Beyond the Pages

Solomon once wrote, “He who increases knowledge increases sorrow.” That is not to say that knowledge is without value. It’s just that it was never meant to be the food for our wavering, fearful hearts. Knowledge alone cannot take away the emptiness inside. Experience teaches us that only when we reach the end of our own strength does our Savior step in to show us the true wonder of His presence.

That is the heartbeat behind this week’s story, Beyond the Pages.

My prayer is that it will bless you, encourage you, and perhaps even bring a smile to both your face and your heart.

It was a magnificent building.

A library of sorts, yet far grander. Stately whitewashed walls rose from the ground like consecrated ornaments, while the marble-tiled path guided us to enormous glass sliding doors that opened with a gentle hum.

It was a place of endless learning, where every self-respecting soul whiled away their days among the books. And, of course, I was among them.

Inside, knowledge hung heavy in the air, mixed with the scent of aged books and coffee. A stout woman with a tightly cropped haircut sat behind a reception desk, observing the visitors with hawk-like eyes to ensure they followed the rules.

Everyone did. Naturally.

No one came here to cause trouble.

You came here because of the emptiness within. With the longing to fill the hollow space in your heart with meaning. You came with the fragile hope that, despite the world’s confusion, you’d find understanding and everything would somehow turn out well.

And so, you began to read.

And study. And memorize.

For hours on end.

You devoured everything. You mastered entire passages about complicated theories no one could prove, but which gave the illusion of tremendous personal and spiritual progress.

And then, when the beautiful building closed, always precisely at half past five, when the lights went out and everyone streamed outside, that same hopeless feeling of pointless confusion was waiting for you, smiling at you like a long-lost friend. Another day had passed, and the emptiness still gnawed at your heart, just as it had in the morning when you entered.

You still carried a heart full of tears.

The days slipped by in quiet repetition, until one day a heavy, forgotten book caught my eye. Hidden behind old manuscripts and a dusty treatise on the Tse- Tse fly was a curious book that seemed to call out to me.

I dusted off the cover, opened it and read:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

What a strange book! Then again, all the books here were strange.

And so, I read. And I read.

I studied and memorized passages about the rules for a happy, productive life that the book was full of. But after three weeks of reading, I was still as empty as always. Maybe tomorrow I would distract myself with a new book on the evolution of the human brain, hoping it might offer some answers.

But the next day everything changed.

In my favorite spot sat a young boy, no older than nine or ten, reading the same strange book I had spent weeks studying so intensely.

A joyous light radiated from him. When he looked up, he gave me a smile that words could not capture. His eyes shone with a brilliance I had never yet seen, not even in my wildest dreams.

“A delightful book,” he said, noticing me staring at it.

“I don’t like it,” I replied. “I’ve studied it, memorized it and tried to understand it. But it’s like all the other books, boring and unclear.”

The boy looked at me in surprise. “No, sir. With all due respect, you are wrong. You must not read this book; it must read you. It lives and speaks to anyone willing to listen. The letters alone kill, but the spirit, the life hidden in these words, is full of power and vitality.”

He slid the book toward me. “Let the Word speak to you, sir.”

I blinked my eyes, not understanding. “Where do I begin?”

“Listen,” he said. “You don’t have to understand it all, but you must listen. The words must penetrate your being and before you know it, you cannot help but binge on the words.”

The book lay open at a passage I had read before: ‘In Him was life, and the life was the light of men.’

I wanted to protest and walk away, to find my book on the human brain. But when I saw his concerned, but loving eyes I did as he said. I sat down, let my eyes slide over the page, and I listened to the words.

I listened quietly.

I let the words enter me.

Softly.

I even closed my eyes.

At first, nothing happened. The hum of the coffee machine and the stout woman at reception arguing with a man about the emptiness of his heart drifted past me, as if I were elsewhere.

Then I heard something I can best describe as music. Soft, sacred music, and a tiny light appeared, perhaps in my heart, perhaps in my mind.

“In Him was life, and the life was the light of men.”

Suddenly, the dam broke.

Everything changed in an instant.

Light flooded the barren fields of my heart and an unknown peace welled up within me.

I wanted to shout my joy, for inexplicably I knew these words were true. And with the light came understanding. It was as if I were being cast into a beautiful lake of crystal-clear water, washing away every doubt and all the lingering darkness that had plagued me for so long.

I opened my eyes and looked for the boy. I wanted to thank him and share my joy with him, but he was gone.

But the book still lay open before me. I drew it closer and listened once more. Attentively. Quietly.

Oh, what a joy.

When it was half-past five, I walked past the receptionist, rejoicing. Outside, rain fell and the wind blew harshly around me, yet there was a melody in my heart.

The emptiness was gone. All because I had truly listened.