Growing up, I would frequently be told that if I wasn't reading the Bible, I wasn't following God. I would just as frequently counter with "God can be found everywhere and you're limiting Him by stating that." Or somethings to those effects.
There was always a large part of me that knew I was purposely avoiding the Bible because of the evil that was wielding it. The controlling negativity was like a forcefield around the Book, and when curiosity got the better of me, I'd hide with it so I could read without a dramatic overture into my salvation (and the subsequent loss of it). It wasn't about my turning toward the light or whatever, or being born again, or saved, or whatever. I knew that was already done far earlier than I could ever explain. It was about wanting to read a book, satiate curiosity, and to experience this sense of wonder and comfort and calm.
I still avoid the Book much of the time. Not as purposely, mind you - that evil has been dead to me for two years now, and nobody cares if I read it or not (well, except a certain friend of mine, but she has scarcely a dribble of power over me compared to the power I gave my biological mother). Nonetheless, the awareness of this avoidance still plagues me. I can now acknowledge it more openly to myself, but I still don't make it a point to read it. Then again, I counter, I know a lot of it. Its stories were drilled into me rather effectively, despite all doubts. But, I remind myself, when you hear a song about God or read anything having to do with Him, your first instinct is to bolt. That's true, I admit. I still harbour fear and resentment deep within for that one who would have had me turn away from Him. "God can be found everywhere, you know," I then sense. "After all your words, you are now the one limiting Him."
Something about casting the first stone? I daresay, it's true.
My non-religious mother-in-law gave me a book called "Love Does" by Bob Goff. It came with a warning that it is somewhat religious in that the guy talks a lot about God, but it was a good read nonetheless. Her taste in books often mirrors my own, so I figured what the hey, and began reading. Wonderful, lighthearted, happy, joyous, optimistic - this God-loving fellow has all of that to share and then some. This is the opposite of what "she" would have read, yet here it is, God in all His glory, talking to me through this weird, witty, unflappable, undaunted, unhaunted lawyer-authour. I frequently find myself stopping to smile and reflect on how happy I am that I didn't simply turn this book over to my religiously fanatic friend - although I will gladly turn it over to her once I'm done - I strongly suspect this is one book we would both enjoy. Perhaps even discuss. Probably not the last part, but maybe.
"The original sin is to limit the Is. Don't." Richard Bach wrote that in "Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah." That has stuck with me since the first time I read it. It resonated deeper than any bass string could ever have resonated. It has helped me to get farther in life, because I know that I get in God's way an awful lot, and that one-liner helps me remember to get out of my own way so God can guide me towards what's best for me in the long run so I can do my tiny little part in whatever Plan is intended. It tends to have the side effect of helping me be happier, too, and life seems generally easier. Not to say I don't still stress over stuff like a normal human being, but because of that one-liner, I allow the stress to consume me knowing that it's normal and it will be over at some point so I can get back on track. And I always do, somehow. Some times, it takes longer than others.
This "Love Does" book, well, the guy says something I also liked. He'd always thought you had to be someone special to be used by God. Now he knows you just have to say "Yes."
It is perhaps ironic that the only items I have any desire of which are my mother's are her Bible and an orange cup, the last surviving cup of four. The orange cup, because it's butt-ugly in its own pretty way and reminds me of the time she shattered one and made me clean it up because she had let so much rage build up that it exploded one day in the eighties. The Bible is more curious. It should represent everything I hated about her, yet it doesn't. I have very fond memories of curling up with it and gently flipping through the thin, golden-edged pages, marveling at the Old English spellings and soaking them in at a young age. It strongly influenced how I spell today, although I only realised that in the last ten years when I leafed through it some time ago and saw those spellings. All those comments, arguments! That's not how you spell colour, I was constantly reprimanded by both teacher and peer alike. Most certainly is one way of spelling colour, I'd state unwaveringly, knowing it was also in the little red dictionary I carried with me everywhere I went. But for years I could not figure out where I first saw those spellings or why I automatically went British on my fellow Americans. Then one day, talking to Mum, there it was: I picked up her Bible and leafed through it. "Oh," I said. What, she said. "This is where I got those from." "What?" "'o-u' in colour, favourite, neighbour. It's Old English. This was my first book."
She likely believes my first book was a children's story she read to me when I was little. She taught me to read very early on. I remember those lessons, the ones she'd give me before she turned on me, back when she still had enough love to share with a wee one. But I've considered her Bible my first real book for as long as I can remember. It has always been there shining at me with its soft yellow-white glow, even when she'd wield its contents as she might a sword.
Why do I limit the Is so? Why did I ever allow her to steer me away from that book? Why wasn't I strong enough to read it in front of her? Dunno. Point of wonder, but then, back then, I was a happy soul shoved in a torturous cage of fear and isolation and oppression. My internal fire was scarcely an ember, buried in sand, awaiting the day a pocket of air would appear to fan it back into an inferno that could eventually settle into a firmly warming crackle. It simply wasn't time at the time. I'm human, is what that boils down to. Just like every human else. :)
~nv
