I grew up in a Sunday school household. By this, I mean to say that a large chunk of my childhood had been memories of periodic bible chapter readings and the occasional serialized bible stories illustrated in comics. I even had bible quiz books and bible trivia books in grade school. Yes, my parents encouraged this, and I couldn’t be more grateful that they raised me up this way. I will be forever glad that my first love when it comes to books would always be God’s word.
I remember giving up every night when I was seven years old because the words were too archaic and formal sounding to me. I remember being scared because of its sheer volume and thickness, its absolute lack of pictures that dared me to draw the words inside my head and re-imagine everything as if they were my own memories and not somebody else’s thousands of years ago. I remember the first symptoms of being innately anti-social when I was eight and sneaking my mom’s battered bible to my room where I would lock myself alone for hours, reading in the dark and groping for meaning. I remember crying whenever I come across histories of Israel’s wars because i couldn’t even freaking pronounce any of the names I read nor understand what’s going on. Mom gave me my first bible on my ninth birthday. I remember the summer I was eleven and crippled with crutches because of a broken foot and spending my days and evening finishing the new testament books. I had my second bible when I was seventeen, this time I bought it for myself. I remember these memories and can’t help but feel bad about the times I neglect to come back to God’s words.
But it’s always nice to revisit the comforting grace of His promises, as nothing in the world can ever pacify and give joy to my soul like His scriptures. He knows, He understands, He surprises, He loves. I take delight in the truth that our life stories are in the assured hands of the best Writer. He is the one and only author and finisher of our faiths after all.