Читать книгу Serving leaders - Ken Jennings - Страница 6

Why am I sitting on this train? If I had taken a flight, I’d already be there. Instead, I’ve got four more hours to sit here and fume about what I’ve gotten myself into.

I feel like I’m eight years old again. Dad says, “Why don’t you ride down on the train, Son! It’ll give you a chance to think.” And so I just do it. Like I’ve got time to sit for hours, thinking. Like I actually enjoy trains.

The thing about trains is this: trains only show you what you’re passing, not where you’re headed. Whatever you can see out the window is already old news. Been there. Regularly, the track bends enough that you can catch a glimpse of the journey ahead, but as soon as the train straightens its aim for the goal, you’re left sitting in the back just watching stuff go past. An hour into this trip, I’m way past bored.

Scratch that last sentence. I’m not bored. And, truthfully, being stuck on this train is not what I’m really troubled about. What upsets me is the fact that I don’t know what’s waiting for me at the end of this track. And I’m afraid to find out. I’m deeply worried about Dad. I don’t know how I’m going to pass so much time sitting here just with myself.

And more truth: I used to like trains. A lot. It’s one of the memories I do have with Dad. One of the too-few memories. And that’s what this is really about. Sitting here reminds me of so much that I’ve lost. So much!

There you have it, boss: a journal entry. I’d say I’m well on my way!

All right, Mike, enough time on the therapist’s couch. Here’s a thought: scratch it all out. I doubt Charlie wants to read the sorry ramblings of a lost son.

Please let my dad be okay!

Okay, new start. Official sounding.