Dear Diary

I found it. It was the tub I had been wanting for about a few months now but never had the excuse to climb through the attic to get it, until now.

I had been wanting to find this tub, green in color, small at first glance but oh so very heavy when picked up. “Ariel’s memories” faithfully read from the side, in my dad’s handwriting. It was a labor of love in which he, a few years ago, had painstakingly combed through the many boxes in my childhood bedroom, and combined them all into separate tubs. 6 to be exact. 6 tubs contained the entire childhood artifacts I had wished to save. But this one was the diamond that shined above the rest. Not because of monetary value, but because of the value of what is contained inside.

I knew God was going to change me through its contents. Long before I even went into the attic, I knew God was going to show me his kindness and faithfulness to me through the contents of this tub. He was going to use me, younger me, to teach the older me.

In my head, it sounded super romantic. I would open the box and be amazed at the colors and sizes of each one of the journals inside. I would breathe the deep smell of old paper and ink and memory. I pictured me smiling as I thumb through the pages of each notebook.

But as with most things in life, it didn’t happen the way I pictured. It was way more emotional than I had anticipated. You see, I have kept a journal ever since 1995, age 5. If there is one thing I have stuck with, it’s writing. It’s writing down random thoughts that popped into my head like popcorn. At times, my journal was my only best friend and secret keeper. Other times, it was the only time I could express my doubts about my faith and my life.

Up until college, I wrote about day-to-day life. I allowed my journal to be my counselor, faithfully listening about the events of young Ariel. I screamed in the pages, covered the pages with stickers (hey, I was 8), and tried out the new gel pens I had just gotten from the store with my allowance money. Some pages are filled with tear marks. No joke. Some pages are still heavy with those stains. Others are filled with ticket stubs, playbills from various performances seen on stage, and plenty other inserts that would make any scrapbooker quite proud of 12-year old Ariel. (For example, I had saved the very magazine that announced America at war after 9/11 with the words “We’re at War” written in purple marker, next to a sad crying face.)

With each page, I went through time. Reading one notebook at a time, sitting on the pages where I had poured my heart out about boys, about school, and about friends. I watched as my sentence structure got better, my spelling began to improve (shoutout to my mom who never gave up on those 8PM practice spelling tests before bed) and I even began adding quotes and song lyrics to prove my point or explain my emotion even further.

As the colored rainbow pen pages and doodles began to lessen, the more my heart came out. A shift began from the daily activities to what I thought about those activities and soon, all of that altogether vanished. My journal began to be the very instrument I would use to connect with God. When I would feel inspired by a song, sermon or when I desired to pray without speaking audibly, I wrote them down. My very heart began to be exposed in the lines of each journal. My dreams, fears, and heartbreak all laid down one (black or blue ink, because “adult”) pen stroke at a time.

I don’t have the exact moment wrote down, but there in 2006 you can see a change taking place. I started writing about hope. Something I had never written about. The pages previously were filled with worries and wishes when it came to a boy named Matt. I find my former me so foreign in this journal. I feel so hopeless reading the pages of this stranger to me today. The pages are extremely dark, fearful, and obsessed about one guy whom I thought could and would be my everything. Compared to the pages of my Xanga (major throwback anyone?) and the polished version of me that I showed the world, this journal is not one I am proud of.

But right there, near the end of the black and white composition notebook, I find it. I find hope.
I don’t mention him by name, but I know that’s the summer I finally let Jesus in.
He became more than just a Sunday School song to me, or just something my mom believed in, he became more.

As I continue on from the dark period, I find my story wasn’t over then. It was in fact, just beginning. I dived into the tub thinking God was going to show me things about myself and my story. I have made it this far, after all. I have made it through some really crappy times and some really good times, but here I am standing on two feet not willing to quit. I thought the journals would help me prove that. Maybe even give me things to show off a little.

Last week our pastor was talking about Moses. His explanation of Moses and his call through the burning bush (Exodus 3) is the second time in a month I have heard the very same commentary on this very same passage. When God tells Moses what he is requiring of him, Moses makes up excuses. He wonders who he is (feeling under-qualified) is slow of speech (excuse)… and the list goes on. God, however, does not affirm Moses. He does not spit back all the ways Moses is perfect for the job. No, God tells Moses who God is. God gives Moses God’s resume.

The following quote from A.W. Tozer has also populated my mind all summer, and now into this fall.
“What we think about God is the most important thing about us.”

So what do I think about God?

I am not going to lie to you, dear reader, the last week or so has been really rough. Really really rough. Up and down, my emotions fly through the air like a yo-yo. But that doesn’t answer the question, what do I think about God?

Reading these journals, my journals, wasn’t for me to see me. Sure, they are written in my handwriting, and some could argue that they are part of my story. But when I open the covers and read the contents, even the darkest or silliest of days, I see God. I see God showing up. I see God not forgetting me. I see God making known that he sees me. I see God’s story all over the pages. I see his goodness, his kindness, his faithfulness. Just like he did with Moses. Even in our more desperate hour, God doesn’t hold a mirror to our face so we can see ourselves or our situations more clearly, he shines it back on himself.

This is, after all, his story.
May he be glorified in every page.