Today I reached it.
The last page.
I've been seeing it coming but this morning it happened.
No more pages in my little black journal.
I've loved this small book. It's become a place of comfort and calm. It's been a safe place to go in my attempt to give my thoughts and emotions form and function.
I've tried to figure things out in this book. Everything from my diet and exercise to my marriage. I've let myself be okay with not figuring things out, not knowing, not controlling, and the pages in this book document what that has felt like and looked like.
I've counted days and recorded life. I've written about this precious, ordinary, everyday life. Life that I too often take for granted and struggle with, instead of simply accepting. This book has been the quiet times. The times when the up-front, in-your-face, need-to-deal-with-now noise becomes the background, it-can-wait-this-is-more-important, muted noise, and with the hush that descends when that happens, I've encountered the gift of quiet, of stillness, the gift of writing, and the presence of my Savior who always seems pleased to find me with a pen in my hand.
All I know to say in those moments is "Amen."
Today I'm going to go buy a new journal and it will be exciting to begin a brand new page. I'll find a safe place for this precious filled-up journal and I'll pack it away tenderly, in a safe place, knowing that it will be waiting for me when I need to remember.