When I was a kid…

… time stood still on Sunday mornings when I was trapped in a church pew, listening to a sermon. That my father was the preacher made no difference. My wool trousers came alive and clawed at my thighs. The hook of my clip-on tie dug at my throat as if it were drilling for blood. The hand on my mother’s reliable Bulova watch seemed stuck.

I thought time might pass if I counted the blue feathers in the lady's hat in front of me. I attempted self-hypnosis by staring into the beady black eyes of the mink perched on her shoulders, biting its own tail. I prayed that God would bless me with another fly to light on my hand so I could sense the tickle of its slight feet as they jerked and paused, traversing the lines of my palm. Just when my restlessness reached its zenith and I was certain boredom would kill me, something happened – Dad told a story.

No matter how tortured I felt during my capture, when Dad launched into a tale, I paid attention. And so did everyone else

Time after time, when the contagion of fidgetiness infected congregants, causing them to change the position of their crossed knees, search their bulletins for the next act, or fake a cough to stay awake, Dad, as if he perceived our mutual distress, would pause his theological arguments, and tell a story about human beings.

We perked up, sat still, and listened. He brought us back. It was an immense talent of his and a gift to us. Dad called them “sermon illustrations,” but they were stories.

The power of stories has intrigued me ever since, especially those that make a point, share lessons learned, warm our hearts, make us laugh, mist our eyes, or move us to sheer wonder as we wander the pathways of life.