"I kept a journal for years and years." That's what I've said to myself for years and years. But in the more recent past I've been asking myself, "If I kept a journal for years and years, where are they? Surely I wouldn't have thrown them away!" I had almost decided that, as is so often the case, my memory is a liar and I just like to think that I'd been writing for years and years.
About two weeks ago, a box in the corner of Weldon's closet caught my eye. What's in that big box? It's behind my carry-on and my little duffle bag, and that's my shoulder massage thingie on top of it. Hmmm. Three days ago I dragged it into my sewing room; two days ago I opened it up.
French books and a year of Reader's Digest in French; a few old photo albums; some commemorative magazines, including a National Geographic from May 1951; paraphernalia from my high school graduation, certificates of various achievements, papers I wrote during my two years at North Central Bible College; a little stack of greeting cards; a book in which I had written down quite a few of the songs I wrote way back when; AND thirteen journals!
I'm excited. I'm kind of scared. These books represent a couple of my previous lifetimes. But, hey! They're my lifetimes! I'm going to take a slow stroll down memory lane.