The Saturday Journal: Her Sacred Bag
- tathelmillerwriter
- Feb 28
- 3 min read
I've been a little numb over the past few weeks--the heaviness of the world weighing down all around. I know I'm not alone when I say this--I just don't for the life of me understand. I believe when we are drowning in sorrows and the bad news keeps coming and the weight of this life tries to drown out the good, it's the memories of the past and most importantly reflecting on God's past and present goodness and kindness--that's what gets us through these very dark days.
This story--I shared a few years ago. It's one of my favorite memories--a blessing--a testimony of a woman I never met--never spoke to--but in her silence, what she carried--was everything....
I can’t describe in words how much I wanted to reach down into her bag and take what was hers. Not steal it, but just borrow it for a day--an hour--a few minutes. To have a look inside. If nothing else I wanted to at least pull my phone out of my pocket and take a photo—so I could remember. But I did neither. Both actions would have been wrong.
You see, she and her husband were resting quietly--close under the shade tree facing the bridge by the inlet in their lawn chairs. Their eyes closed. I imagined they had just finished eating their picnic lunch and her bag--it was resting close by on the table. The tabs in the Book caught my eyes first—all sixty-six of them and then the tattered and worn cover with the hint of the yellowing pages inside.
And inside her bag was a church fan--a funeral fan to some. A paper fan with a rather large popsicle stick for the handle. At least as kids that is what we thought the handle was. I can remember long before air conditioner graced our church buildings ladies would swing their fans like a pendulum wound up far too tight.
They had it down to a fine art though—no flapping noise. And heaven forbid if me or one of my brothers got our hands on one of those fans. It seems there’s this fascination of paper church fans with children--still today. Like they are trying to start a propeller on a plane with their bare hands—see how fast it will turn.
I walked away from her bag and looked her way one more time hoping she would glance my way. Smile. Something. Then I would have gotten my chance—Asked if I could hold her worn Bible. Touch the yellow and brown pages. Flip through the tabs. Look inside at her margin notes. Read maybe her family tree—her name--the date she received her Bible.
I wanted to ask her questions such as how long have you had this Bible?
What does it mean to you?
Do you carry it with you often? All the time?
What's your favorite book of the Bible? Favorite verse? Favorite story?
And ask her kindly if I could touch the aging church fan—fan myself gently on this hot summer day and feel the breeze of the simplest of holy blessings.
You, the lady resting in your lawn chair--wearing the pink hat with sprinkles of white hair tousling in the wind. The one whose Bible fit perfectly inside your flowered "go to church" bag. Even if you had looked at me, smiled —I'm not sure I would have asked to see your Bible or even smothered you with other questions.
But what I would have told you was this--just how much you blessed me on this day.
And it wasn’t by your smile. Your kindness, your laughter, your voice--or even your pink hat. It was the story--your story you told without speaking a word. Your testimony. It was the way you carried God’s Holy Word—the tattered cover—the discolored pages--all evidence of a woman who has reached for the scriptures for many years and reached often—like a lifeline for her longing soul.
Blessed are the eyes which see the things that ye see.
Luke 10:23
God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her, and that right early.
Psalm 46:5
I am grateful for each of you--more than you will ever know and I pray,
the stories shared in this space will encourage and bless you in some small way.
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All photos @copyright Tathel Miller, unless otherwise credited to another photographer.
Soli Deo Gloria
Tathel
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