I started a diary again this year. Maybe it was my way of ushering (or perhaps “cushioning” would be more appropriate a term) what I knew would be a very busy, demanding season — the recently concluded elections, or maybe it was more a tool to process racing, overlapping thoughts that is always a prelude to that. Perhaps it was a way to simply record what is alongside what is yet to be, a little pocket memoir of sorts to read through one day when I am all of 85 years old.
Each election makes me feel like a soldier let loose in the battlefield. That is the long and short of it. Whatever the results, any candidate takes a beating, tossed and turned as if in a storm. There are many lessons to be learned, most of them appreciated better in hindsight. It can be joyful on the good days, but exacting and cruel, too, when the going gets tough. I’ve been away from this space for quite a stretch of time, and of the many stories I want to share I guess this one takes precedence, mainly because it is a story of faith and dozens of little letters I wrote to God.