Forty years ago I committed myself to the discipline of journaling. I've never counted, but I probably have about 70 volumes of writing, which chronicle something about each of the days that make up those many years.

I wrote my first reflective words on a Saturday evening. Earlier in the day, I reached a moment when I felt overwhelmed by physical exhaustion, emotional depletion, and spiritual emptiness. Leaving the breakfast table, I lurched to our living room where I spent several hours sobbing, flushing myself of pent up frustration that must have been piling up for a long, long time. I have often compared that hitting-the-wall morning to the experience one reads about in the life of Elijah when he went to wilderness and informed God of his intention to resign.

When, several hours later, there were no tears left, I continued to muse quietly on what had happened. The catharsis that morning had never happened to me before. What had it meant? If Heaven has ever spoken directly to me, it ...