I was eleven. Curled up on my bed with pillows propped behind, I turned the key, opened the lock and cracked open my pink diary. With a blunt number two pencil I very eloquently recorded the day's highlights. His name appeared for the first time:
December 17, 1986
Today . . . it got around that I like Jamie Lawson. I do! He's soooo cute . . . .
That name was destined to appear in many emotional entries:
September 13, 1987
Today we had the second day of youth group . . . . during class Jamie sat next to me. I'm not sure if he likes me or not but I sure like him.
March 22, 1989
Jamie was wearing a Detroit Pistons hat and shirt, jeans, white socks and black leather shoes -- what a babe!
(You will note that I even recorded the color of his socks. Everything about him was incredible.)
March 8, 1989
We were all excited for the Lawsons to come [to youth group] and they never did. My night is ruined . . . .
May 21, 1989
Today when we were driving to church the Lawsons drove past us. It was so embarrassing . . .
June 3, 1989
I [went] to a work day at church with the youth group . . . Jamie and I went along the street getting trash!!! It was wonderful!
Indeed, my thoughts seldom ventured away from this perfect human as evidenced by countless impassioned entries:
I caught Jamie looking at me a few times . . . .
Maybe he was nervous or maybe he hates me . . . .
Jamie smiled at me lots!!
I wish I knew how Jamie feels about me! Wonder if I'll ever find out . . . .
I was fourteen. I thought it would be romantic to write a letter to myself, to be opened ten years later, just like L.M. Montgomery's Emily.
I was twenty-four. I opened the letter. My fourteen-year-old self naturally wondered if I was married, if I had children, where I lived and, most of all, whether or not I still cared for Jamie Lawson.
Reader, I married him.
I am thirty-five. Several more years have passed, and here I find myself still marveling over the fact that this man chose me.
I no longer keep a diary under lock and key. But this man's name is still scrawled again and again in a journal that is even more precious -- my prayer journal. It is my joy and privilege to lift my husband of fifteen years in prayer before the One who saw fit to join this blushing girl with the boy she has always loved.
From the archives . . . .