Many nights I slept over with my grandparents. They spoiled me, of course, as all grandparents are supposed to do for their grandchildren. Funny, now that I think about it, there’s only one instance that sticks out in my mind; out of all my sleepover visits, I really remember just this one. When I was about six, it finally dawned on me that my grandmother was always up with the roosters. Being the inquisitive child that I was, I set out one morning to find out what was so important about being up while it was still dark out.
I heard her alarm clock ring and the muffled sounds of the dresser drawers and closet doors opening. Then I heard the water for her bath. I stumbled around in the dark trying to dress, not wanting to give away my secret. Eventually her bedroom door creaked and footsteps padded off toward the kitchen. The kitchen light clicked on. I heard the scraping of the chair legs on the tile as my grandmother sat down to the table. I slowly snuck down the hall and peeked my head around the corner.
There she was, dressed for the day, with a steaming hot cup of black coffee by her side. I could smell it. I squinted. There in front of her lay her open Bible, on top of which rested her folded hands. Her lips silently moved in prayer. This was it – the reason she woke up before everybody else each morning was to study God’s Word.
Now it was no secret that my grandmother was the best cook in three counties. Medals and ribbons from fairs past would prove that. I had always assumed that her cooking was the reason she rose so early. However, knowing the true reason shed light on another thing I had noticed: the condition of her Bible. Yellowed pages were taped in. The spine was cracked and worn. The front cover was bent and scarred from so many openings. This Bible was well worn. In my eyes, I thought it was past time for a replacement.
So it was when I got my first job a few years later, I bought everybody in my family Christmas gifts. I watched in delight as my grandmother tore off the wrapping paper of the present. Her eyes sparkled as she mouthed her gratitude to me across the room. In the box was her very own new leather Bible, complete with her name engraved on the front cover. It took my grandmother almost three months to move all her notes from the old Bible to the new one. Two Christmases later, however, her Bible showed signs of wear. A tradition had begun. Every year that I noticed her Bible looking ragged, I bought her a new one. . .and every year that she unwrapped the package, she looked genuinely surprised.
Some folks may say that it was extravagant to get a new Bible every few years. I know my grandmother. She lived through the Great Depression. She was taught to conserve. . .taught the value of things. . .taught to wear things out. This gift of something new meant a great deal to her. I could see it in her eyes each time. Moreover, the gift of God’s Word meant even more than a new cookbook or a new robe.
Last March I got the call. Grandma died peacefully in her sleep. I watched as they lowered her into the ground while the preacher talked of ashes and dust. “That’s it,” I thought. “Our tradition is over.” I cried – but not tears of sorrow or pain or loss. I cried tears of joy. I knew she was in a much better place.
Yesterday was Christmas. I will admit that I woke up a little disheartened. I missed her. As I picked up the wrapping paper from the floor and placed it in the trash bag, I noticed another present under the tree. I walked over, picked it up, and read the tag. It was mine. I unwrapped the box, and there they were: two Bibles. One was old and ragged. It was Grandma’s. Nestled beside it was a new one that had my name on the cover. I read the enclosed card written in my grandmother’s handwriting. “I once heard that a Bible that’s falling apart usually belongs to someone who isn’t. It’s your turn now.” I think I’ll get up early tomorrow morning.
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