There is an image in my mind which was planted in the earliest dawn of my memory, and which I hope will remain with me into the twilight of old age. It is of my mother reading her Bible. She sits enthroned on her overstuffed blue chair, ensconced in a soft red bath robe, bathed in the cool light of morning. A cup of coffee sends writhing wisps of steam into the air from its precarious perch on the arm of her chair. Her Bible lies open on her lap, the well-loved pages threatening to make a desperate bid for freedom from the sagging binding. She reads, she prays, she smiles at me as I patter into her quotidian sanctuary.
From a young age, I knew that when I thirsted for wisdom, I could go to my mother because her well was deep, dug over many years of patiently pouring over Scripture.
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