What's Your Story?

Elijah sits on the park bench with a heavy sigh as he wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his faded blue sweatshirt. He unscrews the cap of his half empty water bottle and quickly gulps the last of it. His breathing is still a little heavy after the three-mile run, but not nearly as wheezy as it was a few weeks ago.

Elijah had started running again when he needed to take his mind away from the writer’s block he started feeling after winning that short story contest. At first, he was ecstatic with the twenty-grand in prize money and thought surely it would inspire him to write more. Unfortunately, while the money provided a measure of success, the pressure of writing his first novel haunted him even more.

Checking his pulse and absentmindedly glancing at the empty place beside him on the bench, Elijah notices a small black book laying there. Curiously, he looks around to see if anyone is nearby who could have left it there. He doesn’t see anyone around, nor does he really expect to on a misty autumn evening this late in the park.

His previous worries replaced by curiosity; Elijah examines the book to find out who it belongs to. He opens to the first page to find the first few pages filled with handwritten text, seemingly a journal. Elijah flips through the rest of the pages to see they are blank. That’s a bit odd, he thinks, but cannot truly pass judgment on someone else’s lack of motivation to write.

Surely, someone will be looking for something so personal. Elijah stands up and looks around thinking maybe he should just leave the book there, assuming the person who left it may return for it. A quick flash of lightning and peal of thunder in the distance makes up his mind since it would do no good to let it sit out in the rain and get soaked.

Elijah tucks the book into his sweatshirt’s large pockets and begins jogging toward the trailhead where he left his car. He decides to bring the book to the park service office when he returns in a few days.

Elijah arrives home and places the book on a coffee table near the couch before removing his damp sweatshirt. Maybe later I’ll just glance through the pages to see if I can find anything identifying the owner, he thinks, pushing aside the worry that he may be snooping into someone’s private moments.

After a shower and making a quick cup of coffee, Elijah stares at his unfinished writing on a desk by the window and decides to read through the journal instead. He chastises himself for not continuing his own writing, but he is simply too curious about the little book he found. He plops onto the couch and reaches for the book.

Whoever reads this, know that I was the happiest man in the world when my dearest Audrey recently gave birth to our first child, a baby boy named after me. His name is Thomas Junior, TJ for short, and I truly hope he will love baseball as much as I do. He could be a star athlete someday, maybe even a great outfielder like I was during my prime.

Elijah closes the book. He has never been one to violate another person’s privacy, but reminds himself that he only needs to get a last name or something to identify who owns this journal. He nods his head in validation of his rationale and reopens the book to keep reading.

TJ and I will play catch in the yard of our suburban house until Audrey calls us inside for dinner. Our son will grow strong and tall and have at least a .300 batting average. I am sure he’ll make it to the big leagues but love the game more than the money just like his old man. Audrey and I will be so proud of him all the way.

Elijah notices a few discolored smudges near the bottom of the page and the handwriting is not as neat as in the beginning. He wonders if the author was eating, or perhaps in a hurry to finish the entry.

And now, I ask with humble hopes that all of this will come to pass. Despite all of my wealth, and the best medical care one person can have, I was able to witness my wife giving birth to TJ. But there were complications. Now, Audrey and TJ are still in the delivery room at the mercy of God, and of science while I sit in the waiting room, not knowing what to do.

Elijah covers his mouth in sentimental shock and closes the journal with the other hand, unsure if he should continue with such a story. He cannot imagine the pain possibly losing a loved one, let alone a child. Gathering his courage, Elijah decides to keep reading to see if there is a happy ending to this story.

Watching the clock slowly tick off the time, and tired of eating stale crackers from a vending machine, I found this little book. It was empty of any words and just sitting atop a health magazine of some sort. There was no one else in the waiting room at this hour to claim the book, so I held it to my chest for several more agonizing ticks of the clock before I forced myself to move again.

I decided to write these words to hopefully ease my pain. The pain of waiting to know if the family I just started will survive. I have no idea why I thought to write these things, but I admit it helps my heart to shape thoughts into words. It seems that every word I write absorbs more of my pain and makes more sense of it to my breaking heart.

Elijah felt his chest tighten and his pulse quicken, hoping for some good news, as he is sure Thomas was as well. Tears begin to well in Elijah’s eyes as he continues.

While I’m not sure if this will ever be read by anyone, or what effect it may have on them, I feel less burdened than I should. After several hours of sitting and waiting, and waiting some more, I saw some movement near the nurse’s station down the hall. A pair of doctors glanced woefully my way and sullenly made their way to stand before me.

Oh no!

The doctors wore a solemn look that means only bad news and, true to all the tragic hospital scenes ever played out on the silver screen, this one was no different. My heart skipped a beat and I fell to my knees, weeping and tightly clutching this little book. My Audrey and TJ passed away at two thirty-five this afternoon.

A lonely tear streaks slowly down Elijah’s cheek and lands on the journal page. Suddenly he realizes those smudges he noticed are teardrops from the author. Careful not to smear any writing, Elijah gently wipes his fresh tears from the page, now comingled with those of the author. With a heavy sigh, he turns the page and continues reading, trying not to sob.

If you’re still reading this truly sad story, have no sorrow for me because I am bringing my family home one last time but will carry their memories all of my days. I am no longer in need of this journal for myself, but would rather let others feel the release of their pain and suffering through their own written words.

Have faith my friend and, if you’re of a mind, feel free to write your own story on the empty pages ahead. Whatever you write may be either therapeutic or uplifting to both author and reader. I now place these pages in your capable hands as I leave this somewhat empty journal on a roadside diner table for the next person who may need it.

Elijah notices the handwriting is much more stable than it was earlier and wonders if there really is something to the idea of writing your pain to ease your burden. It certainly seemed to work for Thomas.

Elijah decided to see who else had a story to tell and continued to the next page, clearly written by a different hand.

I have no words to describe how sad I feel for that poor man in the first entry, but I have faith that he continues to keep his family alive through his own thoughts and memories. While I am fortunate enough to not have such a tragedy in my own life, I do have uncertainty about my future.

I recently received a college scholarship for a university far away from my home, which I have never left for more than a weekend. My father says I should go and find my place in the world. As exciting as that sounds, it honestly terrifies me.

Actually, what terrifies me is the possibility of failure. College is a huge step for someone from a small town and I don’t want to let my family, or myself down by being unable to succeed in a place where the rules are much more complex. My father thinks I will do very well, but I am still so afraid of leaving.

Elijah smiles a little, remembering how it felt the first time he left home for Army basic training and subsequently for his first duty station in Germany. As Elijah discovered then, travelling the world with the military was easily the best time of his life. Wishing he could alleviate the uncertainty of this young author, he continues reading.

While it terrifies me to go into the unknown and risk failure, I believe the disappointment in my father’s eyes If I don’t even try would hurt more than any lesson I learn from college. So, I must go. I will face my fears of the unknown and, succeed or fail, I will become a better person for it.

Elijah could empathize with this young author. He had faced his own uncertainties over the years in the military and college as well, not all of them were easily overcome.

The poor man in the first entry was right. I can feel my own uncertainty fading with every word I write, and I hope someone else will find hope in my words as well. I also leave this journal for someone who needs to find salvation in their written words.

Elijah could feel a smile creeping upon his face as he realizes his own personal fears began to fade with each word he read. He gets excited for the next story, but notices all of the pages after the first two entries are blank.

He slowly lowers the book to his lap. Elijah closes his eyes and leans his head back onto the couch. Everything written by the previous two individuals begins to stir something inside him and, fearful or not, he knows what he must do. He glances curiously at the disorganized pile of papers on his writing desk as the weight of uncertainty begins to lift from his mind.

Returning his attention to the open journal before him, Elijah takes a deep breath and lets it slowly exhale from his mouth. He picks up a pen laying on the table and slowly lowers it to an empty page.

Let me tell you MY story…