Maybe some things are perfect just the way they are…broken, torn, worn…
I have my Granddaddy’s Bible. The one he used every single day. The pages are brittle and filled with the markings of someone who really studied the Word. I’ve been thinking about having it rebound. The spine is coming apart and some of the pages now fly loosely when you move from one chapter to another.
I feel close to him when I’m reading his margin notes. He taught Sunday school for many years and was the kind of man who was respected and loved by so many. There wasn’t a person on earth who loved him more than I did. When I was in college, I loved to drive into Georgetown and find him sitting on his patio, smoking a cigar and watching the birds. If he wasn’t at home, I would drive on out to the farm where he would be sitting in his pickup truck watching his cows. Always with a hat on and usually a tie too.
We never ate a Christmas dinner that we didn’t have to wait on him to get back from delivering plates to others who might not have a feast like ours…the hobo who lived on the railroad, the lady who dressed like a man, the farm-hand who helped him feed cows. He always took a gift with him too. Usually he pulled a shirt out of his closet and wrapped it himself. This man was the real deal.
His Bible is one of the few things I have, besides pictures, that really remind me of him. I’m torn about whether to rebind it to preserve it, or whether to leave it as it is, brittle and worn, but exactly as he left it. Until I can make up my mind, I’ll hold it carefully, turn the pages gently, and cherish the memory of the man whose life is right there on its pages.