Proof The Bible Is True

Retirement was a little quieter than I’d planned for, since Covid restrictions kept me at home. One afternoon, finishing up the breakfast dishes, I found myself thinking back on my busy working life as a professor. I’d had a long career and was amazed that my visual memory was so clear. Students I’d taught, colleagues I’d befriended at different schools, the administrators—dozens of faces came to mind. Swimming among them, one came to the forefront, a face I remembered way back from my childhood. I turned off the tap.

 

My family lived in a tenement apartment over a store in Holyoke, Massachusetts. I was four years old in 1953, but already I’d developed a reputation for adventure. More than once I’d slipped out of our apartment alone. My mother tried her best to keep me close, but I could find trouble right under her nose.

 

One day, I was playing hide-and seek with a friend right in the hallway of our building. The two of us took turns hiding inside an old icebox someone had stuck in a corner. I shut the icebox door behind me and giggled, waiting for my friend to find me. But she didn’t. I waited and waited. The game stopped being fun. When I tried to push the door open, it didn’t budge. I was trapped. I banged on the door. I kicked it. I started to cry.

 

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