write now

When I was 8 my sister gave me her old journal. She had used about half of it and it was blue with white geese and hearts on the cover and it had "I {heart} Rolly" written all over the inside cover. I didn't care. I tore out all her used pages and began writing. I wrote about Christmas presents and who won the Super Bowl and crushes and family and church and school and whatever else my little brain thought of.

I kept writing, too. I filled journal after journal. I still have them all in a box in the garage. To date I have filled about 2 dozen journals. Granted, most of my journal writing from the childhood/teenage years are filled with boys. That's all I really thought about in those days. The last 10 years my writing has decreased, but I like to think the material is a little elevated. Sometimes I think about those books tucked away in the garage and I wonder if there really is a point. I don't often go through and read them. Usually when I do I just laugh.

Today I came across my journal from 2011-2013. Ana found it and opened its pages. She opened it to a random spot and started reading it to me aloud. I felt nervous, not knowing which part of my soul she was about to discover. She happened upon an entry about her. It told of how Ana had befriended "the new girl" and welcomed her into her heart, like Ana always does. I wrote about how I felt like Ana was an instrument in the hands of God in helping that little girl and her mother feel loved and I expressed gratitude for Ana's friendly, outgoing nature.

As Ana read the words, her countenance changed. All the frustration she came home with melted away. She blushed and hid her face for a minute. The rest of the afternoon she carried it around and read it. She told me she felt loved and gave me a hug.

A few years ago I had been talking to a friend who had related a really hard experience she had gone through. I had wondered to myself why I didn't feel more inspired to help her at that time. That night I was reading through my journal and I came across an entry when I had called her to see if I could babysit or something and she had declined. I realized in that moment that I had been listening to the Spirit, regardless of her willingness to accept help.

This is why it is so important to write. We write our histories for ourselves and for our children. As we look back, we see strength and goodness and change. It is part of my legacy and their heritage.  The words I wrote changed my daughter. Maybe not permanently, but for an afternoon, she was changed.

Charlie's blessing day family picture