As clean and sharp as that analogy may sound (and I hope it does), comparing my Bible to my walk does not bode well for me. Throughout the course of my life, I've received more Bibles than I care to remember. I was probably awarded a Bible at least once every two years between the ages of 6 and 18 (God bless Sunday School teachers for trying). I've received study Bibles, mini Bibles (font too small, IMO), truncated Bibles (New Testament only), NIV, King James Version. . . the list continues beyond my memory. However, for some odd reason, probably after being ten Bibles deep, the only one that remains with me is the very first Bible I ever received - a generic black Holy Bible: NIV. It was the very first Bible that I brought to Sunday School as a snot-nosed, English-illiterate brat, and it was the very first Bible on the sides of which I obnoxiously wrote both my English and Korean name, lest anyone try to claim something that's mine as his own.
Over fifteen years have passed since I so boldly marked this book of life as my own - enough time for a fetus to become a freshman in high school - and this book remains, largely like my faith, untouched. Don't get me wrong, the book is absolutely not in mint condition. . . on the outside. However, once you flip past the torn cover and exposed binding, you still see the stiffness of a new book. You can feel it while turning the pages. Whenever I borrow certain other people's Bibles, I am always impressed by how the page flips. I've had the honor of borrowing a few Bibles that belonged to true men and women of God, and it is immediately noticeable: with the turning of each page, the way the paper separates from the stack and turns singularly, you can tell right away that that particular page must have experienced this turning motion hundreds, if not thousands, of times. When I look up verses in my Bible, there is no such feeling. The pages remain stubborn, like a new pair of sneakers.
Maybe I'm crazy for trying to make my Christian life analogous with the physical state of my Bible (although after writing that, it doesn't seem so ludicrous), but I feel largely the same. With the exception of a few retreats, a few mission trips, a few moments of true honesty, I can't say that the pages of my Christian walk have been turned regularly. To some degree, a degree that is higher than I'd like to admit, I am still carrying around my childhood faith. Sure, there have been a few advancements and epiphanies here and there, but nothing with the kind of regularity that relationships are built on. And that's what it is after all, right? A relationship. . .
I think it's time. The stars are lining up (only because God deemed it so, not because I believe in the stars. . .) and the harvest is ripe. By that I mean (by the way, I really don't know what the appropriate imagery would have been) that at this particular juncture in my life, I think it's time I manned up and wore out my Bible. The one that I read, and the one that I live.
So there you have it. Much ado about. . . something. Well, at least. . . something that is possibly something. Friends, randoms, please pray for me. Only God knows how long I'll go (hopefully longer than a week. . .)
