Dad’s Worn-out Bible.
For some reason today, I thought of my dad. I could see his face…his hair…his posture. I could hear the clearing of his throat. I could see his glasses resting a little down on his nose as he read and studied his worn-out Bible. His favorite Bible with all his notes in the margins.
I have a vague memory of a story about that old Bible. He had placed it on the roof of the car while he opened the door – for himself or mother or to load other things inside. He forgot and drove away. It must have hit the pavement on some turn with a SPLAT, the spine of the old book coming apart. Backtracking turned up nothing. It was probably gone…blown in the wind or run over by traffic. Someone, however, found it in a ditch along the road and picked up the scattered portions of Scripture.
A search began to find the owner with my father’s name on the front page. It wasn’t an easy task in those days. I don’t remember if it was a phone number in the phonebook, but a call was made to the right person. Eventually, those broken pieces of holiness were returned, and Mom had it sent off to be rebound. He had others, but he never had one like that.
I picture him now, sitting down with the men he had read about and listening firsthand to their stories. I picture him with the One with loving eyes and scarred hands holding his. His eyes clearly seeing what he had only envisioned by the words on those worn pages.
“And beginning at Moses and all the prophets, he expounded this unto them in all the scriptures concerning himself.” Luke 24:27 (The road to Emmaus account)