Journaling

My End Time

We’ve been talking with our grown kids about the end times—our end times. We’re not going to live forever—surprise, surprise, and we want things to be as easy for them as possible when either of us goes, especially their last parent, whichever that may be. We’ve written a simple will and had it checked out with our lawyer, even though there’s not a lot to leave.

The next question is whether to write specific directions for special things we own (special to us, not necessarily to them). Since I hadn’t come to a decision about my journals, I talked that over with my family again. I have a hundred journals and counting.

As I wrote, I was conscious that someone might read them someday. When the “kids” were honest, though, they didn’t want them. Such tomes from a parent would be hard reading for any kid and it really isn’t the kind of reading either of them cares for. Besides, we’re all trying to de-clutter as well as we can and the journals take up quite a bit of room. I completely agreed and understood, and surprisingly I was relieved instead of hurt.

After more thought and prayer, I got some insight about my true feelings. Until our son and daughter were perfectly honest with me, I hadn’t been honest with myself. I got up one morning with the decision to read the journals through and then shred them. I hadn’t realized how worried I’d been for years about dying suddenly and someone being hurt by them. You see besides writing good things, I figure everything out by writing. I analyze people, and share any questions or puzzlements I may have about life—with God. I complain all I want to and at times, I beat myself up about my own shortcomings. That’s all quite boring and I wouldn’t want anyone to have to wade through it.

So what I’m feeling now is anticipation. I’ll keep writing in journals and I’ll keep them to re-read as long as I want, but near the end, if I have any idea it’s coming, I’ll do what my mother did when she was ninety and shred all the evidence. Apparently, it’s a fun thing for a ninety-year-old to do. If I leave a separate writing, I’ll simply ask that the journals be disposed of or the materials recycled in some way. That could be as simple as taking them to work and asking if they can be added to the company’s shredding plan.

As for leaving something—I have written the promises God gave me for the family in a small red velvet book. All the promises came true. Whoo! I’ve had another small book for a long time someone might like. That’s enough. Families have each other’s genes, traits, loves, and joys. They care—and they remember deep down in their souls. That’s more than enough.

God gives peace.

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

It is a good thing to get things off your chest, journaling or talking to a trusted friend are the best ways. However, if something is ultra private, and secret, the best thing to do is to write it out, rip it out, shred it, and dispose of it. That way you have the benefit of the writing and the insight, which will immediately or eventually come to you, and privacy. You have complete control over what goes into your journal. You may or may not have control over who reads it, or when they read it. Continue reading “Journaling”