What happened to that black pew bible given to me, years ago, for my confirmation -well, I just don’t know.
The translucent pages, the carelessly scrawled “Keep the faith” on the dedication page, its imposing heft. Gone. Lost.
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. There were no sentiments attached or notes in margins. No history to be inherited by calling it “mine.”
The hot pink, paperback New Testament -also gone. All dogeared and underlined. A French translation, too, I should add. Nothing much to think about except the feeling of reading the parable of the mustard seed, which remains vivid even today. Although I couldn’t tell you what it meant to me then, oh, how I cling to it now. How with every reading something deep inside stirs and I find myself nodding “yes, yes.”
But this. This simple bible, no frills, not even a ribbon to mark a page, this is mine. It took a year of searching for what was lost, a year of comparing translations, a year of covertly hefting the weight in my palm in bookstores, a year of measuring for size and then measuring again. And here it is and here we are.