I saw this earlier today on Pintrest and began to ponder.
The answer is fairly simple, yet slightly complex.
I have more books than I can count. I have some nice neat little piles and some piles are unruly and toppling over, while other books live in boxes and sit on shelves in the garage or are boxed up in the toolshed.
So, I pondered this question. And pondered it some more. All of the books belong to me on some level. The books I would consider belong to me are those long forgotten ones or perhaps not so long ago. The ones I don’t remember the characters or the story line and I couldn’t conjure up enough to even begin to tell you what it was about. I’ve read a few like that recently. Those are more than likely the books sitting in a box in the toolshed.
But the kicker for me is that most of the books I own — I belong to them. Those are the books that get in my soul and give me something to think about. The ones that make me want to go back and read them again. The books I want to pass of to friends and family so they, too, can share the joy it’s brought me. These are the books that years from now I could be having a conversation or riding in my car and think about. Think about a quote, a character, the scenery, anything and it brings a smile to my face or maybe a scowl.
They’re rooted deep down in there waiting — waiting, for their opportunity to be pulled out again and read and shared.