In our home, the prayer journal lives in the kitchen — dog-eared, coffee-stained, and quietly sacred.
It’s not fancy. Just a clothbound book with wide lines and room for everyone’s handwriting. Some days it holds a scribbled thank-you for sunshine or a request for a friend to feel better. Other days, it surprises us with something deeper — a question, a worry, a whisper from a child who hasn’t yet found the words to say it out loud.
We started the journal not as a tradition, but as a gentle invitation: Write when you want. Write what you feel. Over time, it became a family rhythm. Before school, after dinner, at bedtime — whenever hearts feel full or heavy or uncertain.
What we’ve learned is this: children often carry things they don’t know how to speak. But give them a page, a pen, and the privacy of prayer, and they may share things you’d never have thought to ask.
And just as often, they write for others.
A teacher who seemed tired.
A friend who’s having a hard time.
A lady in line at the market who looked like she was carrying the weight of the world.
Their prayers are small mercies offered freely — reminders that they’re watching, feeling, and deeply attuned to the needs around them.
Sometimes it’s a sentence that breaks your heart.
Sometimes it’s a drawing that makes you laugh.
Sometimes it’s a simple, beautiful plea: “Help me be brave tomorrow.”
And sometimes, it’s your own writing that reminds you of what matters most.
The journal doesn’t solve everything. But it slows us down. It draws us together. It makes space for grace.
If you’ve ever wondered what your children are carrying in silence — consider starting one. A quiet place, a few open pages, and the gentle promise that whatever is written there matters.
Because sometimes the most powerful prayers are the ones we only just manage to write.
With hope,
Whitney
