Today, I want to share something sacred—a quiet unfolding that has shaped the contours of my soul in ways I still can’t fully explain. This morning, I woke before sunrise to attend the 2nd novena to Señor Sto. Niño through a live telecast. As the priest began singing “When You Believe” by Mariah Carey, something inside me broke open. The familiar melody, the weight of the lyrics, the rawness of that moment—it all pierced straight through. Tears fell without resistance. That song, sung like a prayer, reminded me of my own journey. My own wrestling with faith. My long, uneven road with the Child Jesus.

There was a season when I questioned everything, including God. A time when faith didn’t feel like an anchor—it felt like an illusion.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve prayed for signs—for miracles that would make sense of the mess. I’ve also lost count of how many of those prayers seemed to disappear into silence. There was a season when I questioned everything, including God. A time when faith didn’t feel like an anchor—it felt like an illusion.

Back in 2016, I was drowning in a sadness I didn’t know how to name. I felt like I had failed everyone—my family, myself, the life I had dreamed of living. The world felt dim, and in that deepening darkness, I stopped going to church. I closed the door, not just to the building, but to God Himself. For a whole year, I turned my back on faith. I told myself God wasn’t real. That prayer didn’t work. That maybe love wasn’t enough. And in doing so, I became a stranger to myself—numb, directionless, hollow.

But grace has a way of finding us, even in our estrangement. It was 2018 when things began to quietly shift. Little moments—unexplainable and yet deeply personal—started stirring something in me. I met strangers who gently, almost curiously, spoke of surrender. Of trusting God with everything. At the time, I was on the edge of giving up. One afternoon, without knowing what I was looking for, I walked into a religious bookstore. I browsed through the shelves as if searching for something nameless, and then my eyes landed on a Bible. It was beautiful. I wanted it. Needed it. But it was expensive, and I walked out empty-handed, the longing still tugging at me.

The very next day, my mother told me something strange: two Bibles had been left outside our store. No name, no note, no explanation. When I checked them, my heart stopped. One of them was the very same Bible I had longed for. The exact one. No one ever came to claim them. And just like that, a quiet miracle had been left at my feet. A whisper from heaven, not loud, but unmistakable.

That moment became a turning point. I began to read again. Not just with my eyes, but with the hunger of a soul desperate for meaning. Page by page, the Gospel unfolded like letters written just for me. Not doctrine, not duty—but a dialogue. Eventually, I found my way back to church. I walked in, trembling, and asked for confession. I didn’t hold back. I wept. The kind of weeping that comes from deep within. “I’m so tired,” I told the priest. “I surrender everything to God.” And he wept with me. In that sacred moment, he said something I will never forget: “God loves you deeply. And you have been chosen—to witness miracles.”

“God loves you deeply. And you have been chosen—to witness miracles.”

Faith, I’ve learned, doesn’t mean having all the answers. It doesn’t mean feeling strong all the time or never doubting. Sometimes, faith is standing in the dark and still choosing to believe the sun will rise. It’s asking God to hold you when you’re too tired to pray. It’s trusting that silence doesn’t mean absence. Because the truth is, God sees what we cannot. And often, when we think He is withholding, He is really protecting. When He seems silent, He is actually preparing. Maybe the thing we ask for is not aligned with His purpose. Or maybe He’s simply asking us to trust—even when nothing makes sense.

Today’s Gospel reminded me of that sacred truth: faith is surrender. It’s releasing control. It’s learning to quiet the child inside us who demands clarity and comfort and answers now. And instead, it’s choosing to rest in God’s presence—even when the pain hasn’t passed. Because what He offers us is far greater than the certainty we crave. He offers us peace. He offers us Himself.

Even when we run. Even when we rage. Even when we drift so far we forget the sound of our own prayers—He never lets go. Instead, He keeps calling us back. Gently. Patiently. Without condemnation. Because love that is real—redeeming, divine love—never walks away.

So if you’re struggling with your faith, please know this: you’re not alone. Miracles don’t always come with fanfare. Sometimes they come quietly—through a stranger’s kindness, a verse that catches your breath, or a Bible left at your doorstep. But they come. They always come.

May this be your reminder: God hasn’t forgotten you. He sees your tears. He hears even the prayers you no longer know how to say. And He is still writing a story of grace in your life—one miracle at a time.

With grace,
Anj ❤️