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TRUST JESUS TODAY
She held the book as if it was a sacred treasure. The worn leather cover was thin and supple from hands that had clasped and opened it innumerable times. The edges of the pages had lost their sharp crispness; had softened and yielded from fingers that had paged through them lovingly and often. The spine had lost its rigidity but not its strength, protectively binding pages and cover together. No title marred the smooth surface, but it did not need one. The words within it were enough.
Her slender fingers gently caressed the book. They skimmed lightly across the warm leather cover; then slipped deftly within, parting the fragile pages. Rustling like autumn leaves, the pages fluttered; opening and settling comfortably in her hands. Like as an invisible dust, the scent of ancient ink and paper rose into the evening air, resting like a shawl across her shoulders.
In the subdued light of a dying day, woman and book seemed to blend into one entity. There was an intimacy in the movements of hands and pages; a familiarity born of years of closeness between woman and book. Her eyes spoke to it, silently seeking its wisdom, and it answered her in the same hushed tone; its soundless voice bringing a soft smile to her gently curved mouth. Her eyes closed for a moment and she sighed deeply, breathing in the words; her hand upon the parchment absorbing its Truth.
A small movement, a soft brush of socked feet on wooden floors, and her eyes opened. They rested warmly on a small, auburn-haired child standing sleepily in the shadows of the doorway.
“Grandma?” she questioned, her voice softly confused by sleep.
The woman’s hand lifted like a small bird, beckoning the child closer.
“Come sit with me, sweetheart,” she said.
She shifted slightly as the child padded quietly cross the burnished floors; felt the warmth of her youthfulness beside her own frailty as the child curled up against her. A small hand closed around her fingers where they rested on the page, and she gently curved her fingers around it.
“Would you like to hear a story from Jesus?” she asked.
The child nodded and settled closer, blending into the portrait of woman and book. The woman’s voice lifted and fell, the child listened in her arms, and the last rays of sunlight slipped quietly from the room.
Standing in the doorway, beyond the shadows of the room, a man watched reverently as his mother lovingly shared with her small charge the words that years of devotion had engraved in her heart…words that even her blindness could not erase.
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