Some Christians are blessed to have parents who raised them in church. I happen to be one of those lucky girls. My mom took me to church the first Sunday of my life. I have fond memories of several church people and buildings in which I grew up. The red padded carpet and the wooden pews are still visible in my thoughts. I can see the platform, choir loft and strong oak pulpit in my mind’s eye, though I’ve not entered that church building in over 30 years. I can also remember sitting in the pew as my hands grasped my church Bible.
My church Bible was the one I was actually allowed to carry to church. I had another Bible my parents bought for me when they took a tour of the “Holy Land.” As a child, I didn’t always understand what the “Holy Land” was and sometimes I pictured a desert with huge holes poked in the ground all over the land surface. I also thought the words to the old hymn were “Bringing in the Cheese.” But the Bible I held in my hands? It was tangible. I could hold it and carry it in my purse. I loved to turn the whispery thin pages and stare at the occasional color photo page of Noah and the ark or David and Goliath. Jonah and the whale often held my attention during long sermons, even though the thought of a whale spitting out a man made me squint my eyes.
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