Genesis went flying to the floor . . . literally. It came unglued, unhinged from its binding and cascaded to the ground a few weeks ago while I was walking down the hallway. I knew it was loose, knew it wouldn’t be long before I would have to give attention to its permanency. The cover holding it all together—the entirety of God’s Word—had long since lost its luster. My Bible desperately needed a make-over, but I kept hoping for “later” rather than “sooner.” It kept telling me “sooner” rather than “later,” and when Genesis fell to the floor, I made the decision to fix the problem.
After all, what good is the story—my story—when the beginning is omitted? When Genesis goes missing, so goes understanding. Life, faith, and truth must be worked out within the framework of Genesis—our beginning days when the Word hovered over the dark and the deep and spoke words of gracious and good creation. We need the witness of our beginning. No life story is complete without it. With this in mind, I carefully packed my “Genesis,” along with the remaining balance of Scripture, and sent my beloved Bible to Burrows, IN. Apparently, the Word is alive and active in Burrows, and there are some wonderful folks at Leonard’s Books more than willing to make sure that my beginning stays intact.
I am grateful for their handiwork. Yes, I could have purchased another Bible, perhaps a couple for the price that I paid to have it restored, but they wouldn’t be able to replace this one. Why? Because it is this Bible, the one I purchased eight years ago, that has literally transformed my heart. This Bible and I have some longevity with one another; I plan on it walking with me the rest of the journey home. Having my beginning in hand makes my ending that much sweeter.
So, a question or two. What do you do when your beginning—your “Genesis”—falls to the ground, separates itself from the rest of the pages of your story? Do you leave it there unattended? Do you tuck it away in a drawer with good intentions to graft it back in at a later date? Do you cast it aside, deem it unnecessary and discard it along with yesterday’s trash? Do you stuff it back inside the covers of your story with hopes that it will stay . . . all on its own, without glue, without hinge?
Sometimes, our stories take a hit or two. Sometimes our “Genesis” falls to the ground. We lose our compass and stray far from God’s intended path. We foolishly make assumptions regarding the “fix” thereby postponing understanding. We patch, paste, and carelessly cram God’s Word together, hoping it will be enough to carry us through to the finish. But patching, pasting, and cramming leave the door open for neglect—for misplaced pages, fallen chapters, and lost beginnings. When we forsake the entirety of God’s Word, when we pick and choose what stays and what gets left behind, we’ve lost some of our story. And to lose our story, friends, is to lose the purpose of our lives.
How much better would it be if we carefully and willingly picked up the missing pages of our stories and sent them to God for the rebinding? He is the glue who holds our pages together, who scripts our lives from beginning to end, and who promises to make them all count . . . every last word of this great adventure called life.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning (John 1:1-2).
He is with us still—our “sooner” rather than “later.” I don’t know about you, but I could certainly use some soul-rebinding right now . . . there’s something missing in my life, a few pages that have been lost along the way. Even as I am willing to send off my Bible for repair, I pray for a heart that is willing to do the same. Maybe you understand; maybe this post is for you.
May the tender, gracious hands of the Father rest upon you and lovingly rebind your story to his this day. May the truth that you hold in your heart be the same truth that he holds in his, and may his covering be the strength that binds all the pages of your story together and that carries you safely home to heaven. As always . . .
Peace for the journey,