The Wrong Story

Jared waited, somewhat impatiently.

The old story-teller sat very still and seemed to be staring off into the distance.

The longer the old man stared, the more nervous Jared became. He remembered the words. “The old story-teller has never given his blessing to anyone on their first try.” But Jared had listened carefully to every story. He’d talked to any listener who would tell him why they went to hear the old story-teller. He knew he had all the elements.

After an interminable wait, the old man spoke. “What I am wondering,” he said quietly, “is where are you?”

Jared just stood there. He couldn’t find any words. He couldn’t understand the question, and he thought he should. He wondered why he knew there was a meaning just beyond his grasp.

Then suddenly it came to him. Such a common way of thinking it, but it simply came to him. He wasn’t overwhelmed. No light came from heaven. He doubted even that his face showed what had happened. He knew what was missing.

“Master,” he said. He had never addressed this man as “master” before, but it just came out now. “I am the man who carelessly ran across the log that spanned the creek. I fell in, and I died. Yet I did not die.”

“I am the man who wandered aimlessly, asking stupid questions, only to find out that he had wasted hours and hours, and his goal was beyond his reach.

“I am the man who came to the test, and never even knew what the test was. I am a failure, yet here I am.”

“You were a failure. Were. You are a story-teller.”