An ordinary black prayerbook with the gold cross on the cover; it’s officially known as The Book of Common Prayer, common meaning accessible to all, not cheap or low. It was part of the long battle, initiated by King Henry the Eighth and implemented by Martin Luther, to replace Latin with the language of the people, in its most polished and poetic form.
It was placed, not thrown, on a big timber at the edge of an unpaved road here so dusty signs plead with drivers to slow down—and yet it was not dusty, meaning it had only been there a short while. I thought of staying to see if someone would turn up, coming back the way women sometimes haunted the steps of churches to see if someone had taken their abandoned babies…
No one came, so I took the prayerbook. Looking at it closely, I saw that it had been much used, the gilt on the edges of the pages half worn off, the pages themselves, thin as onion skin, dry and vulnerable. The two slender white silk strands, attached to the spine and intended to mark a place in the service, were worn and frayed. One marked the lesson for Monday in Whitsun week, the other, a hymn for Holy Week: “All glory, laud and honor…”
The inscription on the flyleaf, in ink, reads “To Martha from her Dad, April 26, 1931.”
A story unfolded in my imagination: a man had given the prayerbook to his daughter at her confirmation, and she had carried it to church for the rest of her life.
Continuity…
I’ve never prized it, seeing it as a harness to the past.
And yet…
Here the prayerbook was, a mute yet eloquent testimonial, perhaps to the power of faith, perhaps even to the power of love.
I plan to keep it.
A book of common prayer left by the side of the road is a book that is begging for updates as time goes by. Will it eventually speak to you of different stories?