I found a thick, blank journal in a box of stuff I had packed, hoping to get my house ready for sale. Hoping to move again. I swore after the ordeal I went through only three years ago that I would “never move again!”   But things have changed so dramatically since then.

So I found this journal. I haven’t written anything for such a long time because part of the drama I mentioned includes health issues  and depression that makes me weak and tired. I just survive; I don’t do extra things often. I do the mom stuff, (grandma, raising kids. I call this Mom, part 2), and I sit in front of the TV. And that’s usually about it.

Recently I had such a close-to-dying asthma scare that I have pressed through the pain and climbed above the blues and just gone for it. Life.  I always have tried to create happy memories for the kids, but my ability, both physically and financially, has been limited.

Somehow, though, I have taken them to the zoo and will take them soon to an amusement park.  Bowling, (, swimming, Chuck E. Cheese, miniature golf, vacation bible school…

While I sat in the parking lot at VBS waiting for the kids to be dismissed, I opened that journal to write.  It was a lot like coming home after many years absent and wondering if I would be welcomed back.  I decided, weighed down as I was with troubles, to steer clear from mentioning those troubles on the pages of the orange and yellow flowered book.  I kept it light. Funny, even. I talked about whatever came to mind. It was freeing. Why was I surprised?

It occurred to me then that writing isn’t an “extra” thing at all. Not for me. It’s cleansing and uplifting. It’s edifying and calming. It’s good medicine.

I guess I thought, before, that if I didn’t write something profound, it didn’t count. I was SO wrong. Those blank pages had felt like a chore to tackle. Now it was what it had been in the beginning when I was barely old enough to pick up a pencil. It was joy.

What more does it need to be?