A cover without a book…or not

“Excuse me, sir, but I believe you dropped this.”

“No, I don’t believe so. It’s a book, isn’t it? I wasn’t carrying a book.”

“Is your name Richard Harrison Broadwell?”

“Why, yes, it is. Why do you ask?”

“Well, sir, that’s the name on the spine of the book…The Life of Richard Harrison Broadwell. I’m certain I saw the book fall beside you as you were walking toward me. You say you weren’t carrying a book, yet I saw it fall beside you as you were walking, and you say that the name on the spine is the same as your own name. Doesn’t that seem rather peculiar? My name is John Spooner by the way”

“Well, Mr. Spooner…”

“John, please.”

“I’m Richard…Well, John, I don’t know what to say. Would you mind opening the book?”

“No, not at all. That’s strange…the pages are all blank.”

“No, John. When you were leafing through the book, I saw writing on every page. Perhaps I should look at the book.”

As Spooner hands the book over, there is a slight blue arc of electricity that passes from one man’s hand to the other. Both jump back and the book falls to the sidewalk. Spooner is the first to speak.

“Ouch! What’s going on here, Richard? Look the book is open and the pages are blank.”

“No, they’re not; I can see writing.” Broadwell picks up the book, closing the cover as he does so.

The men stare at the book which now seems to glow in Broadwell’s hand.

“I think I need a drink,” says Broadwell.

“Sorry, this town’s dry,” responds Spooner. “There’s a Starbuck’s right there. We could have coffee and try to figure out this whole thing. C’mon; I’ll even buy. This is one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. You must feel a bit weird, Richard. How many Richard Harrison Broadwell’s do you know?”

“Frankly, I don’t know anyone with that name but me, and not only is it strange, it’s just a little bit frightening.”

Off the two men go to get their coffee and to find a small table. For now, that concludes the preface to our little story. Put yourself in the shoes of Richard Harrison Broadwell. You’re sitting at a small table in a pleasantly aromatic café. A complete stranger is sitting across from you. He…or maybe it’s a she, has stopped you on the street and handed you a book. On the spine and on the cover are the words The Life of…and it’s your name. To this stranger, the pages were blank, but you saw writing as he was fanning the pages. When the book fell to the ground after giving both of you a shock, you couldn’t make it out, but you saw writing once more. Now the book sits facing you. Will you have the courage to read it? Dare you turn to the end? If this is your life in this book, will it also tell you when you die; how you die? What about your family… your Mother and Father, your sisters, Judy and Marion; your brothers, Ron and Gary? What happens if something tragic happens to them? Certainly, it will profoundly affect your life and would have to be mentioned. Do you really want to know?

Have there been times in your life that you’d just as soon forget; how about the times when something absolutely spectacular happened? What about the time you first saw the person who would become your spouse? Where was that? How did that happen? Did you know that was the one for you immediately? How about when Allyson, your first child was born? Will all of that be in there? How about the tour of Afghanistan; the second tour; the IED that killed six of your buddies and almost cost you your own life?

What’s in this book? Do you really dare to open it? What if it goes beyond where you are right now, sitting at this little table? What if it is not only your life, but what if it also takes you to the end of your life…is that something about which your really want to know?

I certainly can’t answer these questions for you. The only thing I can say is that when I walked into Starbucks, ordered a latte and a chocolate croissant, and found a small table, there was a book there. The pages were empty, but on the spine and on the cover, it read, The Life of Richard Harrison Broadwell. It’s really strange; a cover with about three hundred blank pages. Well, not my concern.