FaithWear Ministry Scroll — February 2026

There are moments in life when we look back and realize that God had been forming us long before we had the language to understand it. Before calling, before assignment, before ministry, there were rhythms quietly shaping us — rhythms planted before awareness, rhythms that would one day become revelation. “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you” (Jeremiah 1:5).

When I was a child, my world was small, simple, and surrounded by water. I grew up on a small island where our house stood only a few feet from the sea and the boulevard. After school, my friends and I would run straight to the shoreline, diving into the open water again and again until our bodies were too tired to swim. The sea became a rhythm to me — vast, deep, and unending. “The sea is His, for He made it” (Psalm 95:5). I did not know it then, but the water was teaching me something about God: about depth, surrender, and being carried by something greater than myself.

Helping my mother in the house was another rhythm I loved. Cleaning bedrooms, tidying the living room, restoring order — these things brought me joy. I stayed mostly out of the kitchen, but the rhythm of stewardship was already forming in me. “She looks well to the ways of her household” (Proverbs 31:27). I didn’t understand it then, but God was shaping a heart that finds peace in order, beauty in care, and meaning in quiet responsibility.

Writing, however, became something deeper. It was not simply a habit; it became a home. Not the home I lived in, but the home that lived in me — the place that offered peace when everything around me felt unsettled. Through writing, I found space to process my thoughts, to give language to pain, and to release what my heart could not hold in silence. It became a shelter during sleepless nights, a refuge from the troubles in my family, and a way to cry out to God when I had no other outlet. “Pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us” (Psalm 62:8). In many ways, writing saved me; it steadied my mind, guarded my heart, and gave me a place to breathe when life felt too heavy to carry alone.

When others were outside playing with peers, I was in my bedroom — reading, journaling, and writing my heart out to God. I didn’t know it then, but I was being formed in seclusion. The quiet became my classroom. The solitude became my sanctuary. “My soul waits in silence for God only; from Him is my salvation” (Psalm 62:1). That rhythm of retreat, of choosing stillness over noise, became the foundation of how I now hear Him.

There was another rhythm in my childhood that I only now recognize as part of my formation. Even as a young girl — and later in college back in the Philippines — I delighted in speaking English, even though my knowledge was limited. It felt natural to me, almost instinctive. Most of my poems were written in English, and the only piece I ever wrote in our national language, Tagalog, was a drama script required for a school project in second‑year high school. Looking back, I see that even my language preferences were shaping something in me.

My father, a police investigator, often wrote his reports in English — our international language — and he would have me read them. Sometimes he even brought his work home, and I would watch him write out the details of a case: the who, the what, the when, the where, the why. My young mind was exposed to the discipline of truth‑seeking, of examining details, of understanding motives and patterns. I didn’t know it then, but my mind was being trained to ask questions, to look deeper, to search for meaning beneath the surface.

These early exposures — to language, to investigation, to the structure of truth — now influence how I read the Bible. I approach Scripture with the same instinct my father unknowingly taught me: to observe, to inquire, to seek understanding, to trace the patterns of God’s hand. What I once thought were random childhood experiences were actually seeds of the way I now see, study, and articulate the Word.

In high school, poems became my prayers. Some were simply poetic, but most were my heartaches poured out to God. I didn’t know I was praying — I only knew I needed to speak. And one day, as a teenager, I wrote a letter to God, rolled it into a bottle, and threw it into the open sea. I didn’t understand the symbolism then, but I understand it now. “In my distress I called upon the Lord… He heard my voice” (Psalm 18:6). That bottle floated into the unknown. And now, my scrolls float too — not on water, but through Spirit and testimony. They arrive wherever God sends them.

There was a long silence in my writing. From around age fifteen until I returned to it at thirty-nine or forty, the rhythm went quiet. But it never died. It waited. It rested. It matured. And when the time was right, God brought me back to it. “He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion” (Philippians 1:6). The rhythm of childhood became the assignment of adulthood.

And this is what I want you to consider:

The talents that rise in those who are self‑taught are often the clearest evidence of His presence in them. They become witnesses of His shaping, His forming, His quiet work within. Nothing in your life has happened by accident. Everything has been intentional. God knows the roads you’ve walked, the hurts you’ve carried, the memories that shaped you as you grew. Yet none of these things disqualify you — He is calling you now to walk in alignment with His truth and into the path He has prepared for you. “The steps of a man are established by the Lord” (Psalm 37:23).

You do not need to fear how others may think of you or view you. You answer only to the One who made you and molded your steps. So consider these things, and listen for the cry of your own heart — does it long to return to the formation planted in you since childhood? The decision is yours, for He gives free will to answer or to turn away. As for me, I cannot stop writing or reading the Word. If I step away for even a few days, something in me becomes unsettled. I cannot rest. Something stirs me, pulls me back to Scripture, and as understanding hovers, I write to articulate what I see. This is who I am.

And now, I turn the reflection to you — the reader:

Questions for Reflection

1. What rhythm did God plant in you when you were young — a rhythm you did not yet understand?

2. What habit or refuge became a quiet place of peace for you, even before you knew God was using it to shape you?

3. What did you turn to in moments of confusion, pain, or loneliness that now reveals itself as part of your calling?

4. What gift or practice went silent for a season, yet never truly left you?

5. What door is opening now, inviting you back to the rhythm God planted long ago?

6. What part of your childhood formation is God now revealing as preparation for your present assignment?

7. In the quiet and in seclusion, what was forming in you?

8. And finally — does your heart long to return to the formation planted in you since childhood?

Benediction

May the Lord, who planted the first rhythms of your life before you ever understood their meaning, awaken in you the remembrance of His forming hand. May He bring clarity to the gifts that were sown in childhood, the habits that sheltered you, and the quiet places where He first met you. “The Lord will fulfill His purpose for me” (Psalm 138:8).

May His peace rest upon the parts of your story that once felt heavy, and may His truth realign every step you take from this day forward. May you walk without fear of how others may see you, answering only to the One who shaped your path and calls you by name. “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine” (Isaiah 43:1).

May the Holy Spirit stir again the formation planted in you since childhood — the rhythm that never died, the gift that never left, the longing that still whispers. May you have courage to return to it, to steward it, and to offer it back to God with joy. “Stir up the gift of God which is in you” (2 Timothy 1:6).

And may your life become a testimony of His intentionality — that nothing was wasted, nothing was accidental, and everything was preparation for what He is now revealing.

May His presence steady you.

May His Word anchor you.

May His calling guide you.

And may His love keep you always.

Amen.