Life's Storybook

Confession: I am a journal maniac. I have kept journals since I was 9 years old. And I still have them all. One day when I am famous, someone will open my closet and find my entire life story, scrawled across the pages... handwriting changing drastically over the years!


My journal is probably the book that I open the most often. Some days I don't write at all, and others, I write several times. It is small enough to fit inside my purse, unobtrusive enough to take notes in, and perfect for sketching, doodling, pondering, or pouring out my soul. If you flip through the pages you'll see comic book characters, phone numbers, scenic meadows, tear stains, quiet times, and random poems. It is, in a word, my written storybook. And two nights ago, I finished yet another chapter to it, as I scrawled words on the final sheet of this particular journal..

When I was 9 years old, and began journaling, my journal entries looked something like:

"Dear Journal, Today I woke up at 6am and did my math homework. I hate math. I fed my goat and then ate lunch. I had a peanut butter sandwich. I really like ______ (insert name of crush-of-the-week). Jen told me that if it snows in August she will eat a wheat thin. She really does not like them. Love, Kristen."

As I got older, my journal entries became slightly more developed and more legible. For example, this entry from 27 August 2007 using running as a metaphor for a long work in progress:

"It's mile 4. I'm past the halfway marker... but my muscles are aching. My lungs are burning. My feet thud with dull certainty against the pavement. And everything in me screams, just stop. You've come so far... you're far enough... you can finally rest. Relax. Breathe. But I'm running a race, and just to compete... to make it 3/4 of the way... is not enough. I am running to finish the race, because I know the prize that is in front of me. And so, I run on."

Slightly different vocabulary. Slightly more complex analysis and depth of analogy. Still horrible spelling. But the basic jist was the same: I wrote about the people in my life, what I did, what I thought, and how I felt. I told my story. And, unlike in many personal relationships, my journal knows my entire story. It has seen my tears. It has captured my joys. It has felt the burn of my anger. It has reams filled with exclamation points, question marks and celebration. It cannot truly know me; it is an inanimate object, devoid of feelings, emotions or response. Yet, often times, I have trusted it with my soul more often than people around me. Why? Because until your little sister reads your journal out loud to your Sunday afternoon company, your journal cannot speak back. It can't fail you. It cannot let you down by not responding appropriately. It cannot lie to you. It cannot take your trust and hurt or excitement and trash it. And sometimes, it just feels safer.

And please don't misunderstand me. I love my journal. I will continue journaling; I think it's an excellent and healthy place to process thoughts, prayers, emotions, God, men, dreams, etc. But I also think there is a danger of that becoming our only processing ground. In the insulated world that we live in, the majority of our "processing" and even communicating is done in isolation. We talk on the phone while driving in our cars by ourselves. We walk to class with our ipods turned up to full blast. We keep a blog. We chat via instant message and text message. We facebook stalk. The majority of our communication and processing is done devoid of real human interaction. The result of this? Often, we find ourselves not really known. Our story has been edited so many times that there's not much left. The pages are kind of dusty. And we are alone. Lonely. And we miss out on seeing the whole of our story: our focus is so narrow that we leave out many of the characters never letting them enter into the margins.

As I was thinking about this concept of being known, I was struck by how often we allow our friendships to sink to the level of my 9 year old journals. We know all about the other person, but at the end of the day, we fail to really know the person. In the midst of stories and factoids, we miss the person who thinks, feels, and is. We can tell you many things about their daily activities, their GPA, their family, their 7 foot 1 crush (or 5 foot 1), and what they ate for breakfast, but we miss how they're feeling inside, what they aspire to, and who they are sans all activities. We miss the person. In this regard often grown-up journal reading has an edge because people are more inclined to share their inner soul with lined paper and a pen (or a keyboard and cyber space), than with their friends. And this is a myth of "life" that our culture perpetuates in its "individualized" mentality.

So, I have a challenge for both of us.... you and me.

This week, just once, let's trust enough to share our story with a close friend. Be wise; chose someone that you trust, and who is trustworthy. Do it in person, not online or on facebook or via text message. God has given you a wonderful story to tell... one in which the characters are still being added, the plot is still being developed, and the dialogue can be funky often. But it's your story. And I guarantee you, there is someone out there who needs to hear it. Perhaps they're even a character in it. So while story telling on the pages is not a bad thing, don't let it be an excuse for not telling your story to those around you.

Tell your story. It might even surprise you! The narrative is so much bigger than you'll ever know.... and you'll never know until you dare to tell it. :-)