The morning Dad passed away was a whirl of activity. People were coming in and out the house and, being good Southern neighbors, everyone was bringing food. I was numb and slowly beginning to get into survival mode. I looked around the den and my eyes fell upon Dad’s Bible lying on the kitchen table. It was battered and worn with many of the pages falling out. You could tell it was well read and well loved. I went across the room and picked it up. This piece of my father’s life was the sum of everything that he lived for. As I held it in my hand, I thought of all of the comfort that this book had given my family. One of my lifelong friends had just arrived. “Isn’t that your father’s Bible?” he asked as he sat down at the table. “I would recognize it anywhere.” “Yes it is,” I replied, pouring myself a cup of coffee.” “Well, actually it is his latest Bible. There are three more worn out ones in his bedroom.” He laughed and reached for the Bible. “Let me tell you a story about Brother Nelson,” he said as he gently picked up Dad's Bible.
"Churches should be hospitals for sinners, not museums for saints."
"Churches have stained glass windows so they don’t have to see what’s going on outside.
"If you have to tell people you are a Christian, then maybe you are trying to convince yourself. If you really are, you shouldn’t have to tell them. They should already know, because they have seen the way you live your life."
"The Lord provides for the sparrow, but he doesn’t drop the worm in his nest. We all have to do in order to get."
"If someone tells me that they are going to pray for me, I let them. I know I need the prayers and they may need to practice."
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