Faith like this…it’s rare. I remember my father’s Bible, marked up just like this. I remember my hand folded in his warm, dry one as we prayed at dinner. I remember how he’d always, without fail, use the Bibles tucked in the back of the pews to follow along with the readings. Like the words were that important—they couldn’t only be heard, they had to be seen. They couldn’t only be seen, but they had to be understood, felt, ingested.
