first.

I don’t remember my first journal. I’m sure it had a lock and key and was filled with spectrum swinging “Daniel is so cute” and “I’m one of the boys-I don’t like them.” I do know it existed, planting seeds for many more pages to follow. I remember my red notebook in high school that was basically an extension of my hand. It went to every class and every game waiting for whatever words my teenage heart needed to cryptically process in poetic form. Depression and eating disorders and worthlessness and my parent’s separation all seemed a little too intimidating to speak out loud, but felt much more controllable as ink lines between college ruled blue.

As I’m sure any of you journal-ers can testify, that began a long, long road of.. collection (feels better than obsession). There are so. many. journals. Some are finished, some are completely empty, some I’ve started, to then abandon (typically for years), to then come back and finish because the guilt overcame me. Each has its own personality. A story unique to that season. Or seasons for those previously mentioned pages.

As I got older, poems turned to prayers to the Jesus I was learning. I still processed my heart honestly on those pages. Where lots of things in my heart story wavered over the years there was always a hard line that said ‘page-words stay true.’ Knowing that truth was waiting for me meant that I avoided my journal at all costs in a lot of seasons. Seasons where Jesus wanted to find the dark places in my heart and let some light in – absent. Seasons where I chose to fill my heart with men rather than the Son of Man – um, I’ve lost my journal. Seasons of bland, small, complacent living – journal, who?

I say all this to say that words are important to me. Words of Affirmation fights with QT for my top love language. Words. It shouldn’t surprise me then when the enemy then attacks my words. Still does though. It also shouldn’t surprise me that five months ago when my heart walked through the greatest tragedy its known since childhood that words on paper seemed the only way to carry grief through each day.

my curly headed words-remembrance.

First there was a remembering. For years I dreamt of telling stories and making my page words known, but as with lots of dreams fear and insecurity were given louder microphones. But in these recent month moments Jesus sang life over my grieving, and I remembered a dream.

Then there was an asking. Jesus asked me to tell His story through my life lens.

Next… a waiting. Waiting on this dumb-head to be obedient! I convinced myself of a lot of things.. mainly that my dream wasn’t worth accountably carrying out because it was mine.  

Lastly, there was the Word breaking into my words, calling disobedience just that, and creating space here.

I am reading through Luke and the stories of Jesus seeking out his disciples are comedic, beautiful, and apparently, disobedience-revealing. In one disciple-calling he jumps on Peter’s boat for a better vantage point while speaking to the crowds, takes him out into the deep waters, fills two boats with so many fish they’re about to sink, and says, ‘let’s go catch people for the kingdom.’ Peter, James and John pulled their boats to the shore, left everything behind, and followed Jesus.

A few verses later Jesus is looking for Matthew. When he finds him he says, ‘be my disciple and follow me.’ As with the other three, “that very moment, Matthew got up, left everything behind, and followed him."

There weren’t days, weeks, or hours even of “does he really want me to go?” or “can I really do this?” or “does it even matter if I do this or not?” No, there was a simple “follow me” and a simple response. Peter, James, and John left two boat-sinking amounts of miracle fish behind to follow the Miracle Maker. I imagine there was no hesitation because they knew Jesus, and knew that whatever the adventure they wanted in.

So here's my yes, not nearly as dramatic as boat-sinking fish, but just as true. An invitation received and accepted. Being and following.