It struck me again this week that, although I live in a duplex and have an upstairs neighbor, not once has she changed our porch light. Ever. She uses it of course. She turns it on and off. But when my neighbor notices (as she must) that the light bulb over the front door has burned out, she simply waits for me to change it.
She is not physically challenged in any way. She’s probably a decade younger than me. She waters her plants. Feeds her pets. Even feeds the stray cat in our neighborhood that mistakenly thinks its address is the same as mine. But she doesn’t do porch lights.
I know, because I’ve tried to wait her out.
When I was little, I used to run past the stuff I was afraid of. Dark rooms, big bugs, mean dogs – anything that frightened me I consistently passed by with as much speed as I could muster. The faster I moved, I reasoned, the less chance there was of the scary thing “getting” me.
We’re all a little (or a lot) afraid of something. Even as grown-ups. Maybe it’s crime, or natural disaster. Or maybe cancer terrifies us – or heart disease. Perhaps abandonment is a big dark room to some, or change, or hunger or solitude. We’re not just frightened for ourselves, either. We fear for our loved ones, too – and for the hidden dangers we can’t see or name, but know are out there just the same.
It’s time for a new Bible. Not because at least a dozen new “versions” of the world’s oldest bestseller are introduced every year and are begging to be tried – but because mine is falling apart. I don’t want a new Bible. The one I’ve used for a decade now is comfortable, well-marked and familiar. I am in no way eager to “break in” a spotless, creaseless, pristine cousin of my beloved, beat up companion…but I’m going to have to, before long.
The cover has detached from the spine, and pages are coming unhinged, great sections at a time. The concordance has several folded pages stashed in the back, the way my grandmother used to keep folded up tissues in her purse. If I don’t turn the pages gently and coddle it carefully in my lap, it might not last another week.