When I was just six, on a bright Christmas morning,
I got a leather Bible—all shiny and glowing.
My name was in gold on the front, nice and neat,
And at church, I carried it proudly to my seat.
I took it each Sunday, both evening and morn,
Like a soldier with armor, though weathered and worn.
But here’s the odd thing, though I carried it well.
Unread, what was inside I never could tell.
Then when I turned seven, what gift did I see?
A comic book of biblical stories, as grand as could be.
It was great, as with Superman, with miracles inside
That would open my eyes and stretch my faith wide.
I read it at breakfast, at lunch, and before bed.
The cover fell off—it was so often read.
But church? Oh, I never did carry it there.
It stayed in my room and got ragged with care.
Two books, two beginnings, two journeys, you see—
One truth I would carry, the other read to me.
Now here I am standing, much older today,
Still learning what stories will shape what I say.
Some moments with God I can’t fully explain,
Too big for an email or words to contain.
But I know that he met me—in church and in bed,
Through the book that I carried, the one that I read.
