Ask for the old paths . . . and walk therein.
I have a rustic little bookcase—just eighteen-inches-wide, three-shelves-deep—that I treasure. My paternal grandfather made that bookcase for my dad when he was a child. I sometimes wonder how many nooks it has occupied and how many books have perched on its shelves.
I have a pew from the first church where I preached. I sometimes wonder about the many saints who sat on that pew.
I have some out-of-print Bible commentaries. I sometimes read the handwritten margin notes of the original owners and wish I knew something about them.
I draw on numerous Bible versions. But I have an occasional nostalgic need for the majestic voice of the King James, with its archaic Thous and Thees, begats and betimes, wists and whithers. I give thanks for the king who commissioned it and the forty-seven scholars who translated it.
Blow the dust of ingratitude off the treasures
left by those who’ve gone before.