The Little Red Bible
You can imagine my surprise when my mother handed me a tiny little red Bible. Inside the cover, in childish handwriting, was my name. I remembered that little Bible well. It was so tiny and cute and most appealing to my 7-year-old self. It had come from Mrs Butler’s house many years ago.
My mother’s friend, Mrs. Butler, had a cupboard full of wonderful books of all shapes and sizes. Every time my brother and I ran up to her house to visit, she would give us tea and biscuits and we would run home with special treasures. That little red Bible was one of those treasures. I remembered it so well.
But now, thirty-two years later, I had my own children all three under 10 years old who were busy collecting their own gifted treasures. I was curious as to why my mother had the bible. I was so pleased, surprised and excited by the next part of the story my mother told me. Apparently, I had left that little red Bible at Teresa’s house. I never remembered that!
My mind meandered back over a series of impressionable childhood memories. Teresa was my best and first school friend. Teresa was a ballet dancer and could stand on her toes in her pink pointe shoes. I could never have imagined she was anything but happy, particularly when watching her spinning and twirling across the room while dancing. This wasn’t so. One day she told me how her parents were fighting all the time. She was sad and frightened and said they would be getting ‘unmarried’.
I was terribly upset for her. I remember lying awake in bed, crying and praying for her. That same night, I couldn’t sleep, so I made my way to my parents' bedroom. I woke my dad up and asked him if he and my mother would be getting unmarried, as this terrible thing was happening to Teresa’s parents. “Well, not tonight anyway,” he said. “So go back to bed!” I laugh now, but then, at seven, it was no comfort whatsoever and only fuelled my anxiety.
My safe space was to talk to God. So, cry and pray is what I would do. Years rolled by and we both changed schools. We did, however, met up later in high school, although in different classes. One day, Teresa came looking for me. She told me again her parents were fighting and how distressing this was. My heart broke for her once more. This time I went around the corner and sat on the steps praying. I was unable to hold my tears. My Latin teacher found me and asked why I was crying. I told her what had happened and she too was sad.
These memories were imprinted on my young mind and easy to recall at the mention of Teresa’s or the family’s name. My mom continued to fill me in as she handed me that little treasure. She said Teresa’s parents wanted me to have my Bible back and said to please let Ann know how that little red book had changed their lives. They found it in their house where I had left it on my last visit. They said when they came across the little red book, they started reading it and it was the beginning of their finding their way back to being in love with one another, living very happily together and having a solid faith in God. Their marriage had needed a miracle and the little red Bible had played an important part in their reconciliation with each other and with God. Over 30 years later, my mom said they really did look so in love and full of joy.
This highlights the scripture found in Isaiah 55:11, where it is written: “My word shall not return to me void.” I kept the little red Bible safely tucked away, but soon I felt I wanted to give it to a little boy who regularly visited us. He was one of my children’s troubled school friends. I told him the story and said I wanted him to have the little red Bible, to keep it safe and remember the story, knowing that God hears our prayers. I told him that the words in the Bible would show him the way when he felt lost.
A year later, we received news that he had died after an allergic reaction to a penicillin injection. It is my hope that the words in the little red Bible comforted him as they had done before. Both the story and the Bible's words remain!
That comforts me.
I think we could all do with some more tea.
Ann’s Story