My Bible Box

I got my current Bible back in 2009 when my Bible study co-leader, Melissa Montecuello, got sick of the fact that I didn't own one. (I'd lost my most favoritest Bible the year before, which had been a terrible blow. Buying a new Bible was like I'd finally given up on my old one). This one's a much nicer one than my old, paper-back and flimsy one. Y'know - nice, leathery cover; that satiny bookmark that's part of the binding; pages smell nice; the perfect size. To keep it looking nice, I decided to do what I'd seen others do with their's: I store and carry my Bible in the box it originally came it. It's a durable box that's nearly the same size as The Book itself, and its rigid feel actually makes it easier to carry and toss around. The front's even got this plastic window-like thing (I guess so you can be sure there's really a Bible in there); I put a slip of paper with a drawing of mine in it, which I get all sorts of comments about. 

Overall, I'm pleased w/ my decision. The box's corners are starting to show signs of wear, but it's been 3 years; my Bible looks and smells like new!

Anyhow. That's not the point. 

Last night, I went out to retrieve my Bible from my car. I'd left it there after Church this Sunday. I'd been too lazy/tired to retrieve it that night and felt that, if I had the energy to play GoW 3, I could muster the strength to get my Bible out of my car. 

So I made the venture out. But b/c it was late, I's only dressed in my sleeping clothes: old athletic shorts and a tank. Not even socks. But again, it's late: who's gonna' care, let alone see me in the dark. 

Y'know how your mind can play tricks on you when it's late or dark? Well, as I'm walking to my car, I could swear I heard rustling in the bushes in the front yard or in my neighbors yard. But it was also lightly breezy last night, so I didn't pay it much mind. After all, I'm in Livermore: what's gonna' happen. 

Now, you've gotta' understand: here in Livermore, there are wild turkeys about. Yes: wild turkeys. They're dumb and get in the way of my car while I'm driving to work. And when you gobble at them, they'll actually gobble back. I've never actually seen a turkey fly up, but they must be capable of it: while I'm outside, I can distinctly here turkey-gobbles emanating from the taller, more expansive trees in the neighborhood; it's totally the turkeys. Seems odd for a turkey to gobble at night (they go to sleep like most other Thanksgiving birds, right?), but whatever. Even so, the gobbling seems a little...raspy. Maybe garbled's a better description. But to be honest, I'm not paying a lot of attention to the rustling bushes or the wheezy birds. I just want my Bible. 

The Good Book was on the passenger side of my car, but I'd entered through the driver side. So, I climb on in and reach across the center divider to snatch it. As I'm in there, the motion-activated light for the porch flicks on, which was nice but a bit late: I'd already fiddled around in the dark w/ my keys. But as I'm gettin' out of my car, that rustling noise has now become more definitive than just bushes in the breeze: more like scraping against concrete. And that sickly turkey's still gobbling away, but I can hear it a lot better now. So, Bible-in-Bible-box in hand, I close my car door and make to go back to the house. 

Bam. 

Zombie.

Those of you who haven't talked w/ me at length about this must know: I'm a definitive expert on zombies. I've even read the book on zombie-apocalypse survival. After watching a particularly horrifying zombie-related TV show or movie, I may even humor myself w/ a pre-bedtime zombie-sweep of my dwelling. Just to be on the safe side. 

To be sure: I've never actually believed I'd find a zombie. Even after assuring myself that all windows were closed, all doors locked, and all roommates not yet converted to the undead horde, the thought that lets me sleep well at night is this: there is no such thing as a "zombie". At least, not in the conventional, The Walking Dead sense. (There are, apparently, zombie-like states people can be put in). It's kind'f like someone afraid of ghosts: you get yourself to sleep by telling yourself that ghosts aren't real. But inside, there's that small spark of fear whispering "They're not...right?"

But now I've got proof ("living" proof, if you'll call it) staring right at me, and its turkey-rasping has gone through the roof now that it's spotted me. Dressed as I am, I don't have my trusty knife with which I could stab this zombie in the eye for a quick end to this undead threat. The door to the house is locked, and I don't have the time to fumble about to get the key ready. (That's how you get nom'd). Besides, I couldn't in good conscience leave this thing wandering around in the neighborhood. I had to think about the children: what would they do when they saw this zombie chow down on Suzanne or Frankie? No. I had to be a responsible citizen: To be a man. 

It was time to nut up.

The horde may be an imposing force but, one-on-one, no zombie stands a chance against me. Armed w/ the intellect and knowledge I've gleaned from years of analysis and study, my choice of weapon and method of attack were clear. Short of a sharp weapon or firearm, a bludgeoning weapon is the next best thing with which to remove zombie threats. A few swift blows to the head w/ a hammer or other blunt object will do in a zombie. Their rotting corpse will not be as durable as a living human, so the force and weight of the impact need not be as great as if I were killing a real person. There was only one weapon I had at hand which could quickly dispense w/ the zombie.

My Bible box. 

Solid and w/ edges sharp enough for the task at hand, the box was up to the challenge. I didn't even hesitate. I backhanded that walking corpse w/ The Living Word and gave it a swift kick, knocking it to the ground. But it takes more than that to do in a zombie. A person might be stunned or left unconscious by such an attack, but zombies know no pain or fear: I had to press my attack. 

I quickly straddled the zombie's writhing form and let forth the full fury of Biblical judgement on my foe. Never before had so clear an illustration of righteousness been made. Truly, this was a holy moment. And just as quickly as it had begun, this battle for survival was over. I - alone and armed only w/ God's Word - had triumphed.

And this whole time, I knew my Bible was safe. Housed inside it's sturdy box, none of the undead's uncleanliness would mar it's surface. Sure, the box was quite the worse for wear and covered in all sorts of zombie bits. But that's alright: I can replace the box. That box served its purpose admirably and delivered judgement from within to the evils without. 

I still haven't reported this incident to the authorities. I mean, who's really going to believe me? Chances are I'd face chargers for murder. More than likely, some activist group would rise up claiming I'd committed genocide against the only confirmed zombie to walk the earth. Disposing of the body and cleaning up the aftermath was work enough. (Suffice to say, I'm very thankful for my host family's compost pile). 

It's all thanks in large part to my Bible box. My Bible is as good as ever. Even now as I read it in bed tonight, its pages are crisp, its edges unbent, its surface unsoiled. The thing that puts down the undead is also the core to my faith. Sounds like a good combination, wouldn't you say?