The Bible in the Drawer

Last weekend on a trip home from vacation, my family pulled off I-65 in Cullman, Ala., ready for a quick swim before bed, only to discover that the hotel pool was “temporarily out of order.” That was a deal breaker. We tried again, this time guaranteed pool access, but found it packed wall-to-wall with a travel-ball team of ten-year-old boys doing cannonballs in unison. We surrendered, checked in, and split up: Lena, Evelyn (15 months), and Emmalyn (12) in one room; Benjamin (3), Elizabeth (10), Ella (7), and me in the other. They don’t let you cram a family of seven into one room anymore.

Both phones were dead—long story about not being able to charge on the drive—and a storm earlier that day had knocked out local power and while power had been restored, the televisions were still dark. For once, technology took the evening off. Ben tired of rolling toy trucks across the carpet and started opening drawers. Out came a slim, navy-blue Gideon Bible. We own plenty of Bibles, but they were buried in the van. Ben climbed onto the bed, book in hand, and asked, “Daddy, will you read?”

So we did. We started in 1 Peter and read until eyelids drooped and little bodies went still. At some point I realized all three kids were asleep, but I kept reading anyway, the glow from a single bedside lamp tracing words I’ve known for years yet somehow needed to hear again.

I’ve seen those Gideon Bibles in hotel rooms my whole life and rarely given them a second thought. Now I see their quiet purpose. Most guests never crack the cover, but some do—maybe after a hard day, a job loss, a funeral, or just a storm-dark evening when the Wi-Fi is out and the silence feels heavier than usual. For someone somewhere, that drawer-bound Bible is the first step back toward God.

The Gideons didn’t introduce my family to Scripture, yet their patient ministry added thirty extra minutes of reading that night—thirty minutes of calm after a day of chaos, thirty minutes that settled restless hearts and reminded me that faith still lives in the spaces where screens go blank.

I’m grateful for those unseen volunteers who trust small seeds to take root. And I’m reminded that the best moments with our children often arrive when the power goes out and the battery dies. Maybe we should pull the plug more often—open a drawer, open a Bible, and let God do the talking.