• by
• 1 Comments

Learning to Read Your Own Story

Learning to Read Your Own Story

I was sitting with a colleague not too long ago—nothing formal, just one of those quiet pauses between responsibilities. And somewhere between light conversation and shared silence, we stumbled into something deeper: how often do we actually take time to study our walk with God?

Not just live it. Not just survive it. But study it.

It struck me that many of us are faithful in movement, but careless in reflection. We keep going, but we rarely look back with intention. And in doing so, we miss something sacred—the fingerprints of God across our story.

The Quiet Danger of an Unexamined Life

In our younger years, the issue is rarely a lack of energy. If anything, we are full of it. Dreams, ambition, opportunities—they are not scarce.

But self-understanding? That is where the gap lies.

We move quickly. We achieve. We pivot. We respond to expectations—family, culture, even church. And somewhere in the middle of all that movement, we begin to feel a subtle unrest.

It is the tension of becoming someone we don’t fully understand yet.

Without reflection, that tension can feel like confusion. Like we are chasing something undefined. And the noise of the world—success metrics, comparison, busyness—only numbs that feeling temporarily.

But beneath the surface, something remains unfinished. Something is asking to be understood.

When God Writes Between the Lines

Allow me to open up small, small.

I remember a season right after finishing high school. There was this quiet but persistent conviction in me that one day, I would teach in a theological institution. It didn’t come with a loud announcement—just a steady inner knowing.

I shared it with a friend once. He laughed a little, not mockingly, just confused.
“Why theology?” he asked. “You’re doing well in IT. That’s where the future is.”

And honestly, I understood him.

When the time came to apply for university, I leaned toward Information Technology. It made sense on paper. It felt practical. Yet internally, I could feel something else forming—something I didn’t yet have language for.

My mentors it. My pastors, and more people thought theology was a better option, to some extent I also though so but I stood at a crossroads.

I eventually enrolled at Mount Kenya University. And at the time, it simply felt like a decision.

But looking back now, it feels more like placement.

Because in what I can only describe as divine precision, the institution where I had initially considered studying theology paused its program for two years—right around the time I would have been taking classes.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand the shift. I didn’t see the pattern.

But God did.

And before I had even completed my undergraduate journey, another door opened—one that led me into theological training, a teaching position and more in a way I could not have orchestrated myself.

Why Reflection Changes Everything

The thing is, when you begin to revisit your story—not casually, but carefully—something shifts.

You start to notice patterns. Not coincidences, but coordination.

You see the difference between the doors you forced open and the ones God gently unfolded.
You begin to recognize His timing—not rushed, not delayed, but intentional.

Moments that once felt like rejection begin to look like protection.
Seasons that felt like silence begin to reveal preparation.

Reflection does something else too—it gives language to your journey.

Pain becomes clearer. Not necessarily easier, but understood.
Confusion begins to take shape.
And gratitude… gratitude grows almost naturally when you see how carefully your life has been held together.

You Are Not Just Living—You Are Being Led

We often think of life as something we are building. And in many ways, we are. We make decisions. We take steps. We carry responsibility.

But if you slow down long enough, you begin to realize something humbling:

You are not just writing your story.
You are also being guided through it.

There is a hand—steady, patient, intentional—working beneath your choices, within your seasons, and even through your uncertainties.

And sometimes, that inner restlessness you feel? It’s not something to silence.

It might actually be an invitation.

An invitation to pause.
To sit.
To listen.
To learn your own life.

Take the Inventory

If there is one simple practice I would encourage, it is this: take time to revisit your journey with God. Not in a rushed, surface-level way. But slowly. Honestly. Prayerfully. Sit with your journal. Open Scripture. Reflect on your seasons. Look at the paths you once thought were detours. Look at the doors that closed. Look at the desires that shifted over time.

You may begin to see something you missed before—
that what looked like interruption was often direction.

That what felt delayed was actually being aligned.

Your life is not random.
It is not scattered.
It is not without design.

And as you begin to see His hand in your history, you may find a renewed confidence to trust Him with what comes next.