Journaling Nostalgia

I'm sitting at my computer. A pile of my journals lay on the floor beside the bed. I have been journaling since first grade, when I received my first journal in the Christmas gift exchange. They are my most valued possessions. No, they are not possessions. They are clouds, thick and heavy with the rain of my thoughts and days. When I want to run away, I step onto one of these clouds and float into the sky. Watch the pink cream of the sky glow on my skin and swirl into the setting sun. Like an orange globe, orbiting time. These are my worlds. When I am stuck. They free me. They are my prayers to my Father. Rippling over the still, placid ocean, like fine lines aging its countenance. They are my memories when my mind is too swollen with worries.

Each page is a mirror. I see me. I know her. I think that when I read the sharp letters on the worn pages. Ink and lead and words smudge together like bruises over my fingertips as I trace the years. I fall asleep because I'm weary like the time I walked home in the untimely night, just a few hours after (high) school. When the campus was quiet and void of its usual clamor and chatter and chaos. And he was gone. And the rain fell sparingly in large drops overhead. And I was forgotten by my parents.

I wake up because I am happy. Like the sticky sugar that coated my hands that one summer day. As the  slitted honey sun melted my half eaten watermelon popsicle. And the joyful shrieks of my peers echoed though the neighborhood as the street lights lit like flickering lanterns on fishing poles and our mothers called us in for the night.

But every day is smeared with sadness. Listless and aloof. Like the time I fell away from the refuge of Your arms. Backwards onto the dusty ground. And I stayed there, cloaked in darkness. And hidden by shadows.

I read my journals and see how much I need you. Infuse my life with You. Take from me…the sadness, the listlessness, the aloofness. Let me set my burden upon Your shoulders and swap it with your yoke.

I was afraid to go back to the world after you saved me at camp that last beautiful night. Filled me with your Spirit and took me away to our secret place. I was afraid to go back because I feared going backwards. And here I am, back to back with the world I hate so much.

Jesus. Even as I write Your name in my journal and on this blog post, I am overcome by the force of Your power. By the reality of Your grace. And I close my eyes and see You. I walk slowly but with urgency toward Your throne of grace. I don't drag my feet. No, I need You too badly. You sit so high, yet You've brought yourself so low. Your eyes are filled with so much love I feel like I might burst from the guilt of my own lovelessness. I don't deserve You. This. The thickness of Your presence surrounds me and overwhelms me, pushes and pulls me, down and up and forward and back and side to side. A gentle but powerful storm. I fight the urge to fall. No, I need to see You face to face. One touch is not enough right now. I need to fall into You. I need You so badly. You see further into me than any journal could ever show. Cover me with Your nail scarred hands. Look down at me and see me.