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A forlorn man sits in a pew. In his hands, he holds a spiral notebook, white in color with yellow roses hand-painted on the cover. Laurel's mother had given it to him before the service. "Here," she had said, "she would want you to have this. After all, you are the one who inspired her to keep a journal." He had felt unworthy of receiving this gift, for what would he find in there? Possibly the answer to what had went wrong between them, a question to which he had been desperately racking his brain for the answer. The Bishop speaks concerning what Laurel was probably doing in Spirit Paradise, for she had brought paradise with her from her pre-mortal life.
He is distracted by the raindrops pounding the pavement in the parking lot, sounding like bullets pumping into his heart, taking his life away, for he Laurel had brought life to him; she had brought him to Jesus.
The young woman sitting beside him glances at him through the corner of her eye. She frowns, for he is lost in his own thoughts. He begins to leaf through the pages of the notebook. Her first entry was dated the day of their first date, when, instead of flowers like most guys, he had picked up this journal instead because he remembered her telling him that she liked to write. He wants to flip past it, for he remembers that day all too well. Murphy's Law came to mind. The weather had forecasted a zero percent chance of rain, though once they arrived at the beach, you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. He had driven up to one of the pavilions where there was a picnic table that looked weather-beaten and full of splinters; they had eaten lunch there instead of by the seashore with the waves lapping up at their feet, Laurel giggling because the water tickled her between her toes. He had offered to prepare the food and had brought turkey sandwiches, which was all he knew how to make besides scrambled eggs. He had put the tomatoes on beforehand, so that by the time they had opened the cooler, the bread on the tomato side were soggy. They had eaten their sandwiches open-faced, throwing the soggy piece of bread into the ocean for the birds. How she had laughed when she heard them all squawking and splashing to get a piece of the soiled bread. To add a touch of class to the simple meal, he had brought Cokes in glass bottles instead of those cheap plastic bottles they sold in gas stations, but had forgotten the bottle opener, so he had tried using his jackknife to pop the cap. She had been finished with her sandwich for a few before she was able to wash down her lunch.
He had planned a romantic walk on the beach, but it had continued to sprinkle, and it was getting kind of breezy, so he ended the date early, more out of embarrassment than anything else. She had kept telling him she had had a wonderful time, but he had not believed her and had kept muttering to himself the entire way home, I blew it. Nevertheless, he began to read the entry...
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