On Christmas Day, 1954, Jimmy Newsom, age nine, received a load of gifts from Santa. The last one he opened was a beautiful, leather-bound book titled “Holy Bible.” In the lower right corner on the cover, in gold embossed print, was his name, Jimmy Newsom.
Jim left the book on the floor, along with all the wrappings, and went outside to play with his real toys: an official-sized football, a plastic airplane that flew higher than the elm tree, and a whole bagful of marbles, including cat’s eyes, steelies and aggies.
Over the years, and long after the football, airplane and marbles had left his world, the Bible found a place on Jim’s dresser.
Last month, my wife, Sherry, flew back to Colorado Springs to celebrate her brother, Jim’s life. Jim had served admirably in the Air Force, raised a family and tended to his grandchildren. He worked the same job for nearly forty years. For the final year of his life, Jim had been riddled by multiple painful ailments.
Jim’s wife, Naomi, told Sherry that over the last months of his life, Jim clung resolutely to this old book. It had his name, Jimmy Newsom, embossed in gold on the lower right corner of the cover.