But tonight was different. On this night, each of the six-year old boys in the cottage was being presented with his very own Bible. Most of the older children already had a Bible of their own, their names written in marker on the covers, warned to not misplace them. The same had been done for these younger boys, their names written neatly in black marker on the inside cover.
Mama Esther had the stack sitting beside her on the table. Before she handed them out, though, she gave a message that has been seared into my brain forever. At the time it was a rebuke to my heart, unbeknownst to her. Now it is a haunting reminder, the memory serving as a gentle nudge so often. The speech might have been intended for a group of young boys in Kenya, but it was a swift kick to a girl in America.
She looked very carefully, very intensely at each of the boys and said her in thick Kenyan accent, "Don't ever go to sleep without knowing where this is," holding up the Bible. She paused, as if gathering steam. "If you wake up in the middle of the night and don't know where it is, you get out of bed and you go find it. And you do not rest until you have found it again."
And like a swift blow to the heart, as those words tumbled out of Mama Esther's mouth, I was humbled and convicted, realizing I was more apt to be concerned about where my phone was rather than where the Word of God was. Dear Jesus, forgive me.
Since that time, I have realized time and again how little I esteem the Word of God. I treat it so lightly, acting like reading it is a chore rather than the privilege it is, acting like it is an inconvenience rather than a joy. While I might go to bed each night knowing where it is, how often I go to bed each night not knowing what it says.
For whatever reason, one of the disciplines I struggle with most in this journey of following Christ is reading His Word. I know. You wouldn't think so. You would think the girl who loves to read books would have read this thing cover to cover by now and have it memorized forwards and backwards. Yet I stumble over it in the pursuit of reading anything but that. I find a million other things to do or accomplish before I sit down to soak it up.
But Jesus has continually reminded me of this elementary and oh-so-obvious truth:
If the Word of God is ever to make a difference in my life, I have to pick it up for myself.
I've got to physically pick this thing up and actually crack open the pages. There is no shortcut to reading His Word and knowing His will. I can't get it by osmosis and I can't get it by listening to a thousand other sermons merely about His Word. I can't get it by merely talking about it and I can't get it by reading other books written about The Book. I've got to pick it up for myself. You've got to pick it up for yourself.
As Mama Esther said, may I not rest until I find it. May I not rest until I find Him. When I wake up in the middle of the night, would I go in search of it. When I rise in the morning, may I be scrambling to study its pages. When I pause in the day, may its verses fill my mind. Because it's never going to make a difference in my life if I leave it on the shelf and hope by some miracle it leaks into my soul. It simply will not work that way. And yet I have fooled myself into thinking I can get bits and pieces of it here and there. Some on Sundays. Some on Monday nights when I feel like it. Some on Wednesdays at small group.
Pick it up, Courtney.
Pick.it.up.
Father, forgive me for thinking so little of your breath breathed onto the pages of life. Forgive me for forgetting that a vast majority of the world doesn't even have a Bible and yet when they do, it it their greatest possession- and yet I have numerous copies and mine gather dust. Forgive me for finding a thousand excuses for not making time to bask in the glory of your holy and perfect Word. Not a one of those excuses is legitimate.
May I never go to sleep again without knowing where it is and the power it contains.
