I found it Saturday night in the bottom drawer of the night stand: my collection of journals. I'd been looking for these babies since we moved to Brownsburg, but, given my proclivity to keep boxes and boxes of books and papers in heaping mounds, I had no idea where they were.
Saturday night I settled in and began reading my journal entries from fifteen years ago, when I was a young, lithe, bright-eyed, thirty-five-year old stud with a four year old daughter and a new born boy. E-gads, what happened to me?
My journals revealed thoughts and ideas from another world. In fact, I didn't even recognize myself. Many of my entries, which at that time I was keeping with nearly daily regularity, revealed the struggles of a man trying to balance work, family, marriage, and writing. Most of my angst was outsourced through the church, with reflections on difficult parishioners (and yes, I've had MANY of those), as well as my not-so-nice thoughts on deadbeat publishers, lazy editors, and my wonderment and amazement regarding my two toddlers.
Those fifteen years have shot by (where did they go?). I'm a lot grayer, a lot dumber (yes, my mind is shot!) and a lot weaker (one of my entries revealed that I had completed, that day, a 1200 pound leg press and a 350 pound bench press, personal records both). I can hardly lift a donut to my parched lips now.
But am I happier? Most days, yes! I just have to remember to change my diaper.
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