The bookshelves my dad made for me sit nearly empty on each side of the front window in the home I now share with my new husband and stepsons.
At times over the past few years, those shelves have been nearly full, crammed with hard- and soft-back volumes of novels and commentaries and memoirs and spiritual non-fiction. There have been years, I’ll admit it, when my book budget definitely exceeded my clothing budget, and possibly rivaled what I spent on food. To encounter a book is to love it—that’s often been my guiding principle.
So every time I walked through a book store or passed a book table at a conference or lecture, if there was cash in my wallet or a credit card reader near the entrance, I left with a bound copy.
When I met my husband a few months back, his love of reading was part of the attraction. We had read many of the same books—just last month we practically raced each other to the end of Glynn Young’s A Light Shining, and we now are able to recommend works to each other. Since he has a Nook and I have a Kindle, we recently discovered that we could each download the other app onto our iPhones and easily share those books too.
I didn’t understand, then, why when it came time to plan my move from his house to mine that I knew I had to get rid of most of my books.
Photo by SebastianDooris,used with permission under the Creative Commons License.