I didn’t open my old journals looking for God.
I opened them out of curiosity.
Out of nostalgia.
Out of one of those quiet reflective moments where you just want to see who you used to be.
But somewhere between those pages…
I found evidence of Him everywhere.
For years, journaling has been my private space.
My honest space.
The place where I pour out what I don’t always say out loud.
Dreams. Fears. Gratitude. Confusion. Hope. Exhaustion. Faith.
I’ve never been the loud-prayer type.
I don’t always have eloquent spoken prayers ready.
But give me a pen and a blank page?
And my heart will speak freely.
What I didn’t fully realise at the time was this:
Every page was a prayer.
Not polished.
Not rehearsed.
Just real.
Some entries began with gratitude.
Others began with tears.
Some were full of questions: God, what are you doing? Where is this going? Help me understand.
Others were full of hope: I believe something good is coming. I don’t know how, but I trust You.
I wrote through seasons of waiting.
Through seasons of rebuilding.
Through seasons of dreaming again.
And then one day, I went back and started reading.
Page after page… I sat there stunned.
Things I had once cried over had resolved.
Worries I had carried never came to pass.
Doors I had written about hoping for had somehow opened.
Strength I asked for quietly had shown up in ways I didn’t even notice at the time.
There it was — in ink.
Grace over time.
I realised I wasn’t just journaling my thoughts all those years.
I was documenting conversations with God.
Every honest sentence had gone somewhere.
Every tear-stained page had been seen.
Every quiet hope had been heard.
Some of the prayers weren’t even direct.
Sometimes I was just venting. Processing. Trying to make sense of life.
Yet somehow, even those pages became part of a bigger story unfolding — one I couldn’t fully see while I was living it.
That’s the beauty of journaling.
When you write consistently and honestly over time, your journals become more than notebooks.
They become witnesses.
They hold the record of your becoming.
They show you where you were carried when you thought you were walking alone.
I saw patterns of protection.
Moments of unexpected provision.
Growth that happened quietly.
Healing that unfolded slowly.
I saw God in every chapter — even the ones that felt confusing when I first wrote them.
There is something sacred about putting pen to paper and telling the truth about where you are.
Not where you think you should be.
Not where others expect you to be.
Just where you are.
Because that honesty becomes an open conversation with heaven.
You don’t always have to kneel to pray.
You don’t always have to speak out loud.
Sometimes prayer looks like a journal entry written late at night.
Or early in the morning.
Or in the middle of a life transition.
A few lines of gratitude.
A paragraph of frustration.
A page full of dreams.
A simple: God, guide me.
All of it counts.
All of it is heard.
When I opened my old journals, I didn’t just see memories.
I saw movement.
I saw growth.
I saw answered prayers I didn’t even realise I had prayed.
Most of all, I saw proof that I was never writing into emptiness.
I was always being heard.