Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
serendipity (n.): the phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for
Carly
An hour after I finish my speaking gig here in this fine brick church in Alabama with its arched windows painted white, the line for signed copies of my latest Bible study still extends beyond my view.
Not that I’m monitoring the line. I purposely never do.
Maintaining eye contact with each person, listening to whatever they’ve been waiting to share with me—this is what keeps me centered.
I love this part of the ministry. Hearing their stories of how God has used our ministry to impact their lives inspires me.
Today I’m hoping it’s the grist I need to find my way deeper into the new project. Wouldn’t that be something? You better believe my people at BeLoved Books are about to get a pitch from this here gal they won’t soon forget.
I’m grateful for Yvonne’s presence today. She’s standing close, opening each copy of the book to the title page, ready for my signature. Leaving me free to focus on the conversation with the person in front of me. Each a beautiful soul.
“Let me switch that for you,” Yvonne says, replacing my Sharpie with a fresh one. “Need me to refresh your drink?”
I lay a hand over my glass of mint tea. “This is plenty, thank you, Yvonne.” Always best to avoid the need for a potty break in the middle of a signing event.
When I return my gaze to the table in front of me, a book has appeared there. It’s not the Bible study. It’s not any of my published books. The sudden appearance of a familiar worn pink journal defies explanation. I reach for it, dazed. Lift it tenderly. How?
The woman standing before me is substantial. Tall and broad-shouldered and buxom. Her leathered face is the rich color of my morning coffee, and there’s humor in her eyes. We’ve met before, I’m sure of it.
“Hello, Ms. Montgomery,” she twangs, sweet and low. Pieces click into place.
“You won’t remember me,” she says, “but you see—”
“Opal,” I say, breathlessly. I’m looking into eyes that could tell a lifetime of stories. The eyes of my seatmate on the plane home from Oregon.
She shakes her head and chuckles. “Well, isn’t that a fine thing, now, remembering someone’s name like that. Isn’t that something.” The woman lays warm fingers over mine. “Thank you for that,” she says. “Thank you, dear.”
Gripping the journal, I rise to face her squarely. “You . . . you had my book. How did you . . . I’ve been—”
“You left it in the seat pocket, ma’am.”
“But how did you know where to find me?”
She cackles. “Oh, Ms. Montgomery, now there’s a story. Now there’s a story.”
“Please. Call me Carly,” I say, knowing full and well her Southern manners won’t allow it.
“I ’pologize,” she says. “See, when we got off the plane in Dallas, you was ahead of me. Thought I could catch you and return your book—but lordy, woman, you shot right out of sight. And me slow as molasses.”
I vaguely recall a delay in my first flight. Then having to scramble to make my connection.
“I tried hollerin’,” she says, “but then lost you in the crowd. S’pose I should’ve left your book with the airport people, but—”
“But this is so much better!”
Her eyes widen and she barks a quick laugh.
“Opal, I’m telling you. If you’d left it at the airport, I’d probably still be waiting on it. But how in the world did you find me here?”
“Well, ma’am, ’course I recognized you on the plane straightaway. And then, lo and behold, you were coming to speak at my church. How about that. My church.”
Opal’s sweet laugh cracks open something inside me. I’m sitting in Opal’s church? Lord, you are so funny!
“Well, you’re a sly one,” I say. “You never said anything on the plane.”
“Oh, no, dear. ’Course I didn’t. Was wantin’ to respect your privacy and all that.”
For a moment I stare at the journal, shaking my head.
“Well,” Opal says, and it sounds like way-yull. She turns to inspect the row of folks behind her. “You’re a popular lady. Lotsa folks waiting to chitchat, so I’d best—”
My Yvonne is at the ready with a handful of parting merch—bookmark, Scripture sticker, discount coupon. She offers them to Opal.
Opal beams. “Why, thank you, dear.” She sets her clutch on the table and opens the clasp.
“Wait,” I say. “Am I the only one here who thinks the Lord went to a whole lot of trouble to introduce us? Opal, is there any chance you’d have a little time later today when we could talk some more?
” I happen to know there’s a coffee shop on the next corner.
“I’ll be done here in, oh, say . . .” I cast a glance at the remaining people in line, then up at Yvonne.
“Forty-five minutes,” Yvonne says, humor brightening her eyes. “An hour, tops.”
“An hour, tops,” I repeat.
Opal sways her head in a slow shake and chuckles.
“Tell you ladies what, don’t you be rushing now.
You come on over for supper.” She looks from me to Yvonne.
“Both of y’all. I’ll cook up some good somethin’.
Now, my house is just up the road a ways.
” She gestures vaguely to my left. “You keep going till you see a cow pasture—but don’t turn there.
You wanna go past that and turn at the yellow mailbox that’s got no grass but the prettiest roses, and that there’s my house. ”
Lickity split, I’m on Opal’s side of the table, going in for a hug. Depositing a peck on both cheeks of this dear, dear woman God saw fit to deposit in my path. It’s possible I appear a tad unhinged. But I am telling you right now, there is nothing in all the world that rivals a divine appointment.
Especially when it’s dripping with Southern hospitality.