"...in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us" - Romans 8:37
There is a blue bible that sits on my nightstand. It is
tattered and worn, the way a good bible should be. It once belonged to my
mother-in-law, Carol. I don’t read it
much because in it there are notes, upon notes, surrounding highlighted bits of
text and scripture, amidst a sea of personal comments and reflections. She had
this bible a long time. I imagine it escorted her through the many challenges
of being a good wife, mother, daughter, friend and sister.
It also escorted her all the way through the battle with
breast cancer that she would eventually lose. And this is where you will find
me leaving the bible there, on my nightstand, untouched. Because to open it is
to find so much faith that it will either drop you to your knees or bring you
to tears. Often, it’s both. One can read the reflections of C.S.
Lewis, Henri Nouwen, Billy Graham or others and
still not find the same value of wisdom in words written by someone whom you
knew, personally, and loved…as they fought the good fight all the way to the
end.
Irony is a constant companion. For me, this bible recalls a
girl in Hermosa Beach back in the summer of 1990. I worked as a parking
attendant back then in the booth on 11th Street, and one day I found
a bible…worn, tattered, torn…that someone had accidentally left on a fence post
nearby. I grabbed it, opened it and scoffed. Inside? Notes upon notes, surrounding highlighted
bits of text and scripture, amidst a sea of personal comments. “What a nut job!”
I thought. I was going to leave it until I noticed that on the
inside cover there was a name and a phone number. I sighed. Oh,
brother. Now I had to call and meet the nut job, or I’d feel guilty.
When she appeared an hour later, overjoyed and beyond
relieved to get her bible back, I got exactly what I expected. Younger than me, in
her early 20’s, she was dressed like a hippie and wearing sandals. We chatted briefly.
She invited me to her church, Hope Chapel, and I smiled – an arrogant,
condescending, ignorant smile – and told her thanks, but no thanks. I bid her
goodbye. She left with her bible and I never saw her again.
Over 25 years later, here I am again, with a bible of utter
and complete testimony. Except this one wasn’t lost. It was left behind. Not as
a farewell, but as a constant introduction. Not as an example, but as an inspiration.
It belonged to a woman of great faith
and insurmountable love…my mother-in-law...Carol Arriola.
Who once went to Hope Chapel.
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