Words of Redemption

I have journals. Lots of them. Mostly in a pile on top of the bookcase in my office.

Of course, you already know I have journals. I’m certain I’ve mentioned this before.

But what you don’t know is that none of these journals are full. Except for one. But we’ll get to that.

The rest of my journals have almost as many blank pages as full ones. Some are more empty than full. Many of them overlap in time, like my first journal (which has dated entries from January, 1996 to December, 2000) and my second (which begins in August of 1996 and trails off in silence after April 20, 1997)¹.

And they’re all like this. Overlapping entries. Books with a dozen poems, then nothing. I think one journal even has fifty blank pages before the entries start right back up again.

To be honest, I’m a little ashamed of this fact. As much as I like to brag about journaling for the last twelve years and having all of these books with semi-coherent scribbling, what you don’t see in a picture or by my words is that none of those journals are full. Or almost none. But we’ll get to that.

Why, do you ask²? Mostly because of my personality, I suppose. I’m a starter. I love coming up with new ideas and concepts. I get passionate and excited about these ideas and dive in with abandon.

Then, halfway through my current idea, another shiny bauble comes along and catches my eye.

A new idea! This one is so much better than the last.

I grasp onto this new idea and leave the old flapping in the wind.

This pattern has been pretty consistent in my life. It applies just as much to gadgetry (iPod, Xbox, Kindle) as it does to my creative process.

And it very much applies to my journaling.

I discovered early on in journaling that an empty journal is an intoxicating thing. The pages cry out to be filled with truth and brilliant thought. With observations about life and faith that provide comfort to the writer. They promise catharsis through simple transference of every thought, worry or struggle to the page.

At least, that’s the way I always saw it. A new journal was a promise of genius and creative inspiration. Nevermind that I had one at home or in my backpack with plenty of space for my thoughts. This new journal was better. Somehow.

As a result, when I was younger, I found myself snapping up journals and record books and composition books far faster than I was filling them.³

And journal after journal remained incomplete. With blank pages and discarded ideas. Another symbol of good things unfinished, and my inability to see things though.

And this always seemed to lead to guilt. A lot of guilt. Often, I would look at these journals and see them as tangible proof that God couldn’t use me because I didn’t have the discipline to finish. I would stare at the empty pages and imagine them full of the words God had called me to write, but which I couldn’t.

Thankfully, the story doesn’t end here. There is that one journal I mentioned earlier.

The finished one. And what it represents to me.

But we’ll get to that.