My Inconsistent Journal by Lorilee Guenter

 

It started with a simple notebook and a pen. The earliest I remember consistently writing in a journal was summer of 1986. I had the opportunity to travel with my grandparents, youngest aunt, and sister to Expo 86 in Vancouver. That journal holds observations and reflections of the trip. Over the years I have been an inconsistent journaller. I am most consistent at recording my observations and reflections while travelling.

Over the years, my journals have evolved, and some might say devolved. Lately when I pick up my journal it is a time of reflection. It is a time of asking questions and listening. I have said, "God meets me on the page." This is especially true when I don't follow a rigid journal structure. I write without agenda or time frame. I pause knowing God will show me what I need, when I need it. I pour out my heart, my questions, my concerns, my fears and my excitement in a raw unfiltered manner. Those journals are for my eyes only.

I have at times kept a gratitude journal. When I open those pages, I am remembering and counting my blessings. It is a time of slowing and noticing. It is a time of reflecting and watching my perspective change from grumbling to thanksgiving.

I have had seasons where I journal my prayers. I tried morning pages. I have a book of random quotes. No one style of journaling has been a consistent routine in my day. Even with gaps, I find I always return to my journal, whether it is fancy or plain, to record, reflect and ponder. I expect I always will. The style I use is what I need at the time.

Lorilee Guenter is an inconsistent journal keeper who enjoys learning. She can be found in the garden, with a book, or hiking and exploring nature with her husband. She is facing her fears by taking her stories beyond the journal page and releasing them from captivity.

Ministering to Our Future Selves by Michelle Joy Teigrob

After stumbling through a year-long gauntlet of heartache and trouble, including the deaths of two loved ones, my spirit finally succumbed to my burden one grey November afternoon. For almost two days, I could not bring myself to rise. While I mostly felt overcome and unable to process much of anything, deep down a sense of humiliation and anxiety stirred. How could I have allowed myself to reach such a state? I trusted in Jesus to help me through anything and everything, so why was I lying on my couch feeling as though I could not go on?

Even as I shamed myself, my family reacted with kindness, patience, and understanding. My son spent hours sitting near me as he worked on his college studies. My husband and daughter picked up the chores I had left undone. I felt both undeserving and worried. My family always depended on my caretaking; maybe they didn’t need me as much as I liked to believe they did.

When I could finally do more than just sleep, I turned to reading. Normally a voracious reader and able to plough through a whole novel in a day, I found myself unable to get through more than a few lines at a time. One verse from Scripture kept drawing me back. I read it many times over: "A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out, till he has brought justice through to victory" (Matthew 12:20, NIV). "I have become a bruised reed and a smoldering wick. I have become of no use to anyone.".

Eventually, I had enough strength to pull out my journal and write down some thoughts in response to the verse.

The fervent prayers of some loved ones, the kind mentoring of a friend, and a booklet on recovering from burnout helped me get back on my feet over the next several weeks. I found myself once again working at my job, ministering to others, and caring for my family with most of my old joy and strength.

Then one day I hit a low spot again, not as bad as the time before, but sadness and doubt troubled my spirit. Not expecting to find anything in particular to help me, I paged aimlessly through my journal while also reflecting on what I might write in it next. Then I came to the note I had jotted weeks before in response to Matthew 12:20.

The words I had written did not hold flashes of genius. They had not been carefully crafted into eloquence and elegance. They were just simple declarations of belief in the promise of the verse I had read and reread.

"You don’t have to worry about being a smoldering wick," I had written to myself.
"You don’t have to apologize for it, or be embarrassed about it, ashamed, guilty, afraid, or anxious.
Jesus is not going to snuff you out.
Instead, he is going to enact justice.
He is going to make things right.
Everything and everyone that have hurt and broken and chipped away at you over this past year, he is going to make right. I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But he will."

As I reread this message to myself weeks after I had written it, the plain, simple words of declared belief nudged my spirit once again towards renewed hope and motivation.

We may not plan for it to be so, but sometimes our journals can be tools of hope and healing for our future selves. We may be writing simply to encourage ourselves in the moment, yet we never know when our declarations of faith in one instance of pain and suffering may be just the ministration we need in another time.

Michelle Joy Teigrob lives with her family in Peterborough, Ontario. Her book on grief, Joyfully Star-mapping through Life's Dung-piles, was shortlisted for the 2025 Word Awards.

My Little Book of Words by Peggianne Wright

 

It all started in a dark season of unrelenting grief. I had experienced so many losses in such a short period of time; two beloved fur-kids gone to the Rainbow Bridge, both my darling parents gone home to Jesus, an only sibling who "divorced" me from his life, and a dear sister-friend of over 30 years who decided our lives were "moving in different directions".

It wasn't really an intentional act, that first day I put pencil to paper in a little spiral bound notebook. I can't even recall my motivation for doing so. I suppose subconsciously I had an urge to purge myself of some hard and destructive emotions. Or, maybe I felt it would be a way of motivating me in my writing. It did both.

Each morning, at the conclusion of my breakfast, I would pull out my notebook and randomly think of any word. I'd add it to the index page, scribble a little jot—either a paw print, heart, starburst, etc.—on the title page, and write the word and the date on the fresh page. Then, I would just write. Whatever came into my mind, I recorded it without filters. Once complete, I would write a short corresponding prayer and then add a verse of scripture to reinforce the thoughts I had just logged. Looking back, from that first word, I can now see a pattern that began to emerge: Loss, Sunshine, Music, Silence, Worship, Challenge, Trust, Waiting ...

There is no end to the options available when it comes to journaling. In the past, like so many others, I was attracted to the "new and shiny" objects that would especially be pushed relentlessly at the close of a year. I'd look at these items, my mind's eye picturing the amazing, colourful pages I'd create in a wide margin journal Bible, or the fun digital images I could assemble in a mindfulness and gratitude journal. I'd fork out my Christmas money enthusiastically with high expectations. But I'd realize very soon that the process was either too cumbersome or complicated or time consuming. After just a short time it would be forgotten, left lying in a drawer never to be touched again. And, above all, it hardly felt like honouring God.

Like any kind of journaling, commitment is certainly a part of what makes it meaningful. Trial and error is also a way of learning more about oneself; understanding our strengths and weaknesses, likes and dislikes when it comes to choosing the right application, testing and strengthening our connection to God. As the seasons of our lives change, so too may our choices for and even against journaling. When we experience these things, we know that the Holy Spirit is working in us.

"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." (Romans 8:28 NIV)

In no time, my little process became an automatic response. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months and then years and soon my little book was full. I had named my morning scribbles "First Words…and other random thoughts" and began using them as weekly content on my Facebook page as a way to draw my followers closer to God and to their own healing.

But then I got busy. Over time, I became engrossed with other God-honouring projects He had laid on me. As it always happens, life interferes, routines change, the Lord's plan is rolled out.

My little book got left behind.

So, when on December 30th, I happened across my little book in a pile, I pulled it out and opened it to the last entry. Exactly one year ago on December 30th, I made my last entry. Certainly, I have been blessed and have accomplished much in the meantime. Projects have come to fruition, new relationships established, a closer connection to God cultivated. But also, a fresh new keenness to resume filling my little book with daily entries has filled my heart and awakened my soul.

"Commit everything you do to the LORD. Trust him, and he will help you." (Psalm 37:5 NLT)

Peggianne Wright is a published author and is the founder of the pet parent ministry Paws To Pray, blending her passion for the Lord and all-things-K9 to form this unique, faith-based community. Peggianne is an ardent Bible study student, devoted dog mom, wife of 44 years, and lover of music. Her blogs Spiritual Scribbles and Fur-Kid Fanatics can be found on her website www.PawsToPray.ca and you can follow her on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/PawsToPray/ and on Instagram @Sister_In_Prayer.

All I Wanted For Christmas by Bob Jones

 

Do I journal?

Every Christmas, our family draws names for gifts. Whoever pulls my name gets the easiest assignment of all.

Buy Bob a journal.

By mid-December, I already know what’s coming. And honestly, I’m fine with that. The absence of surprise is not a loss—it’s a quiet reassurance that the people who know me best still know me.

Some journals arrive with an inspiring quote embossed on the cover. Some are simple coil bound notebooks. Others have leather covers that are soft to the touch. The best ones include a handwritten note on the inside page—usually a sentence or two reminding me that this gift isn’t just about paper but about paying attention to my life and an encouragement to keep writing.

Stack them all together and the pile stands just over four feet tall.

50 Years of Journaling

My first journal dates back to 1976. I was a young guy listening to a speaker who encouraged us to develop the habit of journaling. “Write down your experiences,” he said, “so you can look back and remind yourself of God’s faithfulness.” That idea stuck. I picked up a notebook (the Rad Dog cover) and started writing—and never really stopped.

Open any of my journals to a random page and you’ll likely find one of a few things:

· reflections on a Scripture that spoke to me that day

· a moment I experienced or a person I encountered

· a quote from something I was reading

· gratitude—for my wife Jocelyn, our family, my calling, or my friends

· a prayer request, or a record of an answered prayer

· occasionally, a photo glued to the page because the image told the story better than words could

· and now and then, a brutally honest self-assessment where I gave myself only a passing grade as a husband, father, or pastor

If the journals tell one consistent story, it’s this: I have always been my own worst critic. That critical voice has been a persistent nemesis—one I’ve worked to distance myself from over the years, with varying degrees of success. Journaling has often been the place where that voice showed up most clearly, but also where it slowly lost some of its power.

A Lamy Pen

Something shifted in 2016 when a friend made an unexpected suggestion: “You should try writing with a fountain pen. There’s a sensual experience to it.”

I was skeptical. But curiosity won. I tried one—and I was hooked. Writing slowed down. The act became more intentional, more embodied. Words mattered again, not just what I wrote, but how it felt to write them.

Today, I’m still journaling. I’m still filling pages. And I’ve even managed to pass the habit along—two of my four granddaughters now happily write with Lamy fountain pens.

I suppose that’s how these things work. What begins as a simple practice becomes a way of paying attention. And if you stack up enough pages, you don’t just see your words—you see your life.

How about you?

I'll leave you with a James Clear quote about the power of pausing: "If you never pause, you confuse activity with effectiveness. Make time to think. Walk outside. Sit quietly. Create space. Then move again, but this time on purpose."

 

 

I am looking forward to reading the various means and purposes of Inscribe writers use for journaling.