My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
I suppose Jesus realized at some time he would be unable to tell them all they might need to know, and that he would have to trust them to find it within themselves, or to not need it after all. I wonder if in the realization he found peace.
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