About a year ago I was preparing to undergo open heart surgery, not an emergency deal, just a simple three-stitch repair, but it required major excavation to get there. In it I assigned the care of my journals to my oldest son, with the instruction that if they were ever to be published, even in a limited way, he should use compassion and good judgement with regard to the feelings of people who are mentioned there. I didn't really balk at the prospect of presenting myself as riddled with foibles and failures, but I didn't want to hurt anyone else. I don't know what he would have done. But what I have hoped, in looking back on those passages, is that I wrote about other people in a balanced way, setting their stories of struggle in the same context of goodness and growth in which I hoped mine would be seen.
Real life is messy.
What we're writing about is real life. But I have also scratched out stuff that, after the passion of writing, felt dangerous, hurtful, or useless. John Brown kept handy pocket-sized journals of his adventures, all in pencil. In old age, he copied them all into one big book. Some years ago, I did this with my much shorter missionary journal.