To the Student Ministry Girl on the New Haven Green
Letter to a Stranger: Essays to the Ones Who Haunt Us is an anthology edited by essayist Colleen Kinder—an off-shoot of a column called "Letter to a Stranger" from her online magazine, Off Assignment. I've done a couple of my own Letters to a Stranger. Here's another.
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To the Student Ministry Girl on the New Haven Green,
I've needed a new Bible.
The Bible I currently have has been with me for 11 years now, from the moment 12-year-old me picked it up at my church's mini bookstore. One of the only teen-focused Bibles in the glass case, it looked different than ones I had seen before: The Live Bible. It felt artistic and unconventional, with contributions of photos, drawings, and poetry from other teens across the country (maybe even the world) generously peppered throughout. It even had blank spaces for my own drawings and notes. It felt like the perfect Bible for a creative pre-teen discovering what it meant to have a relationship with the Lord for herself.
Because the whole aesthetic of this particular Bible was art and roughness and realism, much of the page and cover design had random lines and patterns and what looked like hand-drawn things, even a pretty realistic-looking duct tape design on the back cover. So when it started falling apart, I used real duct tape, and it fooled people just as easily as the fake stuff. Unfortunately, after some time, the trusty duct tape debilitated. In the summer months of one year, the adhesive began to melt and left gunk stuck to the knee of my pants, where I would rest the book while listening to Sunday sermons. I replaced the duct tape with layers of scotch tape until those also burned out. With no other defenses, the back and front covers eventually tore away from the binding. Since then, the back and front take turns retiring their outermost pages, peeling like an onion.
I get excited at the thought of a new Bible. I've seen those pleather-bound ones with the pretty flowers embossed on the front, specifically ones from Hosanna Revival. I love how each one seems so classy. I scrolled through looking at Hosanna's stock recently, dreaming about which one I would pick. A familiar one pops into sight. A cinnamon brown soft cover, with what appears to be a dahlia stamped in the center. The "Sierra Theme" ESV Journaling Bible. I haven't seen one in person since the time I saw you with yours. There it was again, reminding me of that specific moment. Over the next few days, that moment I remembered with you and your pretty Bible kept flashing across my mind.
We were both attending an evangelistic event with a college student ministry on the New Haven Green a couple of years ago, in 2021. The weather hinted at sunny spring but still showed its wintery colors with a semi-frequent nipping wind that mid-March day, blowing around your auburn natural waves as you stood behind the "connection" table under the pop-up canopy tent. You were more involved with this particular student ministry than me. I was pretty involved with a different student ministry at my university, but new to this one. While mine was more campus-centered, this one offered some opportunities to put on events to reach students in different places. I was here to see what an event partnered with my student ministry might look like.
I had an awful time finding parking. New Haven is rich with one-way streets, so I circled a few times trying to find a spot I felt confident enough to maneuver into. Finally, I did and trotted across the street to the green, where your tent table and a worship band/PA set-up, closer to the street side opposite me, were living for the afternoon.
Your friend and I had met previously at another event, and, spotting me standing at a distance from the tent-table, she came over to greet me with a hug. Up to that point, I had felt a little awkward because I wasn't sure where to sit/stand to be part of it. I wasn't a non-believer there to discover the gospel, but I also wasn't really involved in hosting the event. Your friend put me at ease when she welcomed me to come hang out with you guys. I don't remember the moment I met you, but we must have exchanged hellos once we walked over that way. I liked your outfit: an off-white cropped sweater, light-wash wide-leg jeans with a high waist, and white sneakers—the perfect, subtle retro-casual look. I don't remember interacting with you too much. It seemed like you had a similar personality to me—fairly introverted but not anti-social. You didn't seek out conversation, but also didn't hesitate to talk with anyone who approached you. I let you do your connection table thing and listened to the message that echoed from the speakers about 100 feet away.
Since we were on the Green, where many people experiencing homelessness tend to congregate, there were a few who made their presence known in our vicinity. One particular man came up to your friend and was a bit rude. I think he may have had a legitimate question to start with, but then it seemed that he was simply contentious, asking for something repeatedly that she didn't have to be able to give him. I realized soon he was asking her to give him a Bible over and over, abrasively and repetitively, almost arguing with her like she had one that she just didn't want to give. She came back to the table with poise, but also a sense of urgency, to see if the table had any Bibles around that were meant to be given out. The man's pestering spilled over onto you, too. It was as if he didn't want a Bible anymore, he only wanted to be obliged. You quickly looked around for any new-convert Bibles or maybe even a pamphlet of resources that he could have, just to feel like he was walking away with something. You and your friend dug around in reusable shopping bags and boxes under the table.
"I mean, I have mine, should I just give him mine?" you asked your friend, as the search proved fruitless.
"No, there's got to be something in here. I thought I saw one earlier..." She kept digging.
The man, again, began with his pestering. Your Sierra Theme ESV Journaling Bible sat close by. When your hands and eyes didn't locate anything else you could give him, you quickly grabbed it and held it up, as if in surrender, saying, "Here you can have mine!"
He took it as quickly as you offered it and went on walking toward the south end of the park, where the sun had begun its descent on the city. I winced inside when you quietly proposed giving it, and then even more when you, in such a swift moment and without much hesitation, let it go for good.
"I guess he needed it more than me," you said with a soft smile on your face.
"Aww, Liz. I'm sorry. That was so kind of you," your friend said.
"It's ok, I can get a new one."
"I'll get you a new one," your friend assured, as you both closed up the boxes and returned the bags under the table.
I imagined the man hurling it out of sight shortly after walking away, without a care of what was just gifted to him, or selling it off to someone else who wouldn't care for it either. I imagined it bent and scratched and wet and dirtied, laying abandoned on a sidewalk, or tossed in a park trash can—adulterated by foul-smelling fast food containers, old bottles, and cigarette butts, soon to be incinerated at the nearest landfill. I thought of my worn, paperback Bible, with missing covers and slowly-ripping pages. I thought of how many notes and underlines and drawings I had in there. I thought of what it meant to me to have my own copy of the Word, even in its state of disrepair, and if someone ever took it, how distraught I would be. Here you had this gorgeous, expensive Bible. I thought of your name impressed in script on the first page under “This Bible belongs to.” I thought of the notes and underlines you must have penned in there, and all the ones you hoped to make as you walked with God and read Scripture more and more. I thought of how sad you must feel to have lost your special copy.
But you didn't look sad. You were the definition of a cheerful giver. You willingly gave your special possession—a copy of Scripture—to this person who might not appreciate it nearly as much as you do. Or maybe he would. You didn't know, but you took the chance. What a familiar grace.
I'm sure you've replaced it by now, maybe with the same kind or something different. I wonder if you think of that moment often, or if it's just something you remember that doesn't cross your mind much. I wonder if you ever pondered the "alternate timeline"—keeping your Bible safe and turning the man away. That beautiful book would still be yours: all your notes and underlines there for you to look back on for years.
But you would have missed an opportunity to be an expression of the Savior you claimed to represent.
I haven't seen you in person since that year, yet you continue to live on in my memory as a challenge to be more radically generous, more swiftly obedient—to let my actions reflect the Father who sacrificed His best to take a chance on me.
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