I love to own books. I want people to come to my house and admire the shelves of hardcover classics and provocative, postmodern authors.
When I was single and childless I threw anything I owned onto the bookshelf. I have to be a bit more selective now. Cinderella and the Backyardigans have taken over the shelf that used to be laden with the weightiness of my Bible College textbooks. Nine piece puzzles and a plastic school bus abide where once rested epic tales of swashbuckling adventure. Bulky photo albums of all sizes and colors have squeezed out books I’d never read but were ancient and weathered (and thus very chic). N.T. Wright’s theological musings now share the prime real estate of my last remaining shelf with Bill Watterson’s timeless ‘Calvin and Hobbes’.
This lack of concern for the written manifestation of my masculine ego has recently become a serious problem. I’m taking an online course now that requires the digestion of at least 23 books over the next year. I’ve haphazardly given a nod to my wife’s totally reasonable request to use the library or borrow the books from friends- but c’mon! I need man-space!
So I recently visited an online book retailer, deciding that the next best thing to books on a shelf would be books strewn wantonly throughout the house. I was looking for one book in particular. Softcover- $11.99; hardcover- $16.99. Then I saw a hardcover edition for $6.99! I couldn’t believe it! I rubbed my eyes. I pinched myself. A little voice told me it wasn’t what it seemed, but I squashed that thought like the first mosquito of summer and ordered my new trophy.
This is what came in the mail:
I’m sure there’s a lesson in this somewhere. Something about God giving us exactly what we want in a size that fits into the clutter of our lives. Maybe you can figure it out for me- I've got some reading to do.
Now where did I put my glasses?
