It was one of those deliciously quiet Saturday mornings. I had slept. Really slept. Dreamed a thousand dreams and woke up feeling wonderful.
The boys had friends over last night, I had heard them still kicking around in the basement at 2:00 a.m., so I knew they’d be sleeping late.
I made coffee and went back upstairs to read my Bible in bed. Not a regular event, like it used to be, but still I do it when I remember.
My bookmark (as I’m slowly reading through Isaiah) is an old affirmation exercise my counsellor gave me almost two years ago when I was working through the reality of my marriage failing. I never finished the exercise, and I thought, maybe now’s a good time to reinvest.
So I pulled out the composition notebook I used as a journal and started flipping through the pages. In between the exercise pages, I found little journal entries. Maybe a dozen in all.
It’s always weird to me to read something I’ve written. “Did I really say that?”, “Was I quoting someone or are those my words?”, and “Boy, was I naive.”
I love that I was naive. I love that I held on to hope until the very end. I’m glad I was childlike in my belief of happily ever after. And I’m glad I finally woke up.
Waking up isn’t always as easy as it was today. Sometimes it’s very painful and confusing. But somehow your feet find the floor, you stand up, and start moving. And another day begins.