A few weeks ago my sister and I, at our dad’s request, went through the boxes of childhood memorabilia that he had stored in his attic. While my sister had box after box to go through, I hadn’t hung onto much. What I did have were quite a few very embarrassing diaries, prayer journals, notebooks, etc.
I laughed as I read some of the entries aloud to my sister but I was inwardly cringing and, in all honesty, ashamed at the things that I wrote about as a 10, 12, 14 year old. There were many secret professions of love (to a different boy every few months), there were “revelations” and “visions in the clouds”. My sister assured me that there was nothing to be ashamed of. I was a normal, innocent (in many ways) (or maybe just naive??), young girl.
But I was embarrassed. So I chunked them all. I didn’t want to revisit that girl, and I certainly don’t want my daughter or sons to read those things.
One thing that stood out to me about my writing is how I really thought I was an expert on some things. I thought I had life, Christianity, high school, love all figured out. That didn’t stop when I got out of my teenage years. Just last week I found a journal I kept during my engagement. The same voice is there- sure, confident, cocky, unteachable (?). I didn’t toss those pages, but brought them to my husband’s attention. He helped me see the positive side- that I can now recognize that I don’t know everything. Sometimes I’m truly convinced that I know very little about anything.
I’ll probably write here about all the things I really know nothing about.