Putting My Friends into Boxes

I have a rather large number of books I consider dear friends. They 'pick up the phone' whenever I call. Most of them sit in piles by my bedside table, or rest on an end-table beside my couch. A large crock of them stand at attention in my downstairs bathroom.



I cannot pack them, yet. I need them.



There is nothing like knowing that C.S. Lewis is just an arms-length away.



Or that Annie Dillard is mucking around in a creek just a few feet from my head as I sleep.



Knowing Gladys Taber's inspiration is leaning up against fine fiction by Elizabeth Goudge helps me to sleep on restless nights.



It's still more likely that no toilet paper can be found in the bathroom than that a volume of Oswald Chambers would be unavailable.



Larry Crabb is still within reach for those times I cannot remember what it's all about. He reminds me. It isn't the hokey-pokey.



Muddling around in self pity? Grab up a volume or two of Leanne Payne, Elizabeth Elliot or Edith Schaeffer. No time to re-read it? No problem! Just whack myself in the head with it. Same effect.

Then there are the four Chistopher de Vinck books that I leaf through every night. I'm still cringing over the story of when his young daughter kissed her reflection in the toaster and received 2nd degree burns on her lips. He gives me the assurance I need that everyday life matters, and it matters very very much.

I haven't even delved into the dozens of creatively inspiring magazines I keep on hand to spark my enthusiasm to create. Or, magazine type books like Somerset Home and Somerset Life which I open whenever I need to jar myself out of humidity induce lethargy.

Oh. And there is a cute little bookcase standing in the den still filled to capacity with little board books. Occasionally Baby Boy isn't the only one who needs to bust out into a rousing chorus of "Barnyard Dance" or "Snuggle Puppy".

And yes. Cookbooks. I don't think I've cooked from a cookbook since Christmas, but, I feel secure in knowing that I 'could'.

I love that old Chinese quote "A book is like a garden, carried in the pocket."

I'll be needing some mighty big pockets when I walk out of this door for the last time.