Subject line: 17 journals.

 

canton, georgia. 

I’ve always bought and thrown away empty journals. I would write until my head hurt, thinking of how to say words beautifully. I transcribed verses like they were magical and could grant my every wish. I would write down my prayers I thought were meaningless, praying for the people I didn’t know how to fix and for the faults within my days.

I never asked God to love me. Not once have I written that I need Him to tell me I’m worth it. I just assumed He was holy and he once loved me, when I was young and never needed grace.

I often clean out my room and get rid of old books that I can’t keep- tales of love and faithfulness and beauty- but it seems like I always have enough room to keep my unfinished prayers. Seventeen journals. Seventeen journals and I still can’t find a way to ask God if I’m really worth it.

A prayer from 3 years ago: “God, if you’re there and you’re moving— move in him. Knock on his door.”