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When I was a mother raising children alone, I possessed one certain Bible. I wrote notes in the margins beside verses that pertained to my circumstances, asking God to apply that truth to my need. My Bible was my diary (much like the little pink one with a lock on it that I hid under my pillow when I was eight years old). Then when I married Rich 25 years ago, I purchased another Bible, one accompanied with fresh-smelling neon markers.