I began reading Moby Dick seven times before I ever finished it. When I finally turned the last page, I felt like I’d accomplished something grand. It seemed important, and I somehow wanted people to know about it. I called my mother and my old college roommate and my brother who once vacationed in Massachusetts. I found ways to bring up whaling at parties, just so I could say, “Why, yes, actually, I have read Moby Dick.” Oh, my hardcover copy still sits on my coffee table.

About five years ago, my husband bought me The Pilgrim’s Progress in Modern English at an airport bookstore. “Here,” he said, “you like to read. It’s supposed to be really good.” That night I began reading about “Christian,” who lived in a town called “Destruction,” and “Evangelist,” who pointed him to a “Narrow Gate.” I didn’t get far. The pilgrim didn’t progress any further than my nightstand for months—until one day he migrated to the bookshelf in my den.

The Pilgrim’s Progress never called out to me from the bookshelf like the great white whale had. I never experienced the secret shame we English majors feel when we know we can’t get through a “classic.” So last month when I picked up The Pilgrim’s Progress for the second time, I had low expectations.

I was a little less thrown off this time by the allegory, but the first couple of chapters were still difficult. But soon I was hooked—Mr. Worldly Wiseman had duped Christian, and I wanted to know what would happen next.

Last night I finished the book, and I can’t believe it’s over. I won’t check anything off my “100 Things To Do Before I Die” list, and I don’t feel particularly proud of myself. Instead I have a profound sense that something has happened to me. I strolled this last month through a story of Christians who face trials ranging from crying, tired children to getting burned at the stake. I’ve waited with them for heaven and rejoiced with them as they came into their glorious resurrection.

I don’t want to brag to my friends like when I finished Moby Dick, but I do want to buy them all copies. “Here,” I want to say, “Read this. It’s really good.” I want to share it with my children and talk to my husband late into the night about things I’ve learned. Oh, and I want to read it all over again.

John Bunyan had a fourth-grade education, was a Puritan preacher, spent 12 years in prison, and died in 1688.  On the other hand, I live in the 21st century, am a wife and mother, have a liberal arts education, and would make a seriously lousy Puritan. These differences beg the question: what can John Bunyan teach me that I can’t learn in a dozen trendier places? I didn’t expect it, but Bunyan showed me truths that pastors and Bible studies have not shown me in 20 years of being a believer. And now I understand what generations of Christians before me knew too: The Pilgrim’s Progress will teach people a great deal about the Christian walk, and it will do it in a way they will never forget.

Review by Mickie Courtney