The Ritual of Morning Pages

I rise before the world, the quiet of the house still wrapped around me, and I sit with my journal. Three pages. Handwritten. No one reads them. No one judges. It is the rhythm of reclaiming my voice, the sacred act of listening to myself.

I am fulfilling a promise I made to Jon. One day while standing in our kitchen, he held my shoulders, looked intently into my eyes and asked, “Will you write our love story?” I shrugged off the suggestion. He was serious. He told me it was important to him and I promised. The next day, I went to Barnes and Noble and purchased a beautiful leather-bound journal with a heart embossed on the front. Old English style pages, feeling worn, wrapped with two skinny leather straps around it. It was perfect. I took it home, showed it to him, and sealed the promise. He was delighted. After he died suddenly a couple months later, I used that journal to write letters to him every day. It helped with my grief journey and served as a placeholder to write a book about grief. Yet, it wasn’t the book I had promised.

Now, over three years later, I am fulfilling my promise. I am starting at the beginning. To tell our story, I must share the path that led us to one another. For me, it all began when I was born into my mother’s third marriage in 1957. It would not be her last. It’s a complicated story, full of twists and turns, abuse and healing. Years of therapy to heal the broken pieces. It all led to Jon, the fulfilling of unconditional love. By God’s grace, the hurt has been healed; love absolutely conquered it all.

I write about memories that burn, about love that endures, about the pain that shaped me and the faith that sustains me. Some days the words flow like a river; other days, I stare at the blank page and feel the weight of everything I’ve carried. And still, I write.

Jon’s presence continues to come in both bold and subtle ways, as it always has. A soft whisper, a bold dream, a breeze that carries his memory. A familiar song. A butterfly that reminds me he is near. It is not constant, and I do not demand it. I have learned that I must be in a receptive state, attuned to the same spiritual wavelength, in order to feel him and the guidance of the Holy Spirit that moves through my life.

Writing this book is more than a project; it is a sacred ritual. Each day, I carve out time to show up for myself and for the story I am meant to tell. Some mornings, the words pour effortlessly, spilling out of me like a long-held breath finally released. Other mornings, I sit in silence, listening to the weight of a memory, the pull of grief, the whisper of hope. Each breakthrough feels like a gift — a painful memory transformed into clarity, grief into understanding, shame into insight, fear into courage.

Discipline matters, too. The daily practice of writing — even when it is hard, even when I feel weary or uncertain — creates momentum. One word leads to the next. One page becomes two, then three. Chapters form, and with them, a structure emerges, not imposed but discovered, as if the story itself is revealing the path.

I could fade into the ordinary, let the days pass. But this writing — this deliberate, sacred act — keeps me alive. It reminds me that I am not irrelevant and my life experience matters. I am a woman who has walked through fire and emerged to tell the story, to illuminate the path for others, to honor the love that will never die.

Writing has become my sanctuary. My act of courage. My testimony. My daily communion with the God who has never left me, and with love that refuses to fade. Each page is another step toward the fulfillment of the promise I made — to tell our story, to honor the past, and to illuminate the path for others who may walk similar journeys. Each word I write is a step forward. Each page a reclamation. Each chapter a resurrection of the life I have lived and the life I continue to live.