Genesis

Journal Entry. Thirty First of August, Twenty Twenty Sixth. Morning. Second hour.

I have at length mustered courage enough to begin writing in my notebook; and now that the first chapter of the book of Genesis is committed unto the page, there is no going back. The undertaking before me is no small one. I suppose it may require the better part of two years to accomplish, should the Lord lend me such time; and even this consideration made me somewhat fearful of beginning.

For near two weeks I had been preparing myself for it, trying one manner of handwriting and then another, considering carefully how much space each would require, yet unwilling to purchase economy at the expense of plainness. I desired a hand small enough that much might be contained upon the page, but sufficiently clear that what is now written may still be comfortably read in years to come. But preparation must at length give way to doing. The empty page cannot forever remain empty. How far the Lord shall permit my hand to proceed? Shall I make it to the last word? I do not know. Yet I have begun. 

The notebook itself is a poor thing, costing no more than three dollars from an online shop. It containeth about a hundred and fifteen sheets, or three hundred and thirty unlined pages; and by my present reckoning I may require five such volumes, perhaps more, before the whole undertaking be finished. As for pens, I know not how many shall be spent in the labor. Perhaps near a hundred shall have emptied themselves before my hand hath written the last word. I expect to find that the materials cost far less than the precious time I will spend on this.

Because the leaves are altogether blank, I made for myself a ruled guide which I place beneath each page as I write, that my lines might not wander as they proceed. Thus even before a word is set down there is some little preparation required. I read the text first audibly; two words at a time only, then, whilst writing it, I speak the words again, that my ear might accompany my hand and help guard me from error. Even the commas and periods I read aloud. I would have nothing passed over merely because it is small. After I finish the sentence, I do my best to absorb what I have written.

My progress therefore is slow; but I am in no haste. I am less concerned about how quickly I can finish this, than how deeply each word would leave an impression upon me. Indeed, I think the slowness itself may prove part of the profit. Every word must pass before mine eye, through my lips, and beneath my hand before I leave it behind. Thus I cannot run over the sacred text as I oftentimes have done in ordinary reading, but am constrained to tarry with it, to savor its flavor. To taste and see that the LORD is good (Psalm 34:8).

And whilst I write, another consideration attends me. These poor notebooks, should the Lord preserve them, may remain when the hand which now fills them hath long ceased from its labor. Other hands may one day take them up. My children, and perhaps generations whom I shall never hold in my arms, may turn these very pages and trace with their fingers the words which I am now slowly committing unto them. This makes the undertaking strangely solemn to me. I find that I am no longer writing merely for myself. I am writing unto them, and for them. Perhaps a dear descendant of mine shall one day hold one of these humble volumes and consider that his ancestor's old hand, long returned unto the dust, once sat quietly over these very pages, reading every word aloud and carefully setting it down because the Word of God was precious unto him, and because he desired that it should be precious unto those who came after him.

I know not what shall remain of this short life of mine when it is spent. Much that now occupieth me shall surely disappear, and many things which presently seem important shall leave scarcely a remembrance behind. But if, amongst the few things permitted to remain, there should be these worn notebooks filled with the Scriptures, bearing witness unto those after me that I loved the Word of God and desired them to love it also—perhaps I shall not altogether have spent my little life upon things unworthy of it.