My first journal, a slim hardbound book with a blue flowered cover, is a well-loved friend. I hold it in my hands and the pages slip easily to important dates such as May 21, 1984, where I read: "Today I was diagnosed with bone cancer in my knee...I am really scared about kemotherapy [sic] because my hair might fall out." Or another day, I record my first date with John Remy, "a really cute guy" about to leave on his mission for Japan.

When I was a freshman in college, an English professor told us that by writing in our journals "we change the future." I've thought about this a lot since then. What does it mean exactly? Thinking of my own life, looking at the eight volumes of journals lined up on my bookshelf, I question the impact of my writings.

Sometimes I write in my journal as if I am bearing testimony, "I feel so blessed today, Heavenly Father knew just what I needed when...." Other days I am angry and my handwriting is dark and bold, etching deep into the pages beneath. I have journal pages that are well worn from frequent reference. During my college days I glued in fashion idead and funny comic strips (and now the fashions are more amusing than the comics are!). There is a section of my journal I call "the sealed book." I wrote it during a dark and difficult trial. Though it was an experience I knew I needed to write about and to record for the future, I don't date re-visit it on a regular basis.

My favorite journaling idea came from LDS author Louise Plummer. She suggests adding lists to our journals—lists recording the exact contents of our purse (down to the last wadded Kleenix), or what we would do if we had a million dollars. A few days after I heard her advice, I decided to try it. At the time I was mired in a rut of mothering two toddlers. I recorded everything I found on my living room floor one morning. I won't shock you with the details, but I will admit that there were 24 different items including my husband's inside-out sock, a library receipt, and a plastic frog. At the time my list was quite discouraging to me. I wondered how I would ever achieve Martha Stewart-like domestic perfection when my home was a living example of the chaos theory. Now, five years later, my list makes me smile. As I read it over I remember details like my son's favorite Mickey Mouse umbrella (that he took everywhere, rain or shine) and the books I'd checked out from the library to read "in my spare time."

I don't keep a written journal every day. I feel lucky if I can get to it once a week and even then my entries tend to be lists of all the things I should be doing instead of writing in my journal. But I do try to do a few things to make my writing more meaningful. I always include the full date at the top of each entry. I underline or circle the key words so I can skim through quickly when trying to find a specific event. I include the last names of everyone I write about. I insert handouts from church lessons and programs from school events.

Recently I started an online journal. It's archived on a website (www.envri.com) where anyone searching the Internet might find it. In this venue I share my thoughts and give personal insights on politics or current events. For anyone interested, blogger.com (www.blogger.com) has some simple-to-use tools for setting up your own online journal.

Today, as I thumb through my journals and remember the random events—car accidents, illnesses, bad weather, bad hair, hot dates, morning sickness—there seems far too few words to describe the richness of my life. I pause on the good days—the birth of my son, the not-too-detailed descriptions of my honeymoon, a sketch of my garden. I smile and hold the volume close to my chest and inhale deeply. My journal will probably never change the future of the world. But for me, just for this moment, it is worth it.

Jana Bouck Remy is studying History at UCIrvine. She is the Review Editor for Irreantum magazine.