I bought a new journal this week because my old one had filled up, and I had more time this morning than usual to linger with God before heading into the day. So I pour myself a cup of coffee, sit down on the couch, and pull out the journal. I always feel strange about writing on the first page of a new journal—all those clean, white pages, nothing yet having been set down. It feels momentous. Kind of like a new beginning. Or at least a new era. What will unfold? And what should I put on the first page? I always have this feeling that it needs to be significant. After all, this is the opening page of a new book in my life, the next chapter with God. It seems to deserve something weighty. Something transcendent.


Looking down at the blank page, I quietly ask God in my heart, What needs to go here?


You know what he said.


My love.


So that is what I write down. That is all I write on that opening page. Two words. “My love.” It is more than enough. Whatever else gets written in this journal, whatever stories told, whatever prayers, all the processing of life, let it all come under this. Let it be a continuation of this. His love. I sit there and look at it—let it sink in. I am turning my heart toward his love. Letting it be true. Letting it be life to me.


What else, Lord?


Believe my love.


Yes, I do. I believe your love.


And something in me is shifting. I am coming to believe it more than I ever have. It is changing me. I feel less driven. Less compulsive. Less grasping. And less empty. I feel like I want to stay here. To live in his love.

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