I’ve had a journal for as long as I can remember. For years, its dark blue flowery cover protected perfectly blank pages that I treasured and saved even as I burned with the desire to fill them with words. And on January 1, 2000, with all the bravery of a 13-year old stepping into a new millennium, I resolved to pick up a pen and write my story, a daily record of my life. I listed how I spent my time, where I went, what I ate, who said what – trying to capture and save the briefest impression of the individual grains of sand slipping through the neck of life’s hourglass. As I wrote each day, my words veered from the factual to the reflective, becoming more introspective and yet more an outpouring of the vast and tumultuous thoughts of my teenage self. Writing soon became a way to process my life with my Heavenly Father. And in my Father’s presence over the years, I have written pages upon pages sharing my life intimately with Him. He, too, has written pages and pages sharing himself and his love with me. When, in my no longer emptily cowering journals, His Word and my words combine in truth that connects my daily reality with His eternal reality, then I am my truest self as a writer – made in the image of a God who is a writer.