I don't even write in my journal anymore.
My black and white speckled journal just sits on my bookshelf in my office. I used to write in it all the time. It was easy to write everything in there. My darkest secrets and my biggest fears. My deepest sadness was in there, or what I thought was my deepest sadness. I even wrote about my happiest moments.
When I was in school, I used to think that boyfriends and girlfriends and getting in trouble at school where my biggest fears. Losing a girlfriend was like walking the plank. Receiving my term paper with a large red "F" written in red marker just enough over the title so that you had to read through the failure to see what it was even about.
My dad used to call it a "diary". He didn't mean anything by it, but that was something I had always not liked about it. Mine was a journal. It was a snapshot of my life and day. A flash of my feelings on subjects that I could never share with anyone. An outlet so that I could forget.
I didn't write dates. I tried hard not to write names. I could flip back through my book and not remember why I hated so and so or why I felt like killing myself towards the middle of the book.
I wrote to forget.
I can't even pick it up though. I can't write. I tried. I can't write about how I feel now. I pick up a pen and look at the black and white speckled journal, it looks almost solid gray with dust. You can almost read the word "composition" on the front of it still through the dust, and my eyes just tear up, my heart beating fast, and me letting my pen go sailing across the room
I wrote about everything in that journal. When my girlfriend broke up with me, when I failed a test, even when I gave my life to Jesus. I even wrote about my wife and my marriage.
All memories. Lost to time. Lost to me.
I haven't thought about love in a while other than how it's gone. I haven't thought about school or the future or church or girlfriends or anything in a while. It's all stupid.
Everything that I had is gone and I can blame it all on God.
I remember sitting in the waiting room at the hospital waiting for my wife to be released from surgery. She had been in a car accident. She was crossing the road, right of way, when a drunk driver careened through the red light and smashed into her.
The EMT's said she must have been dragged across the road before the driver crashed into the light pole on the other side of the intersection. The driver was fine. In jail, but fine. Hung over, but fine. Minor scratches, but fine.
My wife, died in the operating room. We couldn't have an open-casket wake for the lacerations.
Everyone patted me on the back, gave me hugs, cried with me.
"She's in better place now," someone would say.
"God's ways are mysterious."
They brought me food. Would pray for me. Would pray for the drunk driver.
Why? Why should he receive any prayer?
I told them to leave me alone. They prayed for me harder. If this is God's way, I don't want any part of it. If death is a better place then why don't you let the drunk back out of jail. Give him another beer. Or two, or three.
I don't even bother trying to write this down. There's no point. I shouldn't have to. God should know already. God shouldn't need any dates written down, shouldn't need to know how I'm feeling. He should already know, right?
So, tell me, am I in a better place now?
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