For the last month I have been working on writing down my story of what it took to get my kids for an anthology on enduring miscarriages. My first draft was really really short. Then my husband reminded me of some experiences I had forgot to mention, and then I thought of others. So I got out my journal to review. And left it sitting on top of my piano for three weeks. I couldn't face it. The kids were struggling with the change that comes as part of the end of the school year, and I was struggling with health issues. I even went on a writing retreat and specifically worked on a project other than my personal story.
Finally this morning I shuffled toward the piano like I was heading toward a guillotine and picked up my journal. This particular journal started as a result of my second miscarriage. Now I am not a regular journal writer. I only write 1-2 times a year usually. In a sad attempt to improve on my journaling efforts I even printed off posts from Facebook for a while and pasted them into my journal. Pathetic, I know, but at least it was something.
For an hour I read and re-read entries through the 6 years it took before we successfully had Rose. And I cried. Then I looked up scriptures that I had referenced. Then I cried some more. Then I held my kids.
Yeah, I may not always like them (or more accurately some of the choices they make), but I wanted them more than anything and I'm sure glad that I have them. I'm grateful for the times I did journal because it gave me the power to remember during a time when I started to forget.
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