The only times I find a chance to write in my journal are those times when I have nothing interesting to write about. I used to write in my journal all the time before I got married, and it’s full of all this meticulous detail about the dates I went on, who said what, what we ate, who won the basketball game, and so on. Interesting, in a morbid sort of way, I suppose, but certainly not anything I’d like published in “Inspiring Stories of our Pioneer Forbears.” But then in my journals from the time I met my husband, Sam—covering all the fantastic times I had getting to know him, and getting married, and going to the temple, and giving birth to our astonishing son, Abraham, who does something new to amaze me every ten minutes—practically every entry starts with, “Well, a lot has happened in the last five months . . .” and then proceeds to hit a few highlights in absolutely meager prose because I can’t replicate or remember or even stir up much enthusiasm for any details at that point.