Ripped pages and torn paper, taped edges and tear stains…if I could wrap my life up into a picturesque phrase it would be, “just like a scrapbook.” Some people’s scrapbooks are perfect and printed. Some have ribbons and hand made art. Mine has ripped pieces, kraft tape holding pages together and tears spreading ink. But when discovered in an old box in the attic, no matter how perfect or imperfect the display of images and words, it’s still treasured.
I’ve journaled since I was little. Not always about my day but most of the time about the future. I have prayers jotted down with scribbled out grammar mistakes and accidental repetition of “and” which looks like “and
Sometimes theres huge gaps in my scrapbooks like years have passed and life has been lived and suddenly I return with, “it’s been awhile…but here are the updates.” I imagine my future great grand child reading and asking “where are the pages from 2017-2019?” and being met with 2020 and the confusion of what those pages must look like, but she keeps turning pages to find how her great grandmother loved her husband, prayed for his safety, and for God to see them as faithful.
But what she will also see is imperfection, wrapped up with righteous anger and the battled paragraphs of “I think I have forgiven but I’m not sure why I still dwell.”
But…just like a scrapbook she will find this all to be a treasure.
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