waited up. Mom said it was okay. We're so glad to see you. We made a space. Come sit here with T-Bear and me, and let us hug you."
He leaned over, gave his daughter a kiss, and lifted the gift shop sack onto the bed. "I brought you something."
"That's okay Daddy." She said. "Tonight T-Bear and I don't need anything. We just want you to sit here with us, and tell us a story. All we want, is one good story."
He hugged his daughter and kissed T-bear on the head, not altogether sure about the protocol for kissing teddy bears. He was quiet for a good deal of time, enjoying the warmth of his daughter as she leaned against his chest, the reassurance of her cadenced breathing and the sweet fragrance of her hair and shampoo.
He forgot about the book he read on the plane.
He forgot about the list he made.
He forgot about the goals that awaited him on his office desk.
He rested.
And he knew: this moment matters.
This moment. This sacred moment.
"I missed you and T-Bear," he said. And then he began, "Okay. I have just the story. Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived a princess. She looked a lot like you."
"Oh Daddy," Leila said, "I think this is going to be a good story."
Note to Sabbath Moment Readers: Somehow, I almost missed the end of summer. Although it's been a long week (five cities in six days), it is a job where I am blessed with the honor and windfall of telling and swapping stories. Dinner with a new good friend in DC. A lecture series at Spring Arbor University, just a stone's throw from where I grew up in southern Michigan. A retreat in Huntington, Indiana with kindred spirits and laughter through the night at an Irish Pub. This morning, the long drive to Detroit Airport, destination; home. I begin before dawn and delight in a fluid canvas as the sun's rays float and sashay over the landscape, fields of corn awaiting harvest (attentive in unambiguous rows), morning fog like folded blankets in the low spaces beyond the fields, and steam drifting up from small ponds as if morning prayers on this autumn day.
"We are very grateful for your hospitality, Badger," said Crow, "Each place we go we learn something, and your wisdom here has helped us."
"I would ask you to remember only this one thing," said Badger. "The stories people tell have a way of taking care of them. If stories come to you, care for them. Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive. That is why we put these stories in each others memory. This is how people care for themselves. One day you will be good storytellers. Never forget these obligations." Barry Lopez
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