A basic, forgetful object so many overlook. Filled with old trees, tar, old bones, and pitch, formed together to make words, to convey a message, sometimes worth reading, sometimes not. The covers, some beautiful, some repulsive, all purposeful. Pages filled with words and pictures, jokes and stories, songs of the heart, and deep thoughts from our buried consciences. Some pages tainted with coffee stains from an accidental spill from the hopeful enjoyment of pursuing a good story and revitalizing your body for proper pleasure. Others are just as crisp as the day they left the press. A true lover of books takes care of each book they have in their possession. They are not merely pages with letters jumbled around randomly; they are each a distinct piece of art, formed by, not the hands of the author, but by the soul and imagination of another.
Books convey a part of someone’s heart and imagination, desperately attempting to relate with someone, anyone. They come in so many shapes and sizes: physically, spiritually, and emotionally. They bring goodness and joy and sorrow and pain. They form to our hearts as our hearts form from them.
Like people, books aren’t meant to be alone; they are made to connect. They are worlds ready to be entered; they are journals attempting to be heard and understood; they are an extension of another human being longing to be held and cared for. Books are simple, pure, and elegant. They are quiet and unassuming. They are humble and bold. They are unique and secure. Books allow us to escape our world and enter another, fully baptizing our imaginations. They are not meant to be used once, but are meant to be revisited, over and over again. Their design, while bastardized at times through malicious manipulation, is to surround the mind and soul of a person, piercing the deepest parts of their heart. Their two-dimensional pages are designed to grow and become, against all plausible explanations, as many dimensions as one can make them become, permeating through every piece of existence.
Above all books is the Book. This Book is more than merely old trees, tar, old bones, and pitch; it is the book of life, love, grace, peace, and hope. It transcends everything we read, because it is authored by the Author that transcends all we know, do not know, and cannot know. This Book did not remain bound within the words written and spoken; The Word became flesh. The Word relates with us because He can sympathize with us. He lived a human life in its fullness. He is goodness and joy and our hearts form to His likeness as we draw near to Him, not because we are worthy but because He is good. Although we may feel alone, we are not. Our interaction with the Book is an interaction with the Author of all things.