The other day my daughter, Luna and I were picking up a few groceries on our way home. As I was at the checkout a woman from the bakery rolled out a cart with hot, fresh loaves of bread. Luna asked if we could get one and I motioned for her to run over and request a loaf. Luna proudly came back with the warmest loaf in the batch. As we rolled out of the parking lot heading for home the two of us eagerly tore off hunks of warm bread, popping them into our mouths. Luna was particular to the doughy center and I the flakey crust.

As we rode home busily munching away in a content and comforting silence I was reminded of visits with my dad when I was a kid. My parents divorced when I was eight years old in the early 1980s. My mom was given custody of my younger brother and I and my dad was granted visitation one weekend a month, which I’m told is pretty gracious by 80s standards. My dad moved out and rented a spooky old cabin that was far on the outskirts of the other side of town.

On the first weekend we were to spend with my dad at his new place he picked my brother and I up on Friday after school. Our bags were packed with a change of clothes, a tooth brush, and for me my teddy teddy bear and for my brother his blankie. Safely buckled in, we headed down the road towards the cabin and “home”, but none of it felt right. We were headed the wrong direction, across the river, over the bridge into an alien landscape to the other side of town. We only went to that side of town when we went shopping at Kmart. I felt like we were on our way to a funeral and anxiety filled the air of the little car.

Sensing the tension, my dad pulled over, parking in front of a neighborhood bakery and stated that we needed to pick up some bread for supper. This was not the normal bakery we go to with Mom, but the glass display case was still filled with the same kinds of breads, donuts, pastries and other goodies. The baker emerged from the back of the store with a tray of hot and fresh dinner rolls and offered one to each of us. They were so warm and delicious. My dad picked out a loaf of bread and told the baker to throw in three more of the fresh rolls for the ride home.

As we resumed our journey to my dad’s new place we did so in silence, each of us comforted by the radiant warmth of our rolls. In that moment I felt a sense of serenity and safety that I hadn’t felt since my parent’s began their slow downward spiral towards “the end”. Somehow amidst all of the change and uncertainty and fear things were beginning to feel like home again. My dad continued to live in the cabin for a number of years and we made a ritual of stopping for warm rolls each time we visited. Like pilgrims the three of us made the sacred voyage the third weekend of each month to the now not-so-spooky cabin in the woods our belly’s and souls both comforted and nourished by the warm bread and the company of one another.

On behalf of my father, I’d like to give a shout out to all you noncustodial dads who continue to hang in there when times are tough. Make the most of the time you have together with your kids and don’t underestimate the power of simple rituals that continue to nourish the relationship of a lifetime. Trust me; it will pay off down the road.