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            It was an old, rustic looking box – one I had just found in my grandfather’s attic.  Don’t ask why I was looking up there, I’m just naturally a curious person.  Well, my mother says curiosity is just another word for being nosy.  I’d rather think not.

            Anyways, my grandparents are very religious people, having both grown up in Lutheran families.  Me, not so much.  I don’t’ really believe in all that – as my mother would say – pish posh.  I mean, it just never seemed real to me, all those “miracles,” Jesus raising from the dead, and what not.

            It was a Saturday and my family – not including me – wanted to visit my grandparents for the day.  Honestly, I could care less.  My mother says we need to spend more time with them before they are gone.  But what we really need is to stop bugging them and to let them enjoy their retirement.  She only glared at me when I said that.  Oops. 

            As usual, when at my parent’s parent’s house, I snuck up into the attic where no one could bother me until it was time to go.  I looked through the old volumes of books – never bothering to touch the numerous Bibles my grandpa had – searched through the different chests, and occasionally I would wipe the dust from one of the shelves.  There was nothing ever unique or special in my grandparents’ attic.  Just things they had collected over the years, but upon my visit that Saturday, something caught my eye.

            It was an old, dark wood box.  I really don’t know why it got my attention.  It was very plain and dull.  I would think shiny objects would grab my interest.  Nope, apparently not.  I set it on a small, dusty, mahogany desk in the corner.  Out of all the time I had spent in the attic, I had never seen this little box before.  My curiosity heightened immensely because I wanted to open it and find what lay inside.  My arms were outstretched and I pulled on the lid.  It did not open.  There were no locks, no-nothing on the box, just a lid that should have easily opened.

            I stared for a second at the box, confused.  Then I tried to open it again.  No luck.  I tried a few more times, but it stayed shut.  My frustration was growing.  Why won’t it open?  Then I thought it must have been sealed shut.  So I ran down the stairs and snuck slyly into the kitchen.  There actually was no reason for me to pretend to be stealthy because everyone was outside enjoying the cheerful weather, but it was fun.  I grabbed a small knife off the counter, then ran back up the stairs.

            Moment of truth.  I slid the knife into the crevice of where the lid met the box.  It went in smoothly.  Strange, I thought, there is no seal.  I ran the knife around the whole box, but it just went around with ease.  Okay, this is some sort of trick box.  Yet then I knew it could not have been.  My grandparents are not the sort to own any type of magician things, let alone trick boxes. 

            I sat there – in the attic – staring at the little stubborn box.  I should have tossed it into the corner, forget about it, and have gone home.  I mean, it was just a stupid, old box.  Yet my fascination with it was unnerving.

            I finally decided to get one of my grandparents and ask them what the contraption was.  “Grandma!” I called.  She came in with that graceful walk of hers.  “What is it dear?” she asked politely in her gentle voice.  I told her I needed help with something and she followed me up the stairs. 

            When I told her of the box, she looked at it as curiously as I first did.  My grandmother is the kind of person everyone would want for their grandparent.  She is lively, kind, and does not even mind me going through her stuff.

            I was not sure why I did not spend more time with her.  For a moment I felt sad as I looked at my grandmother – who was twirling the tiny box in her aged fingers.  She was truly an enchanting person.

            “Do you recognize it?” I asked eagerly, shaking off my thoughts.  “No, I don’t dear.  I don’t remember ever having bought or received a box like this.”  She stared at the box a little longer until we finally concluded to ask my grandfather.

            When we did, his reply was the same.  Thus, I took the box back up the stairs and put it in the corner.  The funny thing was that neither of my grandparents tried opening the box.  Yet I resolved to go home and walked out of the attic, ignoring everything else that lay still in the dusty room.

            “Mom, can we go to grandma’s house tomorrow?” I asked on the way home.  Her eyebrows shot up as she gave me a surprised look.  She had valid reason to though, I never asked that.  Never.  But my mother reacted as I had expected – with enthusiasm.  “Of course, honey.  What for?”  I knew the question was coming, but I was prepared for it all the same.

“Oh, I just figured you were right about spending more time with grandma and grandpa.”  She did not stop smiling the whole way home.

            The next day, we headed to my grandparent’s house and my mother informed me to not head up to the attic, because I would not be spending time with her parents.

            So, I made an excuse to go to the bathroom.  Yet really, I went to the attic and found the box right where I had left it.

            It did not even budge.  I gave up after several tries and headed back down the stairs – figuring my two minutes for going to the bathroom were up.  The rest of the day I spent with my family on the patio drinking lemonade, and I’ll admit that I had a good time.

            Over the next two weeks – after continuously trying to open the box, but repeatedly failing – I finally decided to forget about the box and ended up ditching the attic.  Through the course of two months, I noticed how much I did not know about my grandparents and how cool they really were.

            One day, when we were outside sipping our Shirley Temples, my grandfather asked me to retrieve one of his Bibles from the attic.  I consented.

            As I headed up the stairs, I quickly realized I had not been in my grandparents’ attic for over two months – a feat I would have never thought possible 

            When I entered, I stumbled over a chest and fell on my side.  Something tumbled off the old wooden desk and hit my hand.  I turned and looked at it.

            It was the box.  The little, plain, annoying box I had forgotten about.  My curiosity became enlivened as I reached for the box.  I gave the lid a gentle tug and it lifted.  An unconscious gasp escaped my lips, and I removed the lid to find a small, lone scroll lying at the bottom.

            I picked it up, unrolled it and read some very familiar words – the same ones that hung over my grandparents’ fireplace.  It read:

John 3: 16

For God so loved the world, that he gave his one

And only begotten Son, that whoever believeth

In him shall not perish,

But have everlasting life.

The words were beautiful, and I drank them in as I reread the passage over and over.  I knew it had to be from the Bible, but these words would have never meant the same to me had I read them two months ago.  Then, one word finally hit me.  A word my grandparents frequently mentioned, but never affected me until now.  Jesus.  This Jesus Christ that died on the cross to save all of humankind from their sin, and he took it without shame.

            I found my heart and mind were open to this, as I realized the little box itself was a miracle.  One of Jesus’ miracles.  It is obvious I cannot explain it, but I knew it was from Him.  I stared in awe at the box, truly a wonder of what I was missing out.  God knows a lot more than we ever will, and I just couldn’t get over how the small things He uses to get our attention, really works.  It was quite amazing actually.  Sure, I was still skeptical about some things, but I could ask my grandpa about them later.

            I set the box down, headed toward the bookshelf, and pulled out a Bible.  Then I sat down against the wall, and for the first time, opened the Bible to its first page.