Now that I think back on it, I see how I was prepared and schooled at every turn to be a storyteller. Stories fascinated me. I listened to those who told them and practiced telling them myself. When I was four, Mama, for some very strange reason, had missed church. So when I came home she said, “What did you learn in Sunday school today?” I recited, word for word, the story of Jesus and the tax collector, Zacchaeus. “You come down from that sycamore tree,” I said pointing my finger upward. “I’m goin’ home with you.”