On my way to work, here in Vienna, Austria, I stepped out of the Streetcar.  As I began to cross the street, I stepped over a rosary lying in the middle of the road.  I’m not a catholic, and felt no real compunction to pick it up.  I moved on.  But just as I was about a meter from the curb, I remembered the following story:

 More than ten years ago I was traveling around Cleveland with my girlfriend’s family.  My long-time buddy, Eli, had decided to accompany us.  On our way to wherever it was we were going, we needed to stop by a friend of my girlfriend’s family to pick up or drop off something.  We found ourselves in this woman’s home office in her basement.  There was nothing remarkable there, and I was grateful to leave when the time came. 

On my way to the stairs I had noticed a Christian Holy Bible lying on the floor. 

 Now, in the Jewish tradition, we do not tolerate holy books or other religious objects to be left on the floor.  When our Bible’s become too old for use, we bury them like relatives who have passed away.  Even a head covering that falls to the floor must be picked up immediately, and is traditionally kissed as one kisses a child that may have slipped. 

But I was not in the house of Jews, and this was no Jewish Bible.  I stepped around the woman’s bible to get to the stairs.  But, as I began to climb, I looked back to see Eli picking up the bible and brushing it off delicately before setting it gently on a nearby table.

The fact that he had done the right thing, and I had done the wrong thing was glaringly obvious to me.  We Jews believe that we have been assigned the typically unpleasant duty of being a “light unto the nations,” never proselytizing, but simply trying to live righteously to be an example that lights the way for others.  Eli was a light for me that day. 

I approached him later privately, and praised him for what he had done.  He could hardly even remember doing it.

It was one of the many stories I could tell you about my friend, Eli, in which he taught me without thinking.

Still standing in the street, I turned back around to watch six other people walk over and around the fallen rosary just as I had a moment ago.

Watchful of any approaching traffic, I trotted back to the middle of the street and scooped it up.  I continued on my journey to work, thinking about what stories the rosary might have been present for.  It occurred to me that someone had probably lost it, and may have felt distressed at the loss.  I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to find the original owner, but could think of nothing better to do.

I still managed to reach the teacher’s room before most of my colleagues.  I placed the rosary on the large table in the center of the room, where it was likely to be noticed.  Sylvie, the handicrafts teacher entered with her usual bubbling warmth. 

She spotted the rosary right away, and asked what it was doing there.  I explained that I had found it on the street, and had no personal use for it.  She cooed over it admiringly, and I recommended that she take it.

She looked at me in disbelief.  She was hesitant at first, and then repeatedly gushed with gratitude.  I reddened at her praise, and kept insisting that there was nothing to thank me for.  I had had no idea that she was a religious person, but she took out her usual rosary that she kept in her purse.  She pointed out that the beads on the rosary I’d found were made of pink stone, and insisted that it smelled good.  She spoke about it all that day to anyone within earshot.

That’s the story.  That is my story about stories; how one led me to create another, and to do the right thing.