When I open the King James Bible that sits on one end of my shelf of Bibles, I’m “beamed back” instantly to my childhood in the church.
I just loved going to church. Still do. And I loved this Bible, although I didn’t understand it. I carried it to church and watched with awe as our pastors led worship. I sat at their feet as they prepared us for confirmation, which I took twice at my earnest request — at 13 and again at 16.
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