After flipping through 23 pages (albeit small, filling perhaps a 5 x 7, maybe 8 inch journal) worth of stuff all scribbled into 2D before dinner, I find what I was looking for. I had spent that day, almost the entire day, with my nose in Mark Batterson’s Wild Goose Chase, taking notes and taking my good ‘ole time answering the questions at the end of each chapter.
Of course, I did take a break from my self-absorption to help tie dye shirts mid afternoon, and I left the icebox, the coldest room in Matamoros, Mexico, to eat the Thanksgiving turkey with the fam, but even when we all came back into my previous place of solitude to watch Fiddler on the Roof, my hand was moving nonstop.
Not once do I mention that the day is supposed to be special. That 1,644 miles away another family was sitting down to a similar meal with one less place set. In the 33 pages filled that day, I don’t really mention anything concrete. No events, this is what’s going on, this is what’s really up. Instead, 23 pages into a page by page commentary of Mark’s book, and after a note about finishing up dinner and slipping into my icebox a few minutes early. I find a little paragraph about having to leave the kitchen since I was starting to tear up as the team danced to “OWL tree’s fireflies (or someth. like that)”.