On September 24, 1967, my Methodist Sunday school teacher gave me my first Bible, the Revised Standard Edition, as a gift upon entering the third grade. When I was a girl, I carried it out to the woods near my house to read privately and pray ”” enthralled by the Psalms, stories of Old Testament heroes and Jesus’ teachings.
I read it like a book, starting with Genesis and trying to read to the end. Every summer, I attempted to read the whole thing. I cannot even remember how many times I read Genesis and the early bits of Exodus ”” only to stop somewhere around the Ten Commandments and skip around to whatever interested me.
That Bible now sits on a shelf behind my writing desk, its yellowed pages growing brittle. Next to it sit other Bibles I have owned.