When my two daughters were young we had a little ritual. At the end of each month I’d give one of them in turn my recently expired commuter train pass. They seemed fascinated by these magic passes with their hologram images that let me board the train bound for the excitement of downtown Chicago. It started out as fun and I just never stopped. It was just one of those goofy family habits that took on a life of its own.

Years later, when moving one of those daughters into her college dorm room, I spied a thick stack of train passes tucked away in one of the boxes. I got a glimpse of what those passes might have meant to my daughters. Were these an emblem of my commitment to these girls, this family? Was each pass a sign of my constancy at my job, and in my promise to return each night on the 5:23 Northwest line? When I was young and single and, quite frankly, awfully foolish, I always doubted my ability to commit, to go the distance, to follow through on anything really worthwhile. But here amid her CDs and diaries and letters from her friends was a stack of passes—a symbol of my vow before God to this family—that I will be here and I will provide for you. Sometimes little things mean quite a lot.