I've kept diaries... erhm, journals all my life. I remember that my first was a Christmas present from my Mom. It was floral and scented and with a metal lock. With just a page or two left, I realized, nobody in my family dares read what I've written so I got rid of the lock and got another simpler type.

Day after day, I filled the pages with my thoughts, with my heart. I progressed from scented diaries to plain ruled journals to now, old unused notebooks or even loose scratch paper.

Only those who have maintained journals know the feeling of acquiring piles of notebooks over the years, of seeing them gather dust in one corner of your room, of watching their pages turn crisp in a quiet portion of your bedside drawer, of seeing the passing of time as you grow up. But all of us, whether we've kept diaries or not,  know the familiar feeling when we turn to an old journal page.

My first entry was December 1998. My first real crush. The very reason I wrote. I was filled with worry then. I just entered high school and he was already on his way out. I enumerated all the times I bumped into him along the building corridors, when I saw him stand in line to buy his lunch and even the painful day I saw him lay his head on another girl's lap. I felt I lost my heart. The next pages of my journal was overflowing with passion to be better than "the other girl." Even at a young age, I was already willing and ready to fight.

I never got close to him. I am sure he never knew me or even my name. Perhaps my face would not even mark a memory in his high school life. I didn't mind. Becuase as I got myself a new journal, I fell in love.

I fell in love with a boy my age. For two years, equivalent to two and a half journals, I spoke about him and my heart that went with him. The first time my hand was held. The after school lull time. Long hours over the phone. The music we danced together and the exams I helped him pass. My first boyfriend. My first heartbreak.

We broke up a week before Valentine's -- I should have gotten flowers and chocolates that day. I should have received a Dolphin bracelet which he gave to another girl on our JS prom night, the following week. My journal witnessed the tears. It accompanied me for many awfully sleepless nights. I counted years before I got over him.

I stopped writing for a long while. I allowed them to rot in the far corner of my bookshelf, with the aches of my innocent heart.

My days and nights were quickly filled with and by UP -- friends, organizations, researches, activities. I met people to talk about my dreams which I thought were already big then. I would write once or twice a month, on loose pages of my class notebooks.

A new person came and gave me a reason to get my new diary. Yes, I did fall in love again. And broke my heart, worse this time. My journal knew that what I was going through are experiences not fitting for an 18-yr old. It knew the several times I was emotionally violated, my only desire for a closure, a clear end. I counted hundreds of days and hundreds of journal pages strengthening myself.

I grew stronger. My journal stood a witness to that vow I made to myself. I gave my heart a rest. But not my writing. Even with a lot of pages left from my journal, I got rid of it. I threw it along with the unsent letters, with the gift twinings, with all the memories that came with him. I got a new one for the better, wiser and stronger me.

My whole notebook was filled with insights of a young woman. They were rough but impactful. Grammatically erroneous but certain and unwavering. They overflowed with days of physical exhaustion from school. There were names of people who touched my heart by merely breathing. I told stories of men who attempted to take my heart but weren't able to. I was tough on them and the grand vision I had for my life was tough on me. Stories of a man I almost gave my heart to.

But I got saved. On my third year in college. That grandest day of my life wasn't in my journal. My own thoughts weren't worthy to be written side by side with it. I kept that moment to my heart. And stopped writing journals for a while. The new life I had and the advent of blogsites made me lazy to write in longhand. I was filled with new feelings, emotions that were stronger than anything I felt before.

And then I fell in love. My journal found love again -- a love that came with a hope that I can be seen through to forever. But it didn't last. It was only after several pages of the familiar words of pain, of longing, of letting go and moving on that I learned that I had a heart that was then unripe. Unaware of the great destiny I should fulfill.

My heart learned. Grew up and old. Over two years, I have become a totally different person. From old aches and worries, I wrote of revelations and insights from the One who loved me first before anyone ever did. Who made my heart whole and gave it desires that I never knew before. A journal that many times witnessed me through nights of brokenness was a companion in the nights I faithfully took Him on His promises.

My pen no longer knows how to write in grief and bitterness. And although one may find a loose page of pain and loneliness, it gets drowned in pages of hope, of compassion. I still long for love, for excitement and thrill. But it's no longer the kind that breaks my heart in the end. It breathes His name and shares the destiny our hearts are bound to fulfill.

My long nights are filled with drafts of preachings, of discipleship lessons, of learnings from books. Now, I hold a journal that houses a picture of a woman who has finally fully embraced her heart's purpose.

Epilogue: There are only two emotions that old journals evoke -- It's the pain that comes from regret, from missed chances and broken dreams. It's the pain of hard heart that even a deep punch can't move; or the gratitude that comes from a heart of an experienced adventurer who knows there are still new lands to discover.

Be certain that when you open an old journal, it's the latter you'll feel.