I forgot the unread book that’s been on my shelf the longest.
I’ve read pieces and parts. Sometimes I’m curious about how I would react to it as a whole, though to date that curiosity hasn’t been strong enough to compel me to action.
The Bible falls in the category of “books bought for class,” the class being sixth grade religion. I don’t remember much of what we learned in that class, other than how to locate passages by chapter and verse and the names of the books in the Pentateuch. I probably thought I was cool because I knew the word Pentateuch. (I wasn’t cool.)
If I don’t remember my Bible studies, what I do remember from sixth grade? A nun who screamed at students when she was frustrated, and used phrases like “You exasperate me,” “Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?” and “Do you have an auditory deficiency?”
But when she wasn’t screaming, she taught us about art and culture from other countries, showing us photos of the Taj Mahal and a miniature Pietà. I can still hear her saying, “Michelangelo would roll over in his grave if he saw this plastic replica of his masterpiece.” She made me dream of traveling. I don’t sanctify or edify her, but when I saw Michelangelo’s David, I said a little thank you to her memory. I’ll do the same should I ever make it to India.