In every family, there’s that story—the one everyone knows by heart, and still makes us laugh. In my family, one such story resurfaces whenever someone mentions the Beatles. We all look at Mom, who smiles, and gets a faraway look in her eyes. We know what she’s thinking—she’s going back to August 26, 1964.
That was the day she and her friends secured enviable third row seats at the Red Rocks Amphitheater to see the Beatles perform. Using her hard-earned babysitting money, she purchased the $6.50 concert ticket and waited in line from dawn to dusk. When the nighttime stars finally appeared, the hysteria in the crowd swelled. The crowd threw jelly beans, the band’s favorite candy, on the stage as the foursome came out. My mom was among the throngs of scream-agers, who couldn’t contain their excitement to see the biggest stars in the world perform: John, Paul, George, and Ringo.
They sang all their greatest hits, and as Mom recalls, “I don’t remember screaming or even blinking. I just watched, entranced.” When the concert was over and the lights came on, Mom’s friends filed out, but she, seemingly unaware that life went on after the Beatles, sat down. People stepped over her, but still she sat, eyes fixed on the empty stage. A policeman approached and tapped her shoulder, breaking the spell. “Miss, are you alright?” Suddenly, she realized her friends had left, and she was all alone. How was she to get home?
“Starr” status
The officer smiled. “Come on with me. I have to load my horse in the trailer, but I’ll give you a lift.” On the ride home, they chatted about the concert. The officer, who had been in the back near Ringo, didn’t understand what all the fuss was about, but Mom pressed him for details. She couldn’t imagine what it was like to be so close to the Beatles. A slight smile crossed his lips as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of jelly beans. “I noticed these on Ringo’s chair after the performance. I suppose the poor guy sat on them the entire concert. Would you like to take one?”
Would she like to take one? Mom couldn’t believe her luck. She quickly selected a yellow one that was squashed on one side—proof that Ringo Starr had indeed left his mark.
Back at school, the Ringo jelly bean gave her instant “starr” status. Friends offered to buy it, and her brother threatened to eat it, but Mom carefully guarded her jelly bean. It went with her to college and remained in her jewelry box after she got married. Yes, the little yellow jelly bean was a survivor and a relic—a link to her childhood and that mesmerizing night under the stars with the stars.
Lost but found
But little yellow jelly beans, no matter how precious and resilient, don’t stand a chance against a curious toddler. You may sense where this story is going. I’m sorry to say that years later, when I was about three years old, I came into the kitchen mumbling something about the candy I found in her “jury box.”
After fishing the gooey remnants out of my mouth, she plopped onto the kitchen floor and cried. Poor Mom! She felt like a part of her past had been erased. The famous Ringo jelly bean was gone. Down my grubby little hatch without a second thought.
But surprisingly, what she thought was lost found new life in the story’s retelling. Often weaving its way into conversation, the jelly bean story took on a life of its own and has passed from one generation to the next.
Stories do that — they unite us and provide us with a shared identity. This is why the greatest commandment God ever gave to Israel —to love him wholeheartedly — required intentional conversations and retelling of our stories (Deut 6:7, 20-25).
Familiar stories to live on
This is at the heart of my upcoming book, The Pursuit of Holy Leisure (releasing March 17, 2026). Our faith stories, learning to walk with God and enjoy his company in the Word and in prayer, should naturally overflow into our conversations in the familiar places of our lives. When we talk about God, and let others into our stories, they naturally live on—just like the jelly bean. This is the heart of the Shema, the Jewish confession of faith, and the template God provided for us to share our stories of faith.
“Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise. You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates” (Deut 6:4-9).
Sharing our stories of God’s faithfulness should occur organically and intentionally every day, everywhere. We pass on a legacy of faith around kitchen tables, in the car, on the playground, and as we crawl in and out of bed. Funny stories may captivate an audience for a time, but it’s our faith stories that have the potential to steer hearts for eternity. In a very real sense, our stories become us.
Just let it be
So tell of your triumphs and your tragedies, your embarrassing moments, and your brushes with fame. Tell your children, co-workers, community groups, and friends how, when you thought all was lost, God was writing your story in ways you’d never thought possible. Let your love for him be the story of your life. This is God’s design. And the results? You can just let it be.
Cara
P.S. Are you curious about holy leisure? I’m offering the Introduction chapter of my upcoming book, The Pursuit of Holy Leisure: Enjoying God in Everyday Places, for free. Download and read it today!
