Today I'm thankful for a small collection of volumes sitting in a carton by my bed. These slim books vary from each other in size and colors. One has a painting of a woman strolling in a rose garden on the cover, another has a cheerful cow (I think it looks cheerful anyway) posing beside a sunflower plant. Still another has an elegant tan and gold cover with shimmery pastel flowers seemingly floating across the surface. Altogether, there are at least 9 if not 10 volumes. They contain my life. They are my journals from at least the age of 8. I have never been good at writing every day. Some entries are spread apart by months, some by a year or more. But I'm glad I have kept it up for the most part all these years. Occasionally, I will pull one of them out and re-read its contents, laughing at the poor spelling and grammar, at the strange things I chose to record (why did I give detailed descriptions of so many breakfasts, most of which were nothing more than nutty nuggets and
A blog about life from my limited perspective as a Christian Wife, Mom and Human being.