One Journey, Two Paths

A Father and His Son

A father sat on the porch with his 18-year-old son on a quiet evening. The sky was fading to dusk, and a gentle breeze rustled the trees in their yard. The son’s arms were crossed and his eyes fixed stubbornly ahead, frustration evident in his posture. He had just finished a heated rant about how unfair life felt and how pointless certain rules and expectations were. Despite being young and bright, the son’s arrogance was starting to show; he spoke as if he already knew everything. Yet behind that bravado, the father sensed his son was lost – unsure of himself and avoiding responsibility when things went wrong. The father, wise but loving, knew that simply scolding would only push his son further away. Instead, he decided to share a story – a story his own father had once told him – in hopes of guiding his son toward a deeper understanding.

Placing a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder, the father said softly, “Let me tell you a fable, son. It’s about the journey of life and the choices we make. It’s a bit conceptual, but I promise there’s a meaning behind it. Just listen.” The son glanced at his father, intrigued by the change in tone. The father began his tale, and as he spoke, the son could almost see the story unfolding in the twilight air around them.

The Blindfolded Young Traveler

“Imagine a young man at the very end of his journey,” the father started. “This young traveler had roamed far and wide in search of meaning, chasing what he thought would bring him happiness. He had seen and done many things – some good, some bad – and now his journey had led him to a strange, dimly lit place.

He found himself sitting on a cold stone bench, surrounded by a circle of silent, mysterious figures. These people were draped in long robes of deep gray, their faces hidden by heavy hoods. The only light in the room came from flickering torches on the walls, casting dancing shadows that made the strangers look even more formidable. The young man’s heart pounded in his chest. He realized with a shock that a blindfold covered his eyes. He couldn’t see a thing. In the darkness, he could only listen to the shuffling of feet on stone and the low murmur of the figures around him.

He wracked his brain, trying to remember how he came to be here. The last thing he recalled was walking along a mountain path at dusk, feeling weary and uncertain about where to go next. He had encountered an old hermit who offered him shelter for the night. After sharing a simple meal, the young traveler had suddenly felt dizzy and collapsed. The next moment, he awoke to find himself blindfolded in this unknown chamber. He didn’t know if he was dreaming or if the hermit had led him into a trap. Fear coiled in his stomach. He assumed he was about to die, captured by bandits or some secret order that wanted to harm him.

His hands trembled in his lap. “‘Wh-why am I here?’” he stammered into the darkness. No answer came immediately. The figures only whispered among themselves for a moment. Then, in a calm and measured tone, one of the hooded men spoke directly to him.

“Do not be afraid,” the voice said, though it was deep and echoed in the stone chamber. “You are not here to be killed. You are here to be judged.”

The young man’s breath caught. Judged? For what? A hundred thoughts rushed through his mind. He had never considered himself evil, but he knew he wasn’t exactly a saint either. His fear mixed with confusion. What kind of judgment was this? Who were these people?

Before he could ask anything else, another voice spoke, this one from behind him. “You will answer our questions,” it said firmly. “Thirteen questions about your life’s journey. Answer truthfully, and you will learn why you are here.”

The young man nodded nervously, forgetting for a moment that they might not see the gesture under his blindfold. “A-alright,” he managed to whisper. His throat was dry as bone.

He could sense the figures closing in a little, forming a tighter circle around him. Though he couldn’t see their faces, he felt the weight of their presence. He straightened up, trying to steady himself. The fate of whatever this was — perhaps the fate of his very life or soul — seemed to hang on what he would say next.

The Thirteen Questions

In the silence that followed, the first question came. A voice directly in front of him asked, “When you had the chance to help someone in need, did you do it, or did you turn away?”

The young man’s mind flashed to an old memory: a beggar he once encountered on a city street. He had money in his pocket that day, but he had clutched it tightly and walked past, pretending not to hear the man’s pleas. At the time, he justified it to himself – I worked hard for this coin, why should I give it away? Now, shame washed over him. “I… I turned away,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

A rustle went through the group, but no one commented on his answer. They moved on to the next question. A second voice to his left asked, “Have you ever taken something that wasn’t yours?”

He recalled the night he stole food from a market stall. He had been hungry, yes, but he hadn’t even tried to earn it or ask; he simply took it under cover of darkness. “Yes,” he confessed, “I have.”

A third question came from somewhere to his right: “When you made mistakes, did you accept responsibility, or did you blame others for your failures?”

The young man felt a lump in his throat. Throughout his journey, whenever things went wrong — a failed business venture, a broken relationship, a lost opportunity — he was quick to point fingers at everyone but himself. He blamed the economy, blamed former friends, even blamed God for his misfortunes. Rarely had he looked inward to examine his own role in his failures. With a sinking heart, he answered, “I… often blamed others. I didn’t take responsibility.”

Immediately after, a fourth question was asked gently, yet it cut him deeper than the rest: “Have you been kind to those who had less than you?”

He thought of a poor young boy who once trailed him, hoping for some bread or coin. The young man had roughly told the boy to leave him alone, feeling annoyed rather than compassionate. “No,” he said, voice cracking. “I have not always been kind to the less fortunate.”

Honesty: They asked if he had been honest in his dealings. He remembered the lies he told to get ahead or to avoid consequences. He admitted, trembling, that he had often lied.

Loyalty: They inquired if he had remained loyal to friends and family. A painful memory arose of a friend who trusted him, whom he betrayed for personal gain. He confessed his disloyalty with tears starting to wet the edges of his blindfold.

Humility: They questioned if he ever admitted when he was wrong or if he let pride guide him. He recalled arguments he refused to concede even when he knew he was wrong, all because of pride. “I was prideful,” he answered softly.

Selfishness vs. Selflessness: They asked if he sacrificed for others or if he always put himself first. Scene after scene from his life replayed in his mind – each time he chose his own comfort over helping someone else. He hung his head and acknowledged his selfishness.

Forgiveness: They asked if he forgave those who hurt him or if he held grudges. He remembered a childhood friend who had apologized for a mistake, but whom he cut off out of bitterness. “I held grudges,” he answered, regret heavy in his voice.

Integrity: They asked if he did the right thing even when no one was watching. He knew the truth was that he often cut corners or did what was convenient instead of what was right. He admitted this as well, feeling more exposed with each answer.

Compassion: They asked if he showed compassion to the weak and the defenseless. He had to confront the reality that in many instances, he had been dismissive or even cruel to those who couldn’t fight back. He whispered, “No, I lacked compassion.”

Gratitude: They asked if he was grateful for what he had, or if he always felt entitled to more. He thought of countless days he spent bitter about what he didn’t have, instead of thanking life for what he did have. “I was ungrateful,” he said, choking on the words.

Faith in Action: Finally, they asked not just if he believed in goodness or a higher power, but if he lived out those beliefs through actions. The young man realized that though he often spoke about believing in God or goodness, he rarely acted on those principles. He treated faith like a good-luck charm rather than a guide for how to live. “I spoke of goodness, but I didn’t live by it,” came his final, agonized answer.

Thirteen questions – thirteen truths he could not escape. By the end, the young traveler was shaking. His face was wet with tears beneath the blindfold. Each answer felt like a stone placed on a scale, and he could feel the weight of judgment tipping against him. A deep silence fell in the chamber once the last question was answered. The hooded figures did not speak for a long moment. The only sound was the young man’s ragged breathing as he tried to compose himself, wiped out by the emotional ordeal of confronting his life’s choices so starkly.

Two Doors Revealed

At length, one of the voices spoke again, breaking the silence: “You have answered all our questions.” The tone was neither pleased nor angry; it was simply solemn. “Now it is time for you to see the path you have chosen for yourself.”

The young man felt a hand on his shoulder, firm but not unkind, guiding him to stand. His legs wobbled as he rose; he hadn’t realized how weak with fear and sorrow he’d become. Two of the hooded figures gripped his arms gently and began to lead him forward. He shuffled along, unable to see, every sense on edge. Where are they taking me? he wondered. What did they mean by the path I have chosen?

After a few dozen steps, they stopped. Another voice spoke close to him, “It is time.” And with that, the blindfold was slipped from his eyes.

The sudden change from darkness to even the dim torchlight made the young man squint. His eyes adjusted, and he found himself standing in a great hall. The ceiling arched high above, lost in shadow. In front of him, illuminated by the golden light of two tall torches, stood two large doors side by side. The doors were identical in shape—both made of ancient wood bound with iron hinges—but on closer look, he saw differences between them.

The door on the left had intricate carvings of symbols he didn’t recognize, and faint light seemed to glow from the gaps around its frame, as if something bright lay beyond it. The door on the right (door number two) was plainer, its wood dark and its surface scarred. A cold draft seeped through its edges, and the torchlight by that door flickered as if disturbed by an unseen wind from behind it.

The circle of hooded figures surrounded the young man and the doors, forming a silent audience to whatever was about to happen. One of them stepped forward — a tall man with a commanding presence. Though his face remained hidden, his voice was clear and steady as a bell in the quiet hall.

“You stand before two paths,” said the leader of the hooded group. He raised a gloved hand and gestured to the two massive doors. “One of these doors leads to a destiny of light and redemption, the fulfillment reserved for those who have lived with virtue, compassion, and humility. The other door leads to a destiny of darkness and despair, the fate that awaits those who lived for evil, selfish reasons, without regard for the greater good.”

A shiver ran through the young man’s body. He had a terrible inkling of which door was meant for him, but his heart begged to deny it. Maybe, just maybe, he had done enough good to balance the bad? He opened his mouth, a plea or an excuse on his tongue, but the hooded leader continued, allowing no interruption.

“The answers you gave to our questions,” the hooded man proclaimed, “have weighed and measured the life you led. By your own choices, you have determined which door is yours. In essence, your every action all these years has been selecting your path. Now, the decision is made.”

Another hooded figure stepped toward the door on the right. He placed a heavy hand on the dark wooden surface of door number two. “This is the door you have chosen,” he pronounced. The words dropped like lead into the young man’s soul. His knees nearly buckled, and he shook his head instinctively, denial already welling up.

“No… there must be a mistake,” the young man whispered, his voice trembling.

But no one heeded his plea. The two figures holding his arms gently nudged him forward. The leader spoke with a tone that was not cruel, but had the hard edge of truth. “There is no mistake,” he said. “We do not choose for you. We only reveal the choice you have made, through the life you lived and the values you followed.”

Reaching out, the hooded leader grasped the iron handle of the second door. As he pulled it open, the hinges creaked, and a chill gust of air blew into the hall, dimming the torches for a moment. The young man felt his heart in his throat. He was terrified of what he might see.

The door swung fully open, and the young man peered inside. At first, he saw only darkness. It was as though the door opened into a starless night or an abyss with no bottom. But as he stared, shapes began to emerge in the darkness — or perhaps memories given form. He saw the outline of a little boy, hungry and shivering (the beggar he’d callously ignored) reaching out to him. He saw a friend’s face contorted in pain and betrayal (the friend he had abandoned when it was inconvenient to stick by him). He saw a mirror image of himself as well, rushing past others, grabbing for gold coins and fleeting pleasures, never stopping to care. Each scene was like a ghostly apparition swirling in that darkness beyond the door. And beyond those images, deeper in the dark, there seemed to loom even more frightening shapes — perhaps the consequences yet to come, the pain and loneliness that awaited him as a result of the path he’d walked.

A faint sound echoed from the darkness, a mix of wailing cries and desperate, bitter laughter. The atmosphere of that place beyond the door was heavy with sorrow and the stench of regret. The young traveler recoiled, instinctively stepping back from the threshold. He couldn’t bear it. His mind raced: This can’t be where I’m meant to go. I’m not a bad person… am I? I didn’t mean for it to be this way!

“Th-this is wrong,” he cried out, panic rising in his voice. He tore himself free from the light hold of the men at his sides, stumbling backward. His eyes were wide with terror. “This is a mistake! I’m not evil. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I… I went to temple, I read the holy books, I prayed. I believed in God, I did! You’ve got it wrong!”

His words echoed in the stone hall. For the first time, a hint of emotion – perhaps pity – entered the eyes of one of the hooded figures (though his face was mostly shadowed, the young man thought he saw a glint of sympathy). But none of them contradicted the pronouncement. The reality hung in the air: his life’s record was clear, and it was far too weighted toward selfishness and harm.

He sank to his knees, hands clenched in desperation. “Please,” he begged, voice cracking, “give me another chance… I-I can change, I swear it. I was going to do better, I just… I didn’t know…” Tears streamed down his face as he pleaded, every ounce of arrogance he once had now stripped away by raw fear.

The Final Truth

The hooded figures did not advance or drag him through the door. Instead, the leader knelt down slightly so that his hood was level with the young man’s bowed head. In a gentle, but unwavering voice, he spoke the final truth, the lesson that the young traveler had failed to learn in life:

“My son,” the hooded leader addressed the young man, strangely echoing the way a loving father might address a child. “There is no mistake. There are no accidents here. Understand this: Who we are is not determined by a book we read, even if it’s a holy book filled with stories of God that make us feel inspired. You might have read such words and felt good about yourself for knowing them, but you did not live by them.”

The young man looked up, tears in his eyes, as the hooded figure continued. The circle of others stood silently, listening as well, as if this was the most important lesson of all:

“The building you entered on Sundays – the church or temple where you went to worship – did not automatically put you on the path to God or goodness. It gave you a place to pray, yes, but simply being there, within those walls, meant nothing if your heart remained untouched and your actions remained selfish. Going through the motions at a place of worship is not the same as living a just and compassionate life.

“And calling out to God by name, or proclaiming yourself a religious man,” the figure went on, “does not mean you truly served the greater good or walked with the God of good. Professing a religion, wearing its symbols, or saying ‘Lord, Lord’ means nothing if you do not act with love, honor, and kindness. You called the name of God in your words, but you served evil in your deeds when you acted out of greed, cruelty, and pride.

“Don’t you see?” another of the hooded men interjected, his voice sad. “Your traits are who you are, and your actions are what you do. How you apply those traits through your actions – that is your true way of life, your system of living. In your heart, if you are cruel or selfish, that is who you are, regardless of what mask you wore on the outside. A person’s character writes their destiny, not their claims of piety.”

The leader placed a firm yet kind hand on the young man’s shoulder. “At every step, you had a choice. You could have chosen empathy over apathy, honesty over deceit, responsibility over blame. But time and again, you chose the easier, darker path. You built habits of self-service and neglect of others. Those habits became your character. And that character led you here. You alone are responsible for your growth or your failure.”

At these words, the young man’s sobs quieted to soft weeping. He felt the truth of those statements settle on him like a mantle. In that moment, kneeling before the open door of darkness and despair, he finally understood. His life had been one long journey filled with forks in the road, moments of decision. So many times he had chosen the wrong path out of selfishness or pride, and now all those choices had added up to this final outcome. It was not a single moment or one terrible mistake that doomed him, but the accumulation of small, daily choices to serve only himself.

He looked up at the hooded figures with eyes full of regret. “If only… if only I had realized earlier,” he whispered. “I see it now – it wasn’t enough to just say I believed or to show up and pretend to be good. I had to be good, do good. But I threw away those chances.”

None of the figures contradicted him. The truth hung in the air, undeniable. The leader helped the young man back to his feet. The open door loomed before him like the mouth of fate. The other door — the one of light — remained closed, silent testimony to the life he could have lived but didn’t. There would be no entering that door now.

The circle of hooded beings stepped back, giving the young man room and, in their own way, a measure of respect as he faced what was next. The leader’s voice was gentle as he delivered the final words of the fable: “Now, you must walk the path you chose. This is the end of your journey — the path your own steps carved. May your story guide those still on their journey, so they do not fall into the same fate.”

With that, the young man, shoulders sagging with sorrow, stepped forward. Darkness enveloped him as he crossed the threshold of door number two. The heavy door creaked and swung shut behind him with a resounding thud, leaving only silence and the fading echo of his final sob. The men in hoods bowed their heads, as if in a moment of mourning or prayer, and the torches flickered out.

The Circle of Growth

The father fell silent, having finished his tale. The son had been listening with rapt attention, his earlier defiance replaced by wide-eyed introspection. In the gathering dusk on their porch, the son’s face was partially in shadow, but the father could see the glimmer of reflection and emotion in his eyes. The story had clearly struck a chord.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. A chorus of crickets had begun in the yard, and a lone firefly blinked near the hedges. Finally, the 18-year-old drew in a breath and broke the silence. “Dad…,” he began, struggling to find the right words. “That story… it was intense. I—I think I understand what you wanted me to see.”

The father gave a small nod and a warm, reassuring smile. He put an arm around his son’s shoulders. “I told you it was conceptual,” he said kindly, “but sometimes a fable can shine a light on the truth better than a lecture can.” He gently turned so he could look into his son’s face. “Son, I love you, and I want you to have a good life – a life you can be proud of when you reach the end of your journey. That’s why I shared this with you.”

The young man, who just minutes ago had been so sure of his own viewpoint, now felt humbled. “In the story… that traveler… he thought reading scripture and going to church was enough to make him a good person,” the son said quietly. “But it wasn’t, because he didn’t act like a good person when it really counted.”

“Exactly,” the father replied. “He avoided accountability for his actions. He knew about right and wrong in theory, but he didn’t practice it. And he blamed everyone but himself for the consequences. In the end, he couldn’t escape the truth of who he had become.” The father paused, letting that sink in. Then he continued softly, “I see a bit of that in you, my boy. You’re smart and strong, and you have a good heart, but lately I notice you brushing off responsibility. You’re quick to argue and slow to admit when you’re wrong. You sometimes think just feeling like you’re a decent person is enough, rather than being one through your actions.”

The son opened his mouth to protest, a flash of that teenaged pride surfacing — but he stopped. He knew his father was right. Only an hour ago, he had snapped at his mother for asking him to help with a chore, and then he defended himself by saying, “It’s not a big deal, I’m a good kid, I go to church don’t I?” Now those words sounded hollow in his ears. He lowered his gaze. “I guess… I have been acting a bit like that traveler,” he admitted. “I’ve been kinda arrogant, thinking I shouldn’t be questioned, and when something goes wrong, I’m ready to blame anything except myself.”

The father squeezed his son’s shoulder gently. “It’s not unusual at your age to feel that way,” he said. “Believe me, when I was 18, I thought I had it all figured out too. I was arrogant, and I made mistakes. The important thing is whether you learn from those mistakes and grow.” He gestured toward the yard, as if indicating the wide world beyond. “Life is always about choice, just like the story said. Every day you’re faced with two paths: one selfish and one good. And every choice you make — even the small ones — adds up over time to shape who you become and where you’ll end up.”

After listing these points, the father rested his hand again on his son’s shoulder and concluded, “All these parts work together. As you move through life, you’ll revisit them again and again, like traveling around a circle. You start with the energy and potential of youth, you seek wisdom and practice love, you keep yourself humble and accountable, you draw inspiration to fuel your journey, and you understand the guiding concepts behind it all. This process doesn’t happen just once – you’ll keep learning and growing in cycles, each time reaching a higher level of understanding. This is the Circle of Growth. It’s how an inexperienced boy can grow into a wise, loving man, and how that man can continue to grow and help others grow too.”

The son slowly nodded. He was quiet for a long moment, absorbing everything his father had said. The night had fully fallen now; stars blinked into existence above, and the moon cast a gentle silver light over the porch. Finally, the young man turned to his father, and in the soft glow the father could see tears in his son’s eyes – but not tears of fear or sadness, rather a kind of grateful resolve.

“Thank you, Dad,” the son said, his voice earnest and a bit choked. “I… I needed to hear this. I’m sorry for how I behaved earlier. And I’m sorry for thinking that just going through the motions was enough. I understand now that I have to be better, not just say I will or assume I am because of what I claim to believe. I have to show it in what I do.”

The father’s heart swelled with pride and relief. He pulled his son into a warm hug. “I’m proud of you,” he whispered. “You listened, and you understood. That’s all I could ask for.” They stayed like that for a moment, father and son embracing under the night sky, both feeling a profound sense of connection and hope.

As they released each other, the father added with a gentle smile, “Remember, I’m on this journey with you too. I may be older, but I’m still learning and growing, going around that circle again as life continues to teach me. We’ll help each other along the way.”

The son smiled for the first time that evening – a genuine, bright smile. “I like that,” he said. “We’re both still on the journey. And I promise, I’ll do my best to make the right choices on my path.”

The father nodded. Together, they turned to go back inside the house, the porch now behind them. Before they stepped in, the son paused and looked at his father. “Dad,” he said, “that story… do you think the traveler could have ever gotten a second chance? Or was it really too late for him?”

The father considered this, then answered thoughtfully, “In fables, sometimes someone appears too late to change their fate, but in real life, as long as we’re still alive and breathing, it’s never too late to change. The important thing is recognizing the need to change before it’s too late. The traveler in the story realized his mistakes only at the very end. My hope in telling you this is that you realize these things now, at 18, rather than when you’re old or out of time. That way, you can live a long life on the right path. In a way, you are that traveler, but you have the gift of hearing this warning while there’s still plenty of time to alter your course.”

The son slowly exhaled and nodded again. “I understand,” he replied quietly. “I won’t waste that chance.”

The father placed an arm around his son as they finally went inside, the door closing gently behind them. That night, both of them slept peacefully — the father content that he had planted a seed of wisdom, and the son determined to water that seed, to grow into the kind of man who, when his journey one day ends, will confidently walk through the door of light. And thus, under the guiding love of a father’s wisdom, the Circle of Growth continued, unbroken and ever turning toward the good.