Lucy found a relic from my past life and it has become her most prized possession. She frequently carries it with her and, at night, she tucks it in her top dresser drawer – that is, when she isn’t sleeping with it – and retrieves it each morning, slides it under her arm and looks a whole lot like my father did back in his Bible-beating days.
She calls it her “red, red book.” She likes it because it’s “just my size” and “full of secrets.” She has never asked me to read it to her. (Though I have been able to awe Julia with my ability to “read” passages without looking.) But now and then she’ll open it up and shout something like, “Temptation!” Mostly, she likes to flip through it. And I get it. Bible books are like no others with that thick, yet flexible and tactile cover and their smooth, thin pages that crackle with each turn. It’s designed to make you want to touch it.
This light version came to me from Gideons as an act of evangelism, ironically in 1987 when I lived with my pastor parents in the church parsonage that contained more Bibles than people.
It did, however, survive The Fallout and thanks to Lucy’s current habits likely remains the most-read book in the house.