The Porch of His Presence

MONK'S JOURNAL

Not a Book

It began, I suppose, with the idea that I should write a book.

That’s what people do, isn’t it?
When life has been long, and thoughts have settled. When memories gather like dust in the corners of the mind, and one begins to feel that perhaps there’s something worth saying, something worth leaving behind.

Yes, I thought I would write a book.

But as I sat down—more than once, more than a dozen times—I found myself writing something else entirely.

Not chapters. Not arguments. Not crafted turns of phrase.
Just... pages. Private ones.

I found myself whispering on paper.
Unstructured thoughts. Half-formed prayers. Pieces of longing too personal to polish.
These weren’t fit for an audience. But they were fit for me.
And maybe—maybe—they were fit for God.

So I stopped trying to write a book.
And I began to keep a journal.

A book demands order. A journal allows wandering.
A book seeks to be read. A journal waits to be overheard.
A book is a declaration. A journal is a confession.
And I—I needed confession more than declaration.

I’ve realized that I’m not writing to teach or to tell. I’m writing to listen.
To pay attention to what stirs in the silence.
To name the turning of seasons within my own soul.
To speak honestly to the One who already knows what I will say.

And perhaps, when this journal has gone on long enough, it will show me what the book could never teach:

That the most sacred truths are rarely told all at once.

They are gathered quietly.

Page by page.