The boy I call Jacob moved several months ago to the town south of us. One of our church members has become a surrogate grandpa, checks up on Jacob, and is able to sometimes bring Jacob to church with him. Other times, we never know when, Jacob comes back to spend a weekend with his biological grandma.
The gift he held out to me was a Bible.
It’s funny how many thoughts can run through your brain in the span of a few seconds. My mouth opened to say, “Oh I don’t need another Bible.” Then I looked closely. It was a King James Bible. I flipped through the pages. It was microprint. I can’t use this Bible, I thought. Why is this kid giving me this?
Then I thought, who knows what Jacob went through to get this Bible for me? He may have picked it up at a thrift shop or even our local clothes closet. However he got it, he thought of us. In his child’s heart, it was the best gift he could think of to give a minister and his wife.
Jacob’s next words affirmed my hunch. “I wrote something to you in the front. I’m sorry I spelled words wrong. I did the best I could.” Jacob always has such a defeated look on his face. It breaks my heart every time.
I turned to the front flap. Here is what he wrote:
Too many Bibles? Not my favorite version? Too small of print? Since when were those things important? Someone just gave me much out of his little. Words of thanks for how we have been there for him weren’t enough so he gave the only thing he knew to give.
I’m keepin’ that Bible, you bet I am.