I Carried This Bible for Twenty Years and Regret Not Opening It on Day One

On being the girl who had all the answers — and the Book that had better ones.

The date written inside the cover is March 23, 2006.

I was twelve years old when I received this Bible as a gift from my school for graduating valedictorian of my elementary class in Baguio City, Philippines. Holding it that day made me feel so proud. At the time, I feel like I am so smart I can figure everything out in my life.

But the truth was, I was a fool just putting this wonderful gift somewhere safe, when it was meant to be opened, read and understood.

I did not truly open my Bible again for nearly twenty years.

If you are someone who has a Bible on a shelf somewhere — beautiful, unread, waiting — I wrote this for you. And if you want something to help you actually start opening it, I have a free Daily Prayer Journal that has made my quiet time so much more consistent. Grab it free before you keep reading — it will make sense by the end of this post.

The Girl Who Left Baguio

I grew up in Baguio City — the City of Pines, cold and beautiful in the mountains of the Philippines. It is the kind of city that stays with you. The kind of home you carry in your chest no matter how far you go.

But I went far.

I moved to Manila to work as a Chemical Engineer then had an opportunity to live for a while in Japan. Then I found myself in California, where I married the man I love and started a family I have been praying for.

Throughout all of it — the degrees, the careers, the continents — that Bible stayed behind.

It never left home.

It stayed in our family house in Baguio City. Tucked away somewhere in my room.

It was not on a prominent shelf being displayed. It was packed away carefully in a box with other books that were beautiful and unread — the kind of box you pack thoughtfully because the things inside matter, even if you never take them out.

I did not think about it much.

I was too busy becoming the woman I thought I was supposed to be.

My Lukewarm Era

I believed in God during all of those years. I want to be honest about that because I know how this kind of story can sound like a non-believer who finally found faith. That was not me.

I believe in God but I just kept my belief at a safe distance.

Close enough to feel okay about myself. Far enough to stay comfortable.

I have since learned there is a word for this. The Bible calls it lukewarm in Revelation 3:16. Not cold. Not on fire. Just… existing in the middle, going through the motions, showing up at the right moments without ever truly surrendering.

That was me for nearly two decades.

Too busy being the achiever, the engineer, the smart girl in the room, the woman who had everything figured out — faith felt like something you kept alongside your life. A good value. A cultural inheritance. A Sunday obligation.

Little did I understand that it was supposed to be the foundation of it.

“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path.”

Psalm 119:105

I had a lamp. I kept it in a box.

The Chapter I Never Wanted to Write

Then in August 2024, my Mama had a heart attack.

My husband and I booked the first flight we could find. Fourteen hours in the air from California, then six hours by land to reach her in Baguio. I prayed the whole way there in a way I had not prayed in years — desperate, unpolished, not performing for anyone, just pleading.

She survived. By God’s grace she survived. We celebrated. I held her hands and thought — we almost lost her. We almost lost her and I almost did not make it in time.

She was scheduled for open heart surgery on October 8th.

She did not survive.

Four words. A whole world, ended.

I will not try to describe that moment with more words than it deserves. If you have read my full testimony of grief on this blog, you already know. If you have not — you can read it here.

What I want to share is this: nine months later, I lost my Papa too. I was pregnant with my son at the time — carrying new life while grieving the people who gave me mine. I have since held a baby boy who will never know his grandparents’ faces. And I have grieved in ways I am still finding words for.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

Psalm 46:10

The Stockroom in Baguio

After my Mama passed, I went back home to Baguio.

I wanted to read my Bible. Not on my phone — too many notifications, too much noise, too much of the world pulling at the edges of my grief. I wanted to hold something real. Something with pages. Something I could sit with quietly.

I remembered I had one somewhere in the house. Two actually — the 2006 Bible from elementary school and another from my high school graduation.

I went to look for them.

And halfway there — without thinking, purely from muscle memory — I did something I had done a thousand times in that house.

I went to ask my Mama where they were.

She always knew where everything was. Mama, where is this? Mama, have you seen my — and she would already be pointing before I finished the sentence. That was just who she was. The keeper of things. The one who always knew.

I do not know how to describe what it feels like to reach for someone who is no longer there. It is not always a dramatic wave of grief. Sometimes it is just one step you take and then stop. A question that forms in your mouth and then has nowhere to go.

I found the Bibles myself. She had kept them safe — carefully, in a place she chose — without either of us knowing that one day I would have to find them without her.

She was gone. And my Bible was exactly where she left it.

I opened it that night.

What 20 Years Without It Cost Me

A small confession first — this is not written to make anyone feel guilty. Carrying a Bible you never open, believing in God and still feeling completely alone, being in the middle of the achiever era and thinking you are winning without realizing what you are missing — all of that is something I know from the inside.

So this is not a lecture. This is just what I found when I finally opened it.

I found that it was not a trophy. Not a decoration. Not a prize for being the smartest girl in the room.

It was bread.

And I had been starving for twenty years without knowing it.

“Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

Matthew 4:4

The Bible did not just give me information. It did not just answer my questions. It changed the questions I was asking. I realized I had the definition of success all wrong. It changed how I saw my children, my grief, my marriage, my ordinary days.

It changed my heart.

And perhaps the most tender thing of all — since losing my Papa and my Mama, there are days I feel the particular ache of being parentless. Of having no one to call when something is hard. Of being the eldest and having no one above you anymore.

But I opened this Bible. And I found my Father.

One who does not get sick. One who does not leave. He was there on March 23, 2006 when a twelve-year-old girl in Baguio City received a Bible she was not ready for yet — and who waited, patiently, faithfully, for nearly twenty years until she was.

If Your Bible Is In A Box Somewhere

Friend, if you are reading this and something in it felt familiar — the shelf, the box, the lukewarm era, the achieving without anchoring — I just want to say: it is not too late.

It was never about being ready. It was always about being willing.

And if you want to start but you do not know how — if you sit down to read and the words feel distant, or you want to pray but the words will not come — I made something for you.

And if you are ready to go a little deeper — to really commit to a season of growing in your faith, your purpose, and your peace — I also put together something I wish I had when I was first finding my way back.

One Last Thing

My Mama kept that Bible safe for nearly twenty years without knowing why.

She kept a lot of things safe. That was just who she was — the keeper of the home, the keeper of our childhood things, the keeper of her children’s memories even when we were too busy making new ones to look back.

I think about that a lot.

I think about how God works the same way — keeping things safe for us until we are ready. Keeping promises we have not claimed yet. Keeping a place for us even when we wander.

The Bible sat in that box in Baguio for almost 2 decades.

It was always mine. I just had to go home to find it.

Want more of this? Every Tuesday I send a letter to a small community of women who are figuring out faith, motherhood, and what home really means — one honest, imperfect week at a time. It is the most personal thing I write. Join us here →