self-imposed. Dad told me he’d get me a copy regardless, but I insisted on crossing some imagined threshold that would reflect the honor of owning a Bible when so many people did not have that opportunity. I sensed a gravity about handling Scripture. I still do. By the beginning of grade three, I had scoured the entire book of Acts, full of wonder at the apostles’ miracles and courage—and wondering why our church didn’t look much like what I saw there. Then I went on to read and highlight every verse Dad had