You know you're growing older and wiser when the past doesn’t hurt the same way anymore. You begin to understand that the twists, the turns, and the bumps in the road are simply part of life. You look back, not in regret, but with a gentle smile, grateful for every version of yourself that you had to become just to be who you are today.
I mean, looking back at my sixteen-year-old self and my twenty-five-year-old self feels like riding a roller coaster—filled with laughter, joy, heartbreak, and everything in between. At sixteen, I thought being twenty-eight was so old. I had all these expectations: I thought I would be this or that. And yet, here I am smiling, not because everything turned out exactly as I planned, but because of the journey that shaped me.
Who’s with me?
Do you remember those ugly cries when we were younger? The first heartbreak? The first kilig? The friendships we made along the way and the small fights that came with them? The prayer gatherings, the youth camps, the mission trips? Your first job, your first paycheck? The dreams that once felt so ultimate and then slowly changed. You learn that it’s okay to change. It’s okay for your dreams, your hopes, and even your prayers to grow with you.
And as you age, you realize that while so much changes, He never does. God’s love ages like wine: the more time passes, the sweeter it becomes. You realize you were loved before you knew how to love.
You were seen before your mother even saw your face. You were pursued before anyone noticed your eyes.
We spend so much of life chasing meaning, chasing worth, chasing satisfaction until our last breath. And then one day, we find God. Not just in church. Not just in Sunday school or worship gigs. But in the quiet moments: when no one is around, when no one sees you, when no one prays with you, when the music fades, and it's just you and God.
In the stillness of the night. While walking in the park. Fixing your desk at work. Washing the dishes. Cleaning the kitchen sink. Sometimes, it’s in the ordinary, not the loud, not the churchy—where we meet Him most intimately.
And sometimes, God meets us in the dark places. In a place where there is no light. In the cathedral of our heart, filled with unbelief, fear, worry, hate, unforgiveness, bitterness, materialism, selfishness… all forms of our sin.
He sees it all and still calls us by name.
He looks into our eyes, holds our hands, and wraps His arms around our shoulders.
He sees the layers we try to hide.
He sees the wickedness, and yet still calls us His beloved.
He sees the idols inside us—the things we cling to—most often, ourselves: our feelings, our desires, our selfishness. And yet God gave Jesus for us, so we could taste the life that’s in Him, a life that leads to holiness, freedom, beauty, and truth.
Suddenly, we learn to let go. Even though sometimes we hold on, we push away, we run. But he never let go. He never made a promise he doesn’t honor. He constantly redeems our dying hopes.
Twenty-eight and I still don’t know everything about Him.
Two decades in and I’m still holding on to His promises.
Twenty-eight and still wrestling with my flesh.
Twenty-eight and still inhaling His grace.
It’s been a long ride… but I’m not over it.
I’m still running the race that Jesus already conquered.
Two decades and eight, and I still feel like a child: in awe, in wonder, at what He’s doing.
Here’s to more journals and late-night coffee breaks!
