Give Me the Old BOOK!
The Precious
King James Bible
by David J. Stewart
When I was growing up, I remember my mother
often sleeping with her Bible held in her arms. I didn't think much about
it at the time, but now I look back and cherish those memories. My mother
held on to her faith when she had nothing else to hold on to. The following is
painful for me to talk about, but something that I believe is more beneficial to
share with others than to bury in the past. If you have nightmares, as I
often do, you may not want to read this.
Our family was far from ideal during my childhood. In fact, we went through living hell. My father had grown up in an orphanage, and lived a tumultuous life. He was abusive and an angry man, and often drunk. Although he professed of having found the Lord as a youth, he was a monster at times. When I was a little boy, my father put a knife to my mother's throat. I ran into the kitchen, begging him not to kill my mother. He threw me up against the wall and I remember urinating on myself in fear. He told me the next morning how ashamed he was of me for interfering with him and my mother. He kicked her, threw food at her, hit her, placed a gun to her head and to no surprise, put her in the hospital. He had thrown something at her and split her eye open. I remember seeing the white meat exposed above her eye. Blood was everywhere in the kitchen. My father told us to lie that my mother fell baking a cake at 3 a.m. in the morning, and so we did for fear.
I don't judge my father, for we are all sinners deserving of Hellfire. Oh, how booze destroys!
I was not exempt from such abuse. My father once threw an open can of paint stripper at me, burning me all over. He hit me upside the head, and knocked me to the ground, more times than I can remember. I know what it means to live in constant fear. I had always hoped my father would change, but he never did.
I remember my little sister running to hide in the alley for fear of my father's wrath. One day my father became enraged while driving on the highway, aggressively pulling over and yelling for us to "get out" of the van. Seconds later he yelled, "get back in," and we did. As my father quickly speed away in his anger, my mother screamed in horror as my little sister was running down the highway in back of the van, with cars swerving to miss her.
My little brother, Paul, died as a baby from heart-complications. My mother confided to my sister years later that my father kicked her in the stomach while pregnant, which she believed led to my brother's premature death.
As an ordained neo-evangelical minister, my father's office wall was covered with degrees, certificates and diplomas. Sadly, I don't even know if he's in Heaven or Hell, because his beliefs were so messed up. Although he professed to be a Christian, he went to the hospital to read my mother her last rights (a heathen Catholic practice) while dying. He wrote down on the hospital records that my mother was a Lutheran (a false religion), which she certainly wasn't. He once received honors from a local Freemasonry lodge (a Satanic organization). The president of his church board was a Freemason.
My mother had a stroke years later and was wheel-chair bound. Even then my father still had not learned to control his temper. One day he poured a gallon of bleach over my mother's head while she sat helplessly in a wheelchair. My father's second home was the tavern. He oftentimes left my mother outside, sitting in a wheelchair in the van, while he would play a chess game for hours at a time. Truly, he was a sinister minister. For all the reasons my mother could have found to divorce my father, she never did. They were married for 36 years. My mother loved my father, but even more, she loved the Lord Jesus Christ. It was my mother's genuine faith in the Word of God that kept her going.
I saw her faith while she was dying in the hospital. Even after having both legs amputated, a heartache, kidney failure and Pneumonia, she still held on to God's Word. She said, "I've got the best Doctor there is." I replied, "I know the doctors here at St. Joseph's hospital are very good." She again said, "I've got the best doctor there is... the Great Physician!" It took me a moment to realize that she was speaking of the Wonderful Savior, Jesus Christ. I sure miss my mother, but I praise the Lord that her many pains and sufferings finally ended on August 19th, 2001. She's now in Heaven with the Great Physician.
I don't hate my father, but I surely wish he had been a lot nicer. My father never thought he needed preaching, so he never went to church. As my mother so often said, "He thinks the world centers around him." I love and miss my father and mother very much. I believe my father received the Lord as a young man, but never matured in his faith. How sad! How tragic! We are provided with plenty of examples from the Scriptures of believers who sinned horribly. I now understand why my mother clenched her Bible in her arms night after night. She was living in hell. I find myself, in this cold-hearted and wicked world, increasingly reaching out to God's Word as my mother did. She may not have known what the words "apologetics" or "eschatology" meant; but she loved the Lord and His Word. She loved the Bible!
I shudder to think what my life would be like today if it weren't for the Word of God. I suffer from herniated disks in my neck, which afflict me day and night with excruciating pain and tension in my neck. Although I am not suicidal, I long for this life to end so my pain and suffering will also end. My neurosurgeon has told me that surgery likely won't help the condition in my neck, and strongly cautions against surgery because of possible paralysis. The only way I can face each day is by holding dearly onto the same precious Bible that my mother held onto. I thank God that I don't drink alcohol, because I know I'd be an alcoholic. It sounds great to think that I could drink my troubles away; but I know from watching others that booze causes many more troubles than it solves. God's Word is the answer.
