One week ago I lost my bible. It was a gift from a former boss, but even more than that, that particular bible was a special gift from God himself. I had contemplated getting a new one for a couple of years. Ever since I had graduated from colleges, all of my bibles were a specific translation, the most correct in my estimation, and also hardback. But as time went on, I began to realize that they had ceased being the book of my heart, and began to be the book of my head.
So I wanted a new bible…a “cuddly bible”. I already had one that I had carried everywhere in college and had long since been falling apart and retired. But now I needed a new “cuddly bible.” One that I could crawl in bed with and not worry about getting poked. A bible that I could seek Jesus with my heart with, not have to be caught up in the translation of specific definite articles (which I love but sometimes need to pull away from). The other bibles I had bought because they were the “right” bibles to have. But they weren’t what I needed. I needed something to connect me not to the God of academia, but to the God of my heart.
The Christmas of 2003, my mom gave me money to get a new one. But I couldn’t choose which translation I wanted. So the money got spent on other things. A year later, my boss was moving to a new role and gave each of us a parting gift…a small, leather, flexible, soft, new living translation bible. She gave us grey and black ones, but it didn’t quite seem like me. So I exchanged it for a brown and black one, which seemed perfect. I contemplated switching translations, too but I decided it, like the bible itself, was a gift from Jesus. The NLT isn’t the most scholarly of translations and my pride really bucked it. It still does in a lot of ways. But I knew it was what I needed. I read things I’d never seen before and it truly became the bible of my heart, my “cuddly bible.”
Then this last week, I had a meeting with someone at a coffee shop before church and when I was getting out of my car to go to church, I realized it wasn’t there. I looked in my car and didn’t find it. I drove back to the coffee shop with no avail. It was gone. I was sad, but I remembered God’s way of brining my bibles back. The three times it happened before were pretty miraculous: stolen backpacks, lost coats, drunk college boys, and miles and miles. But would God do that again?
Fast forward to Friday: Thursday night I received some news that shook me deeply, made me wonder what God was doing, made me feel grapple with deep fears of loneliness and abandonment. I had spent the better part of Friday morning in my office trying to hold it all together. At lunch I needed to be alone. I grabbed my purse, some water, and tissues and walked away from my desk, not knowing where I’d end up. I got in my car and went to the far corner of the parking lot where I’d park facing some bushes so no one could see inside the car. I cried. I don’t remember what was going through my head except feeling alone, alone, alone. I knew God was there in my head, but I didn’t want Him, I wanted someone who would actually show up.
Eventually, my eyes drifted to the corner of my car between the passenger seat and car wall, just under the seat belt. I noticed the corner of a book sticking out—a book with a soft black leather binding. It was one of those moments that happened in slow motion. I’m pretty sure I closed my eyes and had to look again out of disbelief. I slowly reached out to take it, drawing it into my chest incredulous. And then I knew. I cried from the depths of my heart and knew right then that though I thought I was alone, I wasn’t. Jesus was right there with me. He said to me, “I know, I see, I’m here.”
So it was a miracle. Not a miracle of miles or of sobered-up college boys assuaging their consciences by doing a good deed, but a miracle of timing. I looked in my car three times, running my hand through those cracks around the door. Maybe it was there the whole time and God hid it from my eyes, knowing I’d need it more later in the week when I wasn’t likely to have it. Maybe it wasn’t there at all and God put it back. I don’t know. All I know is that it was there, the “word made flesh” was there among us, among just me in my car.
The marker was set to Psalm 33. The passage I went to in worship with the same Thursday night group with whom I had received the heartbreaking news. I had just spent time there again before I lost it for five days. Those verses there have driven their way into my heart, comforting me from the depths of God’s character and trustworthiness. I still struggle with feeling alone and abandoned, but I remember now that He sees. I don’t think it would have fit back in that little corner if it weren’t so soft and flexible. I know I couldn’t have drawn it into my chest and hugged it without getting poked by a hard edge. God speaks through His word, whether or not it’s cuddly. He just showed up in a way He knew I needed…softly and tenderly and at just the right time.
