I don’t really want to talk about it. It’s embarrassing and painful. Nonetheless, today I am beset by a terrible, sinking feeling that begins with a slight quiver in my eyelids and ends with a shudder deep in my gut. On the way down it sticks like a lump in my throat and hangs heavily on my heart. Then it starts all over again.

This misery I bear carries a dose of guilt; it was entirely avoidable. Any idiot knows you should make a proper backup of your hard drive. At least I do. I know these things. My company has a data backup process. We do these things regularly. I managed to miss it—for a long time. Like I said, I don’t really want to talk about it.

So today I am realizing how much my own stupidity is costing me. I am seriously and severely affected, maimed but not paralyzed. I have lost years worth of files, correspondence and keepsakes. Most of this stuff I realize is of little or no real value; much of it is simply of the might-come-in-handy-someday variety. But in there too are sermons, diaries, interviews, transcripts, personal letters, résumés and projects. And contacts—hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of up-to-date contacts—and nearly 200 writer files. Ouch.

I know there’s no point in berating myself. It’s time to move on, to recover and advance. I begin with the immediate, making sure that everything others need from me today is cared for. Then I work at getting my new hard drive ready to use. This takes much longer than it should, but such is the way of computers. Then it’s time to reconstruct the calendar. I begin with the events and obligations closer at hand. Then I’ll gather notes from the various projects I’m working on, and then I’ll begin recovering contacts, and then...and then...and then. This will take days, weeks, perhaps months.

But—as always—there is more to life than the current calamity. Words from an ancient Benedictine prayer provide helpful perspective: “Let nothing disturb thee, nothing affright thee; all things are passing, God never changeth!”

And I think afresh about the practice of keeping a longhand journal, a habit I resumed last Easter. I realize that my most important ideas and creative insights appeared first in this format. All is not lost. In fact, a fair amount is secure in my memory. And neither my workmates nor my family members have rebuked me mercilessly. Any chiding has been couched in sympathetic terms. It could be a lot worse.