A Journal At My Door

If you took an informal poll, many would admit to having one.
Colors would vary.
Places to hide it would be different for each person.
Whether it was private or accessible would be a personal preference.

Me, the writer and me, the lover of words had a hard time keeping one.
I was given quite a few.
Some had locks with a small key that was usually attached with a satin ribbon.
The words on the front would always be the same: My Diary.

I promised myself that this time I was going to be faithful.
This time my diary would be the impetus for keeping a chronicle of my life.
Except it never happened.
I would write in the diary for a while and then lose interest.

The satin ribbon never seemed to reach far enough to unlock the little lock.
Of course, to solve that problem I simply cut the ribbon.
Consequently, not long after that, the key would be lost in the nightstand drawer.
The diary remained locked and the chronicles ceased.

Except they didn’t cease.
They stayed in my memory and became stories.
Stories ripe for the telling.
Stories on the back burner of my mind, waiting to come forth.

Mother’s know that each child is different.
Things that worked for one child do not necessarily work for others.
Some children are quick to share their heart.
Others need a little more time and a lot more thought.

One of my daughters was that kind of child.
She would decide to share her heart before bedtime.
It was not a stalling tactic, it was simply because by then she had processed everything.
The problem was that I wanted to listen but morning came very quickly.

I had to think of something that would allow her to tell me her heart and allow me to sleep.
I remembered my diary.
My diary that never got beyond a few weeks of entries.
My diary that was private and locked though more of a chore than a catharsis.

I went to the store the next day while she was at school.
Because of her age I thought a journal would be best.
I bought a pretty one and a special pen.
I brought it home ready to see if this method would be fruitful for both of us.

This is our special journal, I said handing her the red book with the gold lettering.
Our journal? she asked not understanding what I was proposing.
Yes, this is something between me and you, nobody else.
I could see she liked the fact that she didn’t have to share this with anyone.

What’s it for? she asked fingering the journal.
It’s for talking to me.
It’s for all the things that bother you that you want to tell me.
It’s for any question you might want to ask me all by yourself.

She smiled and I could see the wheels turning.
You just write in this journal as much or as little as you want.
Slip it under my bedroom door.
I will read it and I will answer you and slip it under your door.

I can still see her sweet smile.
Really? Just between you and me? she said holding this treasure in her hands.
Really. Our private conversation.
You can write one sentence or five pages and I will read every word.

I saw the journal underneath my door as I went to bed a few nights later.
Her little heart was all poured out on the page.
I held something very precious in my hands.
I took this sharing of hearts very seriously and so did my daughter.

She knew she had my undivided attention.
She had the time to process her thoughts and feelings.
It was a sweet season between the two of us.
And one day, it ended.

It was just not needed any more.
Her heart was safe.
Whether she put her feelings down on paper or told me directly, she was heard.
I never knew what became of that journal but it served its purpose well.

Give ears to my words, O Lord, consider my sighing. Listen to my cry for help, my King and my God, for to You I pray. In the morning, O Lord, You hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before You and wait in expectation. (Psalm 5:1-3)

It is as if we have our own private journal with God.
We lay our requests before Him and He hears us.
He always answers, though not always the way we desire.
But He knows best.

Sometimes the answer comes very quickly.
Sometimes we have to wait.
Our conversation is private, just between God and us.
Our conversation is precious to Him.

God has written His own Journal.
His Word.
Right in the middle of God’s Journal are the prayers that others wrote to God.
Raw, unedited prayers recorded in the Psalms.

David, Asaph, the Sons of Korah, Ethan the Ezrahite, and even Moses all wrote.
A divine Journal: God-breathed, infallible, inerrant, and preserved for us who came after.
God is our safe place.
God is a haven where we can safely lay our heart and know that it is heard.

I guess all those years ago, I was in good company without ever realizing it.
There is no safer place to lay your heart.
It is comforting to know that others, inspired by the Spirit laid their hearts out as well.
It is just like God to keep a Journal.

How blessed we are to have it in our hands.
Have you spent time conversing with God today?

 

2 responses to “A Journal At My Door”

1. Gina, I always enjoy what you write, but this one was very sweet. Write on!

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   • Thank you, Jean. I am delighted that you were especially touched by this story. Your encouragement means so much.
     Gina

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