A Dugout in the Desert

By the time I depart for heaven, the journals I in my closet will have multiplied to over a hundred. It may hold that many now.

So what will happen to the many books I’ve written over time? Will anyone ever want to read them?

The dear ones in my family have listened to me for all, or most, of their lives. They pretty well know what I think, and what I’m going to say. I feel deeply loved by them, but I’m not sure they’re going to want to read my journals. That doesn’t hurt my feeling at all.

I write the journals as if they were letters to God, even though He already knows everything that’s going on in, and around, me. I also have in mind a reader who might like reading people’s journals for the fun of it.

If no one wants to read them, they can be used in several different ways. They can be as landfill, or as bricks for a handy-dandy little dugout in the Arizona desert. Surely so much thick paper, cardboard, cloth, and even ink (that will run in a rainstorm) would come in handy for use as construction materials.

They might be scary to read. I’m not always the nicest kid on the block. They won’t be indecent, or vicious, though. That’s just not me.

Writing helps me work through things, but if I write from hurt or in an angry fit, I shred the pages and throw the scraps away.

My son has a good idea. He says they could be disassembled and scanned. Apparently, new machines do miraculous things. It is a good idea, but I don’t want to take the time, nor do I have the equipment.

I honestly never meant to create a problem with my passion for journaling. Bill says it saved my sanity and I heartily agree. It aided my healing tremendously. But maybe the need for them will be over when I’m gone.

If I could, I would leave them for my future self, if I were my child, grandchild, or great grandchild.

If I could, I’d warehouse them for a hundred years so they couldn’t possibly hurt anyone. They’d be read for whatever someone could get out of them—if anything. They warehouse people’s bodies, so why can’t somebody warehouse my journals?

I don’t think I’ll leave them to anybody in particular. God can sort it all out when the time comes. That little dugout in the desert is sounding better and better. Or how about a nice campfire? Even that many journals wouldn’t make a bonfire…people could roast marshmallows…or…or…I don’t know. What do you think?

“Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body.” Ecclesiastes 12:12