There was an inn on a certain road where travelers learned, too late, that the hospitality was a trap. The innkeeper welcomed his guests warmly, fed them well, and showed them to comfortable beds. Then, in the darkest hour of the night, he would burst into the room with terrible noises — screaming, banging, creating the impression of an attack.
The terrified guests would flee into the darkness, abandoning their belongings. Outside, robbers lay in wait. They would strip the fleeing travelers of whatever they carried, and afterward, the innkeeper and the robbers would divide the spoils. It was a profitable arrangement — for everyone except the victims.
Rabbi Meir arrived at this inn. He was warned by local Jews, or perhaps he simply sensed the danger. When the innkeeper showed him to his room, Rabbi Meir did not sleep. He sat up, studying Torah by lamplight, waiting.
In the middle of the night, the innkeeper began his performance — the terrible noises, the simulated attack. Every other guest bolted for the door. Rabbi Meir did not move. "I am waiting for my brother Tob," he announced calmly.
The innkeeper was confused. "Your brother? What brother?" But Rabbi Meir was not speaking of a human brother. "Tob" means "good" in Hebrew — he was waiting for the good, for the morning light, for the goodness of God that comes with dawn. He would not be frightened into darkness.
When morning came, Rabbi Meir left the inn with all his possessions intact, having outwitted the trap through nothing more than patience and faith. The name "Tob" — good — was his shield. The man who waits for goodness cannot be driven into the night.