My wife, surprised to see that I was already dressed and ready to go, asked quizzically, “I thought you were taking the later train today?” She asked me whether we were still having breakfast together or if she should drive me to the station so I could make my normal train.
The chatter in my head started. “Do I just take the early train and have breakfast together another day? It’s just breakfast. We can do it anytime. Will my daughter even be aware that we’re having breakfast? Do I risk going in late? Will I get in trouble at work? I’ve only been there a few months, can I even do this?” Little did I know, at that moment, I was standing at the crossroads of my life. My answer to that innocent question would literally determine my fate.
I always thought I would see the most important day of my life coming—that I would recognize it as a “crossroads” moment: you know, some kind of sign—a cloud that looked like a wise man, a piece of toast with a holy image burned into one side, a glimmer in a stranger’s knowing eye—something. As it turns out, there was nothing that looked any different in my house on that morning as compared with any other day.
Instead, I engaged what was going on inside my body, as my logical head battled my intuitive gut. It was as if there were two
completely different people in there with opposing points of view, debating to see who would win.
My head started louder with, “Take your train. It’s a great intention but you don’t need to do anything today. It’s the thought that counts. No big deal. Take your normal train.”
On any other day, it would have been easy to simply agree and have my wife take me to my train, letting another good intention slip by.
However, for some reason, that morning was different. Something inside my whole body stirred (another sign?) and stopped my internal chatter dead in its tracks. I looked at her and saw that nothing was more important than keeping my breakfast plans. “No,” I said. “The whole point of the morning was to have breakfast together, so let’s have breakfast together. I’ll catch the next train as planned.”
It was a simple declaration, a seemingly innocent decision.
For the next twenty minutes, we had a wonderful time together having breakfast in our small dining room. It was a beautiful morning, and I could not stop looking over at my family and just smiling. I was completely filled with love. My wife and I met on a ninth-grade trip to Quebec, and I knew that she was “the one” the first moment I saw her. Here we were, eighteen years later, and I was living the reality of my dreams. It was one of those moments of pure appreciation for what I had. I loved my life—not my job or my commute—but life was good! I remember thinking that it was amazing how such a small decision could shift my whole sense of being. In fact, this was the best I had felt in a long time.
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