The day was blustery and wintery. Dad, my sister, Eleanor, and I stood on the platform waiting for the train, stamping our feet, and pulling our hands into our thin coat sleeves, trying to keep warm. Dad had come to pick us up at boarding school as he did most every Friday. We had already caught the first two trains, one at Higashi Kurume, where our school was, and the other at lkebukuro, a major hub in the Tokyo train network. Now we were waiting for the train that would take us the three hours to our home in Maebashi; it wasn't a commuter train, so the wait was long. Hundreds of other people, all Japanese, stood waiting for their trains, some reading, others talking quietly with companions, one woman with a white mask over her face to keep others from catching her cold. Trains would come and go, and crowds of people would disembark, followed by other crowds boarding for destinations unknown.

Dad went over to a vending stand from where the smell of niku manjus, spiced pork dumplings, had been wafting our way. He brought us each a hot, steaming nikuman wrapped in a thin paper wrapper. I gingerly unwrapped mine, finding the round ball of bread which hid the hot spicy pork tucked away inside like a treasure waiting to be discovered.

The wind picked up just then. Dad opened his overcoat and drew Eleanor and me into his coat, one under each arm. We stood encircled by this fur-lined tent, huddling close to Dad and to the warmth of his body. And so, we stood munching on hot nikuman, peering out at the Japanese, many of whom were now looking our way, amused by the spectacle of this foreign father showing care to his children. Maybe they were moved a little. There is something that crosses all boundaries of culture, language, and ethnicity, the love of parents for their children, that maybe speaks to us our own memories, like shadowy reminders of a lost belonging, and of a time before memory began when our dependence was so complete that we lived in complete trust of those who cared for us and gave us life.

And for a few short moments—if one had been attentive—one may have caught a vision of a Father who has beckoned and drawn his little children in beneath his protective wings, wrapping them in his own coat, giving them enough bread to eat to keep them warm and nourished. One might have caught a vision of children, who were waiting expectedly for the train to take them home, but who had already found home beneath the loving arms of their Father.