I have always loved words, loved the tempo, nuance, rhyme, and potential reason, sounds make. I’ve also always loved to write, to play with words. Over the years I’ve written plenty, some for “work” and at other delicious times, for the pure pleasure of deliberately stringing words together, all attempts to make sense of the world. As a teen, I fancied myself a poet; spending long hours auditioning words for their import and cadence, all for the delight, and perhaps consternation, of others to hear and read.
There’s no denying the abundance of verbiage in the world – often more words than our heads and hearts can hope to hold. But in the privacy of those same heads and hearts, the written word at its finest can propel us to passion, or better yet, compassion. The “right” word launches ingenuity, can compel us for good, and help articulate our deepest longings and our highest aspirations. Words can hearten us to make what a friend once described as “the best possible offering of ourselves”.
I’ve never been able to write “on demand” (just ask my long-suffering editor!). I’ve never been able to keep a consistent daily diary or journal, though I have several beautiful and largely empty, journals on my shelf. Because words seem to come to me in intermittent waves, I do keep a journal “of sorts”, replete with fragments of poems and parts of paragraphs – and yes, some promises too.
I think I can honestly call this a “prayer journal” because in a way, it is a record of my ongoing interaction with God. Reading through, I can trace the experiences and thoughts I, at least at the time, deemed noteworthy. It’s like a time-capsule, preserving those encounters, both pivotal and mundane, keeping track of my personal history with God. Similar to the Ignatian “Blessed History” exercise, it’s a kind of spiritual autobiography. Mine is more of a photo album, snapshots of times and places where, like the Psalmist, I have sensed God accompaniment and protection. It’s not all rosy though; it also catalogues times of doubt and fear and failing, when I have pleaded: “Keep me, O God, as the apple of your eye; hide me under the shadow of your wings.” (Psalm 17:8)
Many before us have kept a prayer journal, witness Dame Julian’s Showings, Dag Hammarskjöld’s Markings, Henri Nouwen’s Gethsemane Diary or Luci Shaw’s God in the Dark. These form part of the canon, a long and storied tradition of the prayerful musings of the faithful. Some are literary masterpieces, others, like mine, fragments in a search for God. There is no right way or wrong way to “keep” a prayer journal. What matters is that when you’re moved to, just do it!
For many years, I’ve most regularly written these “bon mots” while on retreat. They are notes of the speaker’s words, notes of what the speaker’s words provoked in me. There are lines from the hymns sung or words from the prayers prayed. There are lots of questions – and even a few answers! But what has made even this occasionally incoherent collection particularly precious to me at the moment, is that in these Covid-days of no travel and therefore no retreats, the re-reading of my journal has afforded me manna in the desert, provided water to slake my thirst in the drought, and yes, even given me words for my halting prayers.
I’m thankful for the way, even years later, my prayer journal continues to focus me in these uncertain times. I’m grateful for how it clarifies thoughts and feelings and keeps me honest, with myself – and more especially, with God. Perhaps such a journal could offer similar solace to you – as you examine your own blessed history.
