Back at the start of the year, I found myself in a minor quandary over what to do with my back catalogue of journals. They flowed back to 2007 and although the nostalgic part of me longed to keep them, the pragmatic and space making side of me made better arguments.
Yet, every time I went to get rid of them, I couldn’t do it – a romantic nostalgia grabbed my heart and willed my hands to replace them to their cubbyhole. I posed the question on Facebook: “do I throw or store”. Even then, I knew whatever anyone said, sentimental yearning would still have its hold.
Until, someone posed a question back; “If you died tomorrow, would you want them read and if so, then by who”. The question opened up my creativity and a decision was made and a plan written. More on this another time but for now, it provides context for today’s thought.
I’ve been going through my 2008 diary. A scrapbook of scrawled notes from preaches that I can bearly read or make sense of, pictures of memories that I can’t quite place anymore – where was that sunset taken? I was never one to write times and dates on the back. Pages of emotion led prose, heartaches, fallouts, hope, dreams, and reminders poured out over the pages. Healing, cathartic, but no longer necessary to be tattooed to my timeline.
Things that need to be let go of, things I don’t need to read anymore. I’m not barbaric though, pages are ripped out to be scrapbooked, pictures saved where memory finds itself again. The important parts; the glimpses into a life learning to find the light, a story of faithfulness.
Twenty – zero – eight. Probably the hardest year of my life so far. Mum said goodbye for the last time. The next day her dream of the sun rising to hearts full of worship only coming to fruition after her eyes had closed forever.
All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance… Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.
I moved out to a new town, a new church. I said goodbye again, this time to a person I should never have reinvited into my life. I started grief counseling. I got back behind the bar. I lived.
As I read, a familiar feeling shows itself in this chirograph mirror. “I wish I could have sung, ‘through it all my eyes are on you’, but I can’t say that was always true.”
But through it all, you showed me, but it was more like it was sung over me. Through it all, your eyes were on me, and so it was well with me.
You never gave up on me
As I read I notice the pattern of the eternal torment of an unhealthy Type two that leans into a Wing 1*. The inner critic harsher that anyone will ever know. I am so hard on myself for not being better, for not hitting these self-imposed standards. She needs grace, He’s working on it. Time and time again I see through my ink smudged stream of consciousness your grace is wiling me to see its not about me doing enough, or the best. It’s about you at work in me.
and somehow reading through this is helping it to happen.