Between the Covers

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Life is a Bible.
Outside, leather-bound,
creased like valleys carved by time,
worn smooth by hands
that needed answers
long before they had words for their questions.


On the front—
Holy Bible.
Not just a title.
Not just gold letters.
But a cry.
A longing.
Stamped deep enough to last a lifetime.
A reminder that somewhere in these pages—
there’s my directions home.

I flip to the table of contents,
and wonder if my life has one.
Would it list beginnings…
betrayals…
wars fought in silence?
Would joy be a Psalm—
short, melodic, gone too soon?
Would warning be a prophet’s voice—
fire spilling from his mouth?

There’s a space for my name—
scribbled in childhood handwriting,
crooked, innocent,
a little girl wanting to believe,
she belonged in the story.

And there’s a tree.
Roots in Eden.
Branches heavy with apples and nuts—
fruit sweet enough to nourish,
shells hard enough to break me.
Wisdom and foolishness,
growing side by side.
I learned young—
one bite can both heal and haunt.

Ah… the ribbon marker.
Red. Satin.
A vein of blood running down the spine,
keeping track of where I was,
reminding me of what I lost,
guiding me back—
to where I stopped believing.
Or maybe…
to where I first dared to begin again.

My childhood is pressed into these pages.
Lullabies of Psalms by lamplight.
“Look to the light.”
Warnings etched in Proverbs.
Prophecies that felt like punishments.

But still—
between the warnings and the promises,
between the maps and the miracles—
I found words that carry me.
Words that guided me home.
Words that whispered:
you are not forgotten.

Life… is a Bible.
Some pages torn.
Some unread.
But every line—
blessing or curse—
is part of the story that made me.

And I’m still……

writing in the margins.


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