I was in Argentina when I saw a woman selling journals at her market table. She was old, her face lined with wrinkles and it wasnt hard to tell where they came from because every single person who walked past her table was met with a smile, ear to ear. I hadn't even looked at what she was selling yet, and it didn’t even matter I had to buy it because I loved her.

So I walked over.

But what she made was even better than I could have dreamt. Small journals, wrapped in fabric she'd clearly chosen with care. A thin, threaded bookmark sewn right into the binding. Pages thick enough that you could tell, before you'd written a single word, that they were meant to hold something worth keeping.

I sat with her for a long time. Turning journals over in my hands. Trying to find the one that felt like mine. Eventually, I did. I paid her, she smiled at me one more time, and I walked away feeling like I'd found something rare.

About two minutes later, reality caught up with me. I don't journal. I never have. I'd just spent my money on a beautiful, empty notebook with no plan for it at all.

I don't remember who I said it to but I was mid-complaint about wasting my money and they said, "Well, you pray. Use it as a prayer journal."

I wasn't even sure what that was. But it did sound perfect. A beautiful reason for a beautiful journal.

So I didn't overthink it. I just started. Some days, I wrote out full prayers, line by line, the way I'd say them out loud if I were kneeling right there. Some days, it was a list so I could close my eyes and pray and when I was forgetting or losing track of where I was going I could open my eyes and take a peak and remember. And some days, it was a story. A moment I'd watched God actually answer one of my prayers.

Little by little, that journal from Argentina stopped being empty. And now, when I open it, it doesn't just hold prayers. It holds memories. It carries me straight back to different seasons of my life. Hard ones, uncertain ones, ones I'd honestly forgotten about until I saw my own handwriting telling me about it right there on the page. I see prayers I prayed with questions right next to the answers that came, sometimes years later. Proof, in my own handwriting, that I wasn't just praying into silence.

So now, it's your turn.

There's no wrong way to fill this journal. But if you're not sure where to start, here's what worked for me.

Write full prayers. Start to finish, the way you'd speak it if you were saying it out loud. There's something about writing a prayer in full sentences that slows you down enough to actually mean it.

Keep a list. Some days you won't have time or words for more than that, and that's fine too. Make a running list of names, needs, and worries, so that when you sit down to pray, you can close your eyes and not lose track of a single thing you meant to bring before God.

Write the date, and come back to it. Next to a prayer, write the date. Weeks or months later, when it's answered or even when it isn't, but something has changed come back to that page and write what happened. This journal will become a record, not just a wish list.

Write the stories. When a prayer is answered, don't just check it off. Write the moment. What it looked like. How you found out. What you felt. These are the pages you'll want to reread years from now. Proof that God was working, and proof that you noticed.

Write the ones that are too big to say out loud. The fears. The things you're almost embarrassed to ask for. A journal isn’t for anyone else's eyes. Some of the most honest prayers you'll ever pray are the ones you didn't feel brave enough to say out loud first.

Write the one-liners. Not every prayer needs to be long. Some days, all you have is thank you, or help, or a name and nothing else. Write it anyway. It still counts. It's still a prayer, and it still belongs on the page.

Write the questions you're still waiting on. Not every prayer gets answered on your timeline, and that's allowed to be true on paper too. Write the thing you're still asking. Leave it open. You can always come back.

One day, you'll open this journal the way I open mine. And you won't just see prayers on a page.

You'll see your life. Told in the story of prayers. One page at a time, in the hands of a God who was listening the whole time.

Have you ever walked into a Catholic church and seen the wall of candles near the entrance? Rows of small flames, usually in little glasses, each one lit by a different person, on a different day, for a different reason.

If you've never come across the tradition, here's what it is: someone comes in with a prayer already in their heart. A person they're worried about. A decision they can't see the end of. Someone who's sick, or struggling, or gone. They pray, and then they light a candle for that prayer and walk away. That's it. But the candle keeps burning long after they've left the building. It's not decoration. It's a placeholder. A small, physical stand-in for a prayer that's already been prayed, still burning even when no one's standing there to keep praying it.

The idea is simple, the prayer doesn't need you to never stop saying it to be real. You said it. You meant it. The candle just keeps saying it after you've gone. A reminder. 

I've always loved that, even though it's not my tradition. Not because a flame does anything on its own, but because it gives a physical reminder of the prayer. Something you can point to and say, that's for her, or that one's for the thing I'm still waiting on.

So here's your candle.

Light it the next time you pray for something specific. Someone you're thinking about, a fear you keep circling back to, a hope you haven't said out loud to anyone but God. Then let it sit. On your counter, your nightstand, wherever you'll actually see it. Every time you walk past it and catch that flame, let it do what those candles do on that church wall: remind you of that prayer. Maybe you will pray that prayer every time you walk past. Or when the flame catches your eye. Or maybe it’ll stay there, burning, as evidence that your prayer has made its way to heaven. And heaven will not forget about it. 

Sometimes the hardest part of praying isn't the prayer itself. It's starting.

Sitting down, getting quiet, and actually meaning to talk to God can feel harder than anything you'll actually say once you start. If that's you, it's okay to prepare first instead of forcing yourself to jump straight in. Put on music that settles you. Sit somewhere different. A porch, your car, a quiet corner you don't usually sit in. Take a few minutes to just breathe before you say anything at all. There's no right way to get ready to pray. Just do whatever helps you actually start.

That's what this matchbox is for.

Before there's a flame, there's a match. Before there's a prayer, there's a decision to begin. This little box holds that first step, the one right before the candle, right before the words. Keep it next to your candle, and let it be a physical reminder that starting is allowed to be its own small moment. You don't have to go from zero to prayer in one second. You just have to reach for the match.

So when you're ready, open the box. Strike the match. Watch it catch. And let that tiny flame be your sign that you've officially begun.