Recently while sitting in a church meeting a scripture came to my mind. I had forgotten my triple combination, so I asked the lady next to me if I could borrow hers for a moment. I remember how unfamiliar and strange her Book of Mormon felt in my hands—how the pages turned in a different rhythm and how I missed my own familiar markings and notations. I love my own worn cover, taped pages and children’s scribbles.
It hadn’t been too many years ago when the scriptures were merely books that pricked my conscience as I glanced at my shelf. But as a mother of nine children I found I needed more understanding than the world could offer—understanding and comfort found only in the scriptures.
Now, each time I read my sacred books, I think of the Savior’s words, “Feed my lambs. … Feed my sheep. … Feed my sheep,” (John 21:15–17) and I know it is I being fed by him. Carole R. Burr, Provo, Utah