I keep waiting to have all of that “extra time” on my hands during this pandemic season. I confess that I am envious of folks who binge watch all the shows, bake all the sourdough, and have gardens that rival Martha Stewart’s. Not me. I feel like I’ve been busier than ever just trying to stay afloat. All of the pivoting is enough to send one into a spiral. Then I remember all of the folks who have lost jobs, those fighting on the front lines of the pandemic, those who have lost loved ones, and all of the others in much worse situations than I am. Privilege pinch.
One of the suggestions I’ve heard and intention that I’ve had is to journal. I strongly desire to journal. I own about a gazillion journals. I’m strangely drawn to them, maybe just the idea of it all. I imagine all of the thoughts that will go into them: deep, personal, transformational ponderings. Reality check. Many of these journals are simply collecting dust. On occasion, I write a few lines or even muster up a few pages in one of these beauties. This typically happens when I’m going through something HUGE that needs the escape pod of a page.
The journal in the photo is a prime example. It’s lovely faux leather cover and snap closure invite the potential writer/reader into its mystery. The stories that book must hold. I did fill in one page on May 30, 2013. That’s got to count for something, right? As I read this snapshot and recount what I was experiencing then, I’m instantly transported right back into that era of uncertainty. Funny, God must have known that I needed to read this during my current experience of uncertainty.
When I read pages of ponderings past, insight floods my being. The places I was emotionally stuck. The repeated patterns. The self-sabotage. The despair. The perseverance. The resilience. The redemption. Growth and transformation aren’t obvious in reading one single page. One must take it all in. Bite sized chunks of entries from one random journal at a time. I see what you did there, Jesus. You’ve turned my mourning into dancing. My despair into hope. My sorrow into song. And I know you’re not done with me yet. Random journaling is my thing. I’m good with that.
God knows I’m lousy at consistent journaling. God loves me anyway. Thanks be to God!