The Hazards of Time Travel

As a preacher's kid (PK), I almost literally grew up inside a church. Now my kids are in the same boat; since the church is right across the road from our home, they see it almost like another room of the house.

This is, of course, something of a mixed blessing (I'm thinking of titling my autobiography "There Is No Such Thing as an Unmixed Blessing"... but I digress. Now that I think of it, it should probably be called "But I Digress"). It's wonderful to have children who feel entirely at home in church; if more kids felt this way, we'd have a lot more kids (and their parents) in church. Of course, when you take it to its logical conclusion -- and add in the fact that their mom & I are often a bit preoccupied on a Sunday morning -- what you get is kids running around creating a mild amount of havoc.

At such times, there are often some of our more senior members nearby. I don't care to speculate about what they might say about it to each other... but to us, they invariably comment as follows: "Wouldn't you love to have that kind of energy?" Raise your hand if you think there's a certain amount of euphemism contained there. In any case, the conversation often turns to the question of "going back" to that age, "knowing what you know now."

It's a tempting idea; I always thought it sounded kinda cool. Seems almost foolproof. And then, very suddenly, I got the chance to do just that when I found a box containing 5 years of my life.

When I was in college and first began to fancy myself a bit of a writer, I started to keep a journal (note: never never never use the word "diary"), and for a period of 4 years or so I wrote frequently -- often daily, but at least "periodically". It is a record of what I did and what I was thinking, at a time when an awful lot was kind of up for grabs. It's also a first effort at developing a personal writing style, and it is almost completely uncensored... in the sense that I made no attempt to sugar-coat what I was doing or thinking.

As a blogger, opening a box containing 5 years of my journals was a bit like finding a thick vein of gold running through your backyard. My first thought was that I couldn't wait to read it; my second was that surely I could pull out some nuggets and get a cute blog entry from it. I enjoyed Bob Greene's bestseller based on his journal from his senior year in high school, and although I knew it wouldn't be a bestseller, or even an entire book, it seemed like a slam dunk for a wry and nostalgic piece.

I failed to reckon with a couple of things. First, the writing is appalling. I have enough self-confidence/delusion to put this stuff out on the web where anyone on the planet can read it if they're so inclined... but it's hard to find a single sentence in the journals I'd want to see the light of day. I've never overcome my weakness of drifting toward too cute or too witty or too quirky... but my current prose reads like whipped cream compared to my 18-year-old self.

Of course, the part about uncensored is an issue too. I wouldn't say there's anything I'm ashamed of, but on the other hand I don't think anyone would come off too well if you were able to read all their innermost thoughts!

I found, in fact, that I didn't much like many of the people I was getting reacquainted with. Especially the young me. There are fairly frequent references to clashes with people who didn't like me, found me abrasive & difficult to get along with, and/or were annoyed by something I said. Frequent enough, in any case, that it's hard to say it's "everyone else's fault".

All of that was hard enough, but I was also blindsided by the emotional impact of going back to that point in my life. As you might guess, much of the content concerned relationships with persons of the opposite gender. Going through the cycle of

1. is there any chance she might be interested?
2. wow, this is exciting...
3. I wonder if this could really last?
4. Houston, we have a problem

in the space of a few pages was for me quite wrenching.

So here's the verdict: you can't go home again, or back in time either. I was living it as if all over again. And the only thing I got out of "knowing what I know now" was that I started to get sad pages and pages in advance, because I knew what was coming. I saw all over again all the mistakes I made, all the things I should've done and shouldn't have said, as if from behind a sheet of Plexiglas or like yelling at the TV: No! Don't do it! You'll be sorry!

I'm not sorry I did the things I did; I'm not sorry I wrote it all down (I'm actually thrilled that I have the record, although I truly wish that kid had been a better writer); I'm not even sorry that I read it all again. I just wish that going in, I had heeded the lesson of Scrooge. Remember? He also got to visit Christmas Past, knowing what he knew "now" -- but unable to do anything about it -- and it caught him off-balance too.

After several days have passed, I have a little more perspective, and I feel like I understand the 18-year-old kid better. I don't want to say I've "forgiven" him, exactly, because that implies an offense. But I think I'm ready to cut him a little more slack.