For as long as I can remember my father has kept a journal. I have memories, even from earliest childhood, of dad taking a few minutes to record his thoughts. It did not seem to matter where we were — at home, on a vacation, at the park, or attending one of his many conferences at colleges or universities — he was always writing.
Though dad has written continuously during my lifetime, it has never been intrusive. I cannot remember ever being with him when he hasn’t taken a few minutes to write. The results of this writing occupy several bookcase shelves at his home, shelves tightly packed with spiral notebook after spiral notebook and representing more than fifty years of penned thoughts. When I pass by these shelves I think of the richness, history, texture, joys, and challenges of the lives described within them — our lives.
The journals were never a mystery, though I’ve never sat down and read one cover to cover. Dad has often shared his writing, sometimes reading a passage aloud. Even today when the family gathers for a holiday celebration here or a weekend there, he continues recording the history of our family and his thoughts on life, politics, poetry, faith, and so many other topics,
I’ve always aspired to have this sort of dedication to a journal. Yet, while I’ve tried many times,I have never been successful, long term. But dad has created a legacy, and during the upcoming Christmas holiday when we are all together, he’ll continue right along.
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