Thursday, July 25, 2013

Returning Home (part 1)

The Bibles have been on my mind. Ever since we received a bounty of the used books as a gift, I knew that four of them belonged with someone else. A lady's name was clearly visible on some as the eight letters had been bound within the leather cover across the front. Her entire family tree was inscribed within the pages of another in her own handwriting, dates of births, marriages, deaths, even hospital stays with room numbers next to the names of the sick. Dates were written beside certain scriptures, sometimes several dates marked a single verse and I wondered what made her go back over and over again to the same one.

I found an heir of the family from one of the names inside and last week, I returned them. I carefully opened one of The Books to show her great-grandson the inside. His first words were, "Wow. That's her handwriting." He gazed in amazement at the history of the tree, rooted from his mother's mother. He thanked me over and over but I was Blessed more than he'll ever know from a lady I never met, that has lived with The King for over a decade now. I touched The Holy Bible one last time, and my job was done. I left them with him, to do what The Lord instructs him to do.

I walked into church Sunday wondering what my Lord was going to do next. A touching Sunday School class led me to tears by the time our actual worship service started. There seems to always be some sort of unexplainable comfort when the blue-eyed lady makes her way to sit behind me on her pew of preference. As soon as she sat, I again thought of the Bibles. Several of her children, grand-children and great-grandchildren filled the church this Sunday morning and I wondered what they would do with her's when she is living with The King. My eyes looked at her grown son on the front pew and wondered the same about his Bible. I looked down at mine and saw that it was beginning to show signs of use. A semi-worn cover, marked pages on the inside by ribbons and bookmarks filled my book but the pages remained clean. Little did I know, that would soon change.

A daughter of the blue-eyed lady walked on painful knees to make her way to the front of the church where she stood by her husband to sing next to the old wooden piano. A familiar song passed over their lips just as soft as the first time I had heard it. Every word created a picture in my mind as I slipped in and out of prayer with every verse. As the beautiful song was about to see end, I heard a sweet little voice from behind, sing the last few words along with her daughter. A tear formed in my eye as I thought about the blue-eyed tree...

(to be continued)

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