the yellow backpack

Chapter 16

The story continues first by backtracking.

Yesterday my car died at Sonic.  My Diet Vanilla Coke became a hero when poured on my battery cables and the kindest carhop jumpstarted my car; I later drank coconut coffee at Common Grounds and was depressed when it was gone.  I successfully held to my workout plan (oh yeah, Day One).  I got extra sleep, lit a candle, read some Crazy Love, and the sun shined brightly.

It was a wonderful day.

But back tracking a little further…

One day they led Him to Calvary’s mountain
One day they nailed Him to die on the tree
Suffering anguish, despised and rejected
Bearing our sins, my Redeemer is He!
And one day the grave could conceal Him no longer
One day the stone rolled away from the door
Then He arose; over death He had conquered
Now He’s ascended, my Lord forevermore!

That one day bought freedom for the lead character, releasing her chains, and wiping her debt free. That one day gave hope to the plot of my story.  The Author will write your story the same way.

My day was wonderful, but that day was glorious and altered every part of my story.

Looking forward… This coming weekend I have a phone date with my best friend in Arizona.  We’re currently debating whether or not to “meet” at Barnes and Noble or Borders.  I’m partial to Barnes and Noble with no articulate reason why.  Some day I hope to stick with a workout plan longer than a week, and in the future I hope to have a family with maybe a kid or two or three or… I better stop.  The future is intriguing, inviting, and still the future.

Those will be great days.  Live in the present Caroline, but do dwell on this:

One day the trumpet will sound for His coming
One day the skies with His glories will shine
Wonderful day my Beloved One’s bringing
Glorious Savior, this Jesus is mine!

One day He’s coming
Oh glorious day- Todd Agnew

In my story, those two days are not merely a backdrop, an extra, or special effect. They write the story; they allow the story; they are the story now. And my story yesterday and my story to come.

I want to know that Author, sit down to a cup of coffee, but I know by then I’ll be smack down on my face and coffee will no longer be my love.

I have wonderful and great days where I laugh, rest, smile and love life.   Such days, however,  are certainly overshadowed by Glorious Days that allow them.

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While I did lose count of the chapters in this story, I don’t want to lose sight that each part of my story is traced back to the King who narrates my being.   Sure, I am the fingers typing away, but remember I retell a story that is the heavenly Author’s.  Call me His scribe.

I just recounted.  This is chapter 8.  So welcome back.

Chapter 8

You must be caught up on some trivial plot development in this story. Tonight I had a pizza party with the people I call my family here in Texas.  Friday I spray-painted my hair black and danced like crazy at a party where they prayed at the beginning, middle, and end.  I love Baylor, but now my shower is stained black from my hair dye.  I think the reason is just to remind me of my sillyness.   Today I bashfully (with a tinge of respect for his lack of inhibition) watched Clayton test every pillow in Kohl’s to ensure he brought the perfect one.  I ate a blueberry pancake at ihop at midnight last night.  It rained all day, and now my TOMS are soaked for a week.  And, of course, I’ve had many a cups of coffee.

Plot development: Check.

Now a bit of character development. Shaping. Molding. Sifting. Disciplining. Eye-Opening.  Heart Renewing.

Setting:  I’m going to zoom into a circle of three chairs from tonight.  Warning:  There’s no climax.  No surprise.  It’s merely a small group of college students with a sheet to facilitate discussion.  We have one older adult leader in the Leadership Community and we invited him to our group (Note: there are now four chairs).

The man marked with humility sat down in our group, and by the end of the 40 minutes, he calmly had reminded us of the faithfulness of Jesus Christ and the genuine, lasting satisfaction of knowing this Redeemer.  He shared of tragedy.  Of unexpected losses.  Of life-changes.  He flipped through the worn pages of his Bible as if he’d spent hours upon each page of what I am again reminded to look freshly upon as THE Word of God.

He spoke of doing anything in our own strength as pride with a sobering reality.

He spoke of living a life full of gentleness and patience and showed it by merely being present.

He spoke of praying what you desire to desire.

And now I have a new glimpse of what I desire:  Humility.  Tonight the word humility has been stuck in my mind.  What does it look like?

I found an answer pretty quickly:  Dr. Robert Bernard Beach, Sr.—my Granddaddy.  He lives just across town from the house I’ll always call home in Springfield.  This man is not only well-read enough to help my sister write papers over books she hasn’t read, he can rattle off Cardinal’s baseball statistics to keep up with the fanatic fan I am proud to call a brother of mine.

Granddaddy and I would go to McDonald’s every Wednesday when I was in pre-school, and some of my earliest memories are swinging my legs in these concave, orange Missouri State chairs outside of his office.

He gives with unwavering selflessness:  Time, Piano Lessons, Rides, my beloved Baylor University, Wisdom, an Example.  He worries a bit, I’ll admit, but it’s always about someone else.

That’s humility.

I grant Granddaddy bragging rights for himself all day long.  However, I know he won’t use them.  Grandmother will have to brag for him (though I think she already does).

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The story is unwavering and indispensable.  The accompanying paintings can be traced back to a benevolent hand orchestrating the tiniest sketches and grandest murals.  For the background music, the one missing note on the piano completes the chord that can then be replicated through each of the octaves, completing the melody and leaving my ears yearning for more.  The priceless photographs teleport me to those certain moments that will be forever etched in my mind, and they remind me why my daydreams seem to find their way back there.

An over-the-shoulder look at life brings motivation to complacency and a passion to indifference.  Looking back I see all the dots are more than connected—they are woven together with skill and art.  I see that all the ends are tied with precision though the completion may have tinged a bit.   In my memory, I look at life with a backstage pass– I can sneak a peak behind the curtain to reveal that the Lord’s ways are certainly not my ways.  But they are perfect.

The story is being written now.  I’m in on the action— the smiles, heartbreaks, the joys, the struggles, the laughs—I’m the character in forming, the plot in the making, and the ah-ha moment on the last page.

I don’t want to wait until the end to say the story is beautiful.  I want to capture the moments along the way.  That is why I’m going to write.

The end will show the story, though now when I’m writing I won’t yet have my backstage pass.

Welcome. Read along.

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