The Journal
Maybe parts of me feel guilty, maybe the other part of me is terrified. Maybe I’m just not thinking straight here at 5 in the morning, 22 hours awake isn’t ideal for the brain I would assume. But whatever, it’s good to write these things out.
I’ve been on the race now for just about 4 months. I’ve seen countries and continents race by thousands of miles below. I’ve preached in front of a hundred people in Africa, I’ve witnessed the blind see, I’ve seen the lame actually get up and walk. I’ve witnessed the hungry get food, I’ve been to Haiti and seen the children sitting naked in the dirt because their parents can’t afford to buy them underwear. I’ve repaired compounds, I’ve grown deeper with my amazing team. I’ve seen one God breathed amazing sunset after amazing sunset. Life has been unreal, unbelievable, and incomparable. People donated $15,000 for me to be here. I have monthly supporters that take care of my bills while I’m out here racing around the entire globe.
And I’ve never had a heavier heart.
Because there is this journal. And this journal haunts me. And this journal sits there at the foot of the stage in the arena. And thousands of people have packed in to hear the gospel. Thousands are here to receive the good news. And the lights are on. The Lord has made it clear that He wants me here. At the microphone. And I go to open my mouth and there it is. Page 1-21.
21 years of history, of a story. 21 years of remember that. 21 pages of remember her. 21 pages of remember when you__. 21 pages of hurt. 21 pages of when I didn’t step up. 21 years of mistake after mistake. 21 pages of this is the time that I turn it around, this is the page where it ends. This is the page where I stop living this way. This is the page where I stop failing and falling short.
And it just sits there. That Journal. And somewhere in the crowd of thousands are the people. The hurt friends, the hurt women, the hurt family. The mentor’s I failed. The schools I got kicked out of. The times I looked in the mirror and had no clue what I was looking at. And even though I know that is not my identity. I cannot help but read the pages. I cannot help myself because those things are true about me. I wrote those pages.
And then He shows up. And he walks to the front. And He looks at me. And with holes in His hands, He grabs the journal. And as He flips through the pages they overrun red. Deep and painful. And He looks over the journal and smiles. He looks at me and He comes onstage. It’s His show anyway. And He hands me the journal. Open it.
Crisp white, because the red had cleaned the black. He hands me the mic, smiles and walks back into the crowd to watch what I’ll say about Him. He looks at me, fully aware that I am the farthest thing from perfect. And He says I like that. That one. He’s the one I’ll use. 21 pages of what I’m enough for him. 21 pages of just how much I love him. 21 pages of realizing just how much I was there with him. 21 pages for him to not know why right now, but to know that I am his why. 21 pages of how I needed him right here, right now.
May I reach the end of my life and hand that journal back to Him. I finally will have turned in an assignment on time. And I cannot wait to see that smile. I cannot wait till that Journal gets filed with all the others that have written just as painfully and joyfully as I have.
