Faded Caboose

On my way to Fort Worth from Waco last week, I saw in an open field adjacent to the Interstate a faded purple caboose adorned by a handwritten 'For Sale' sign. After doing a double take, I had my hands full remaining focused on the road ahead while stealing glances to consider the anomaly. Instantly, I bombarded myself with questions: How does a thing designed to run on steel rails end up perched awkwardly in a grass field far away from the nearest tracks? Where had it traveled during its lifetime? What had it seen? Who and what had it carried? When did its usefulness began to fade? What replaced it? Why was it painted purple? Who could want it now? How much would someone ask for a grounded purple caboose? Almost as quickly, I thought of reasonable parallels in my own life, and by reflex uttered an audible prayer, "Father, prevent me from ending up like that." For some time now I've been gripped by what might be termed an obsession. I want to end well. I want my life to count today, but I really want my sum of days to result in a life well lived. Quite the opposite of Tantalus, the Greek mythological figure standing in a pool of water beneath a fruit tree with low branches, with the fruit ever eluding his grasp, and the water always receding before he could take a drink, this seems like a reasonable goal -- to have the curtain close with integrity intact, both useful and inspiring. Stated in another way, let me be anything but a faded and abandoned caboose. The inspired apostle expressed it best: "But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway" (1 Corinthians 9:27 KJV).