Resurrecting hymnals

It’s not a secret that I’ve been repairing and bookbinding my church’s Bibles and hymnals. I’m not surreptitiously stuffing them into my backpack, though I suppose the optics might be a bit confusing to members of my congregation. It came about naturally; after all, part of learning a craft involves becoming curious about the product. During the pandemic, some people picked up knitting clothes or baking sourdough or singing sea shanties. As for me, after a stressful high-risk pregnancy and isolated postpartum period in early 2021, I picked up bookbinding, a craft I had dreamed about for years. Now, five years later, I have handbound over a hundred books. I often find myself examining books in stores, critiquing their construction and (often shoddy) workmanship. So when I noticed some of my church’s Bibles and hymnals were falling apart, I was filled with the audacity that fuels every crafter and thought, I can fix that.

One hundred books later

I have always loved physical books; I worked in a library and a book store for several years. Every home my husband and I make is filled to the gills with books, so it was only natural that I took my love of stories, fabric and sewing and applied it to the creation of physical hardcover books.

My basement has borne the brunt of this hobby and now houses reams of paper, a rainbow of waxed thread, a laser printer, scads of bookcloth, gilding and, most intimidatingly, a 400-page capacity industrial paper cutter. I have made journals as gifts for family and friends; I have formatted and bound three books of poetry and two theses, all written by friends. This Valentine’s Day, I gifted my husband a handsewn copy of Frank Herbert’s Dune, complete with a pieced bookcloth cover and golden chapter titles. I have repaired favourite childhood novels, library discards, heirloom cookbooks and at least 10 pew Bibles and hymnals covertly rescued and returned to my church.

Books on the brain

So how does one get into bookbinding? For me and many others, the gateway is through “fanbinding,” which is the act of formatting and binding fan-made material inspired by media and pop culture. This may take the form of binding fanfiction or fanart (stories and art created by fans based on existing media) or creating a collection of movie or television scripts as a bespoke collector’s item. I have even seen fanbindings of Taylor Swift song lyrics, lovingly formatted with images from her recent Eras tour. Fanbinding is especially poignant because it takes material that exists almost exclusively online in digital form, and transforms it into something tangible and physical. In an age where most information is absorbed via a neverending digital scroll generated by an all-knowing algorithm, there is something beautiful about curating value from the online chaos and preserving it in the stillness of a book.

Book preservation also impacts how we process and absorb information. Whether it’s an old hymnal or a fanbound copy of scripts from the 2013 TV show Hannibal, reading from a physical book leads to deeper comprehension and critical thinking. According to a 2024 study conducted by researchers at Macquarie University in Sydney, Australia and North-West University in South Africa, digital reading via a screen leads to a decrease in “metacognitive regulation,” the act of evaluating and comprehending information. They compared the differences between reading using static versus digital text and found that texts that require a deeper understanding benefit from being read from paper. Additionally, there is a significant component of memory retention that is linked to the stimulation of the senses. The physical act of reading a book triggers many senses: the visual delight of a beautifully designed cover and typeset; the weight of a hardcover in one’s hand; the sounds of pages slipping against each other as they are turned; and the scent of freshly printed books and the musty vanilla of antique ones. Every sense that is activated triggers the formation of deep memories within the brain which are then tied to the information that is absorbed. The action of powering on a screen and holding a slim tablet in one’s hand cannot compare.

Each with a story

Unfortunately, many churches and believers are doing away with physical books in their faith and worship. Books are fragile and sometimes seen as utilitarian, meant to house songs and scripture until it needs to be momentarily accessed during a service, then left closed for the remainder of the week. When I started repairing Bibles and hymnals, my curiosity led me to look up how much they would cost to replace altogether, and the answer was . . . minimal. If I were to charge for my services, repairing would not be cost effective by any stretch of the imagination. However, even setting aside the ethical meaning behind repairing versus replacing, every book I have repaired at my church comes with a story. One Bible I’m currently working on bears the stamp of Third CRC, the church’s former name. Another had visible indentations on the pages where I discovered a paperclip lurking for who knows how long. With others, the spine has cracked under the location of a favourite song or passage.

And what of the books that are too far gone? I have one particularly stubborn pew Bible that may be beyond repair. Patching its cracked hinges has led to unsightly ridges. I’m tempted to rebuild the whole cover, but up until this point, my repairs have been covert. Some glue here, new endpapers there, maybe some metal corner caps if I’m feeling particularly flashy.

To completely rebuild a book feels like giving myself away, especially if I decide to cover it in something besides the standard black or grey.

Bookbinding is a statement that these collections of words are worth taking the time to repair, that this humble pew Bible isn’t disposable, and that it isn’t ready to be replaced by scripture verses projected on a screen.