It’s both the best and worst part of writing a new book: Journal Day.
This afternoon I dragged a huge box of old journals out of my closet. All 55 and counting. (I was pleasantly surprised to find four more pairs of shoes and a whoopie cushion layered on top of my diaries. It felt like Christmas morning!)
I set to work digging out the journals from the past ten years. I’ve only flipped through two so far, but it’s already filled in major gaps missing from my Boy Talk book.
The best moments of Journal Day are when long-forgotten truth jumps off the pages and steals into your soul once again. When the words you read speak to since-answered prayers and since-fulfilled dreams.
The worst moments are those diaries you want skip altogether, leave them be, let them sit in the dust. Anything but relive. Reawaken. Anything but remember the brokenness they house.
Today has been a good Journal Day so far. I’ve laughed. I’ve mmm’ed. I’ve reminisced. And I’ve written.
I have two chapters left to go on this Boy Talk book, and these journals are reminding me of the final things I need to say in this book. The final stories left to tell.
And I can’t wait to tell them.