For many years growing up, I read the word in a bible that I still own; it’s black, slightly dog-eared, and well thumbed. Inside the front cover is an inscription from Mike, dated 1994. I remember Mike well, he lived with us for a while, and my lasting memory of him is walking along a beach in Northumberland with him talking to me about Jesus and about the need to make a personal choice to follow. Mike wasn’t one of the church leaders, or one of my blood relatives, he was an international student. He is one of the first...
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