I remember the Bible . I remember reading Bible stories with my mother.  Prayers, I suppose.  And later, wheels within wheels -- Ezekiel's vision catapulting me into reading with new eyes, growing wider, devouring the ancient stories.  Jeremiah strong fearless, wracked with terror, fighting with his God.  Job searching depths of suffering for wisdom.  Later, David, cunning man.  And Jesus sitting above Galilee, wondering, plotting, planning with no clear plan except some shadow of a cross.  Sell everything!  Leave everything!  Follow me!  Entrancing for a young man passionate and feral.  St Paul, passionate also.  Advocating conformity with the structure of the times but also tough, uncompromising, uncomfortable.  And Revelation -- visions returning me to Ezekiel's visions -- and the State a ravening beast.  And Chronicles long lists of names and wealth.  And Leviticus and Numbers and Deuteronomy -- laws, regulations, an ancient wisdom.  And here I find Ezra, wise in the Law, learned in Scripture.  And later Jethro, an arm round Moses’ shoulders.  Then the old men in the desert who took everything seriously and never judged me for failing to live up to the extraordinary demands.  I came to love, also, John in a curious, distrustful way.  Luke was always my favourite: his concern for the poor, his inclusion of women; the orderliness of the man.  We had studied Acts together: that was communion, reading together the Word, testing my metal.  It changed me, moulded me.  I spoke in tongues, distrusted wealth, surged for the freedom He promised, loved the bloodsoaked earthiness.  Never worried about wars.  Embraced it all, this, my huge, rumbustious family.  My wisdom.  My life guide.  My companion.  Ancient of days.  Unknowable.  Intimate.  My Rattle Bag of stories.  I loved the poetry.  Breathed it every day.