The Suitcase

It was just a beat-up old suitcase, tucked away in a dusty corner of a second-hand store behind a tower of crates overflowing with discards. The handle, long ago ripped from its top by an overly zealous taxi driver, had been replaced by a stiff arch made of hemp rope, knotted on the inside of the lid. It wasn’t pretty, but neither was the suitcase. Somehow, with its battered leather sides covered over by layers of souvenir travel stickers, the brown luggage and rough rope handle suited each other. They were gnarly, but they were tough. Survivors. Overcomers. Connected by necessity, they seemed stronger together, ready whenever the need arose.

Which seldom happened anymore.

Once upon a time, the classic beauty had been new and luxurious. Fitted with hardware both polished and sturdy, its secure latch inspired confidence. Light blue flowers flooded the pattern of the silken lining inside its roomy compartments. It commanded a high price, in the beginning, and even a few jealous glances from those whose own luggage had seen better days.

Following its first venture into the outside world, it returned home with black scuffs on one side. “No matter,” the owner said, unworried. “We’ll just cover that with this travel sticker from the Grand Canyon.” The case was still strong and mostly undamaged, and everyone thought the addition of the brightly colored decal gave it character. As time went by and the suitcase was called on again and again, it returned home each time with more character, more disguises, more masked evidence of careless luggage handlers and the brutalizing wear and tear marked by years on the road. Soon, the stylish leather exterior was practically unrecognizable, covered from stem to stern with a confusing assortment of labels including “Hotel Havana,” “Virginia Is For Lovers,” “Jamaican My Bacon,” and “Nixon For President.”

“That’s just the price of experience,” the owner said with a sigh, the day the handle first tore loose. “A little duct tape will fix that.” But just in case it didn’t, he bought another suitcase, a newer version with hard plastic siding and spinner wheels while its well-worn predecessor was relegated to second place, packed up with towels and shower shoes and packages of Ramen noodles on its journey to a tiny closet inside a university dormitory.

By the time the hemp repair had replaced the missing handle, the suitcase gapped at the top, allowing moisture from a passing storm to leak in rain. Soon a musty odor infiltrated anything stored inside. The blue flowers long ago lost their bloom and the inner stitching had pulled loose following a tug of war battle with a victorious coat hanger. “Why don’t you get rid of this smelly old thing?” someone suggested, filling its stained interior with other castoffs also destined for retirement.

Late one afternoon, a donation truck drove up that familiar street where the leather bag had once been a proud member of the family, all its souvenir charm fading in the sunlight. Carelessly tossed in the back, it landed in a heap with all the other has-beens that suddenly seemed long past their prime, if not their expiration dates, relegated to the dusty corners of last chance stores where one-eyed dolls and matted teddy bears kept them hidden from the dismissive waves of those who preferred pristine purchases.

Until the day a young woman with an eye for quality reached beyond the chaotic stash of cast offs and retrieved the rejected suitcase. “Perfect,” she announced, tucking the worn, weathered portmanteau under her arm to take home. Alone with her purchase the following afternoon, she studied the collage of identities attached to its exterior over the years. One by one, she pulled them off, discarding them layer by layer, until the original, chestnut-brown leather could be seen again. Beneath the bright light of discovery, she carefully removed every bit of adhesive evidence that suggested anyone had ever attempted to cover the beauty of the suitcase. Oiling the neglected leather, she buffed it until its luster exceeded its original sheen.

Then she turned her attention to the inside where moisture and dust had disintegrated the lining. With an eye to the future, she cleaned away all the years of neglect and replaced the stained fabric with crimson taffeta. Soon, a fresh scent bloomed from the rosy inlay carefully glued in place and trimmed with gold braid.

“Now,” she said, admiring the renovation, “about that handle. This rope will never do for a beauty like yourself.” She tossed the raveled hemp in the trash with the rest of the artificial repairs used to disguise the suitcase and opened a drawer in the mahogany desk she’d once rescued from a hot, humid greenhouse. “Just the thing,” she proclaimed, attaching a sturdy brass grip to the long side of the luggage. She gave a brisk buff to the antique latch and carried her resurrected treasure to the front window of her store where it sat on display for thirty short minutes before another woman with discriminating taste paid top dollar for the vintage case and proudly brought it home to the admiration of her husband.

“You are a shrewd judge of character,” he told her.

True, it had been made new again, but on its worst days it was always more than “just a beat-up old suitcase.” Its underlying beauty had simply been distorted with identities that belonged to someone else, suffocated by ill-fitting fixes. Underappreciated and misunderstood, its significance undermined by carelessness, the original splendor it contained was nearly lost forever. Whether sentenced to a garbage dump or repurposed at a flea market into another portable bar, its worth hung in the balance of whatever price one was willing to pay for its discovery.

None but the Lover of castoffs knew what lay hidden under the layers of judgment the suitcase wore for most of its life. And none but that same Lover knew how to restore it. The gift of unpacking its beauty lay in the hands of the One who rescued it.

It always had great worth. And it was always worthy of greatness.

“Perfect,” she had pronounced, though it lay broken and discarded in a dark, dusty corner.

And it was.