END OF THE BEND

It's a scary thought. But I am plunging down. And yet I have no inkling what's in store at the end of that bend. I don't even know where to go.

It's a hot holy week. It's heat is coupled with this itch to find another teaching job next school year.

After deciding to leave one good school for what nobler things I could do in the government and for that illusive second baby, I have tried to do a few things. A few things here and there--that's what I, a mere finite existence could do in moments like this. Of course, I wish I could also prepare my application papers for all college institutions I could possibly teach.Yes, definitely almost desperate. Unfortunately, even the typing of documents and printing them cost more than what our pockets can afford as of the moment. I wanted to go back to public school teaching this time. But nothing is sure. Not one bit. I am praying hoping things will turn out right before June comes.

Above all, I am also dying to get pregnant again hoping a part-time work in CNU perhaps,with God's go signal, would secure me a healthier, stress-free work environment for a baby boy to come soon. Ahhh, why can't success at work and a baby go together?

FINALLY A GRADUATION SPEAKING ENGAGEMENT IN AN UPSIDE-DOWN WEEK SCHEDULE

Here goes, after a long hiatus, my stomach, once again, has become replete with knots and butterflies. Today, I knew I would get all the jitters. And I did seconds before I went up on stage, and onto that pulpit. It felt like I flew there with almost a hundred pairs of flaming eyes were on me. I knew ears would not be quite patient to a graduation inspirational message that I, a rusty speaker, was about to deliver.

Well, there were about 50 preschool children with most likely 50-second short attention span. But I was more concerned with the parents. On a graduation day, it is always a drag to listen to graduation speakers. But I guess, far from a magnificent stunt, I did what I had planned to do. It was more like a modest delivery, I must say, but I only had one prayer--at least one parent to successfully absorb God's word, and I would be happy. As to who, it's God's job.

The experience was exhilarating, to say the least. The week was loaded with a lot of surprises and a lot of school papers piling up. But it went well--the speaking engagement, which almost did not push through and the test papers.

ONE STUNT DONE

Finally, some courage crept out of my weakling of a soul.

I strained to read the contortions and saw the familiar twitches of my superior's face. Resigning from work does not always come easy to me. It always feels like skin and a portion of your bones are peeling off from you. It was the longest five minutes. I am not really comfortable facing my bosses at any circumstance. But at that moment, I knew I had to say it. A decision more often than not comes with a tag price. And if faith is to be tested, one has to plunge heads down not caring how hard the crash would be or whether the concussion would prove lethal to see the light of day.

But after that air-thickening moment, I knew I did the right thing and ahhhh, at the right moment. Such timing it is today.
Strangely, after this, I feel relieved.

Ironic. Practically, I have nowhere to go, no clue as to where exactly will I earn my next payroll or when. But such is a child of faith. That's what I would like myself to become. And for whatever my resignation from this present work brings me, I am laying all my cards down. Flat.

PANIHAPON

Unya,
Sa inyong katapusang
Panihapon,
Buot ko untang
Muduol,
Mangablit
Kang Nyor Juan
O kaha
Kang Dodong Hudas,
Nga sa paghinol-hinol
sa puntil way puas.
Manghangyo,
Mukamang sa ilawom
Sa talad kan-anan.
Maghangad

Maghulat,
Iyawat mabisbisan.

Intawon pasayloa,
Kay kining babaye
Sa inyong tungod
Buot
Mutagamtam sa aras
Sa bino
Nga inyong tagay-tagayon
Karong semana santa
Atol sa tinghuwaw
Sa kasingkasing
Nakong naughan.

Litanya sa Magtutudlong Mangtas

Sige
Karong buntag
Lamyon ko ang tanan:

Ang inyong "May I go out,"
Ang mga nagpahipi
Ninyong balikas
Nga karon
Kalayaton padung
Sa akong dagway,
Ang mga katuwaron
ninyong panghuy-ab,
Ang galupad-lupad
ninyong mga huna-huna
sa tunga-tunga
Sa nagkalandrakas
ninyong "zero,"
Kay nasabyagan
Sa nagkadugong
"I don't know, Ma'am."

Sige,
Ihurot ang tanan
Iapil ang mga
Nangapan-os nga
Kasaba ni mamang
ug Tatang
Sinambogan sa
halang-halang nga
Tunglo.

Kay unya
Sa pagpamauli
Ninyong tanan
Manghilam-os ako
Atubangan
Nianang "blackboard,"
Papason ang tanan
Sa parat-parat
Nakong luha
Ug sip-on.

SOME PESKY RUCKUS

Ahh!The commotion that stress stirs. It's just so annoying. Not to mention the toxin it injects to the bloodstream of any vulnerable individual. From there this becomes evident in the coarseness of the skin, in the hollow of the eyes. I could sink with the eye socket you know, and bury myself into those facial muscles every time I have to see my poor little pale self in the mirror. A picture of a loser, I must say.

The night last night poisoned me. I even thought of lying there and not waking up for work. It is just too much of a drag lately. Last night was the last straw. It went beyond my border called IGNORING if not PATIENCE.

As always, it was about money. Or better yet, the lack of money. My mother went berserk for I gave her only 1,800 for this week when she expected 2K from me. Yes, P200 off, and she went to underworld and spewed lava at her eldest daughter, making me think the way I used to as a kid, that the P200 pesos is worth more than the scratch in her poor little daughter's heart.

Well, what can I do. Since time immemorial, she'd rather romance with the money she could get despite the difficulties even her little business has gone through. At the expense of her family, that is.

Yes, I'm yammering it all out. This keyboard and monitor will have to bear the brunt of my exasperation. See, I can't stand watching myself in the mirror in this nasty horrid ugliness, with all these silly eye bags popping out for crying out loud.

My husband had joined the fray, which made the whole thing worse. It poked the old wound of having to stay a little longer in his in-law's house for the sake of his beloved wife and work. If only, then he would have left me and his daughter just to have his own peace in his own territory.

I died at the mere thought of it.

VIN HENRY, A SON I NEVER HAD

I do have twins. Or so I thought.

Essentially, Vin Henry, my nephew, is much like Shekinah Myrrh. They have the same too-hot-to-handle temper and out-of-this-world imaginations seen in their eyes and in the flurries of their hands. In the midst of the so many similar things that they adore including books, videos, and music, the semblance just amazes me and sends me witless.

Sometimes I think they must have come from the same uterus and gene pool. Well, okay, they're first cousins alright. But such similarities need not be this stark this early.

Having Shekinah late in my midlife buys me time to wish and pray for a semblance of a near-perfect personality for my kid. But honestly, it's almost bizarre to see all those striking resemblances.

Let me start with a minor look at my simple pre-baby history.

When my younger sister delivered her first baby boy, I was won over. TOTALLY. His seemingly knowing eyes just went at every direction where the nursery room lone nurse's voice went. That is at DAY ONE. From then on, I could not keep my hands off the small guy.

I began to splurge on baby boy clothes, books, toy puzzles, even food. There was always a tug in the heart just by looking at him. My heart always took flight every time he asked for books when he tagged along with me in bookstores and department stores. When months became years, he became the kid I wanted him to be--a lover of books. He even is far advanced than his age. He devoured every information from every page--with or without colors.

Yes, he practically was my son minus the 9-month struggles and hours of labor and the nail-biting delivery that my sister went through. And for a while, I was content with such a gift as Vin Henry.

And then, via God's mercy and grace, Shekinah found her way to my uterus. Surprisingly, he became endeared to me EVEN MORE for reasons I can't put my finger on. I just took every moment in, breathed it in, and loved every minute of it. Right there, swollen belly and all, I quietly wept when I prayed for my coming baby to be just exactly like Vin Henry.

And it came to pass that Shekinah finally came. There went Vin Henry never failing to visit her until today. He was there with flailing hands, talking to her in ways only tots like them understand--playing with her with the same toys, reading his books with her, watching kids' videos with her, and practically doing anything with her even inside her crib despite my remonstrances. My guess? They share secrets and depths in the solace of their own world. Needless to say, they like each other.

Unfortunately, they likewise share the same messy tantrums. They scream, flail their hands uncontrollably, and pinched any one they can find when things don't go their way. They even have the same twitches and lines across their equally tiny faces when they smile and make faces. Startling? I told you so.

Yes, I have a daughter and a son. Actually they are not just twins. They come from the same heart. One just happens to have come from someone else's uterus.

ATONG UNTA SA UBOS SA ATONG NANGKA

Unsa kaha
Kung ang tanang unta
Mahimong balikan
Pupu-on,
Saw-on,
Dili pasagdang
Musangkad sa yuta?

Sama ba niadtong
Punuan sa atong nangka
Nga akong giubanan
Samtang nisulirap
Ang adlaw
Tungod kay
Hangtod karon
Nalangan ka pa

Gihapon.

INIG LURANG SA HUWAW

Ikaw
Nga ga-antaw
Nako
Dinhi sa tiilan
Sa imong anino
Nagpabiling habog.
Bisa gani ang mga tipaka
Sa mga nangapulpog
Mong mga damgo
Nagdumili sa pagkadugta
Nakiglayog sa pagkadunot.

Pasagdan ko ikaw.

Mahimong kanang
Nag-ngangang kahilom
Sa tunga-tunga natong duha
Molapus pa
Ngadto sa laing kalibutan,
Mukawot,
Mukutkot
Sa kahiladman
Ug lugpitan ang galamhan
Hangtod tukbon sa kalimot.

Sa gihapon
Pasagdan ko ikaw.

Kay
Bisan gani ang huwaw
Muabi-abi sa
Tinagsa-tagsang taligsik.
Kay ang huwaw
Mingawon sa mga hinuyop,
Mga Awit sa ulan--
Mga yanong pinisik
Sa bul-og,
Haguros,
Alimpos--
Mga pagtapion
Sa mga ngabil nga
Gawasnong makig-akub
Sa yuta.
Muhupay
Sa katig-a
Sa mamala.

Unya
Kung mulurang
Na ang huwaw.

MEN

Men, so they say, are without question regarded as the privileged human species. Sometimes I'd like to think it is their physical capabilities. At times, it's because Zeus and the "man" upstairs are generally construed as "male." Maybe.

But something about men is so vulnerable. Something that a wife must consider. Such that a woman must jump up and down, for at some point this could really come in handy.

As to what this is, I'd rather refer to it as the women's edge.

It's what Waller calls "that basic way, the old ways." A woman can remove her knee-high boots and just right there, someone of the male species not too far away is won. Not that this is a contest, but this is a commodity that is probably given to women at such a good bargain price.

All right, as for me. I consider it sacred, too sacred I am wary of using it anytime. I know it's just right there. But I want to keep it as mine and touch the surface of its possibilities at the right woman moments.

You see, my husband's vulnerability may not be foreign to me. In fact, I can smell it at a thousand-meter distance or so. Much as I treasure it, I also love my husband so much, I am putting it on the reserve shelf.

SOMETHING ABOUT SHEKINAH

There is something about the touch of Shekinah to my skin—something that has no price tag. Some hushed inviolability only her mother can grasp.

It’s not only the taut skin that slithers to my side and arms when she pulls me close every day after work. It’s a certain presence that she emits and one that my vulnerable being seems to absorb. Sometimes it’s almost indecipherable to me. But I know it exists. Although most of the times she prefers to bond with her dad, but when she locks her eyes to mine and communicate to me with her seemingly innocent whirling hands, I just knew some gift is lurking in her soul, one which is intensely profound.

I won’t say she is the smartest one-year-old there is, although I see some startling signs. But my gut tells me she is going to be more than a gifted kid.


Long time ago, probably about a little later after I turned 12, I prayed. I summoned all strength there was in me. I had to wrestle with God. I prayed that God would send me not only his right man for me but also a baby that would change everything. Every day, of that same year and the next years that follow until I finally had her, I prayed the same prayer. And each year, my prayer became even more specific. Two years back, like Hannah, who prayed the same barren woman’s prayer, I vowed to offer my child to Him in any ministry He sees her fit. And then, a year after that, I plead that she be gifted individually for His sake. Then she came, out of the blue after one excruciating miscarriage.

She came when people thought I would not have any. When my mother was resigned to have none from me to continue her line. When friends thought my years are past bearing age. When relatives thought a cesarean section was more like it. She came, birth pains and all.

I heard her first cry. I felt her first clutch at my breasts even when they refused to feed her. I saw the steady gaze she gave me after a few weeks when other babies her age just stare anywhere.

Recently, every now and then, she wakes me up in the middle of the night with a muffled request here and there--that at one year old.

I don’t know, but this could just be any other proud mother’s undaunted trust in her child. But then again, that old faith's tug in me believes there is something more about Shekinah.

LONGFELLOW DAY

The day is cold, dark, and dreary, so Longfellow had said. And today is the day. As disgusting as the day already is, my whole being seemed resigned first thing in the morning to let the day roll without giving a fight for some sun.

It is as though I am being bullied by this nagging cold war we are having today. Such a pain in the ass. But two days ago, we have settled one problem and that night was capped with dizzying round of tactile amorous activities minus the usual hushed remonstrances.

Today, not only that the same old man-and-wife wrangling has resurfaced, I can sense that this has almost reached to the point of metastasis. This old stuff is excruciating to rewind that saying sorry sometimes just becomes an empty routine that fails to poke the right spot.

I can't stand it when he bores deep into me with his piercing look of rage that gets me to absorb the same amount of annoyance that the look emits. It's just too exasperating. As always, talking him out of it at the moment is impossible. Far from usual, I left him without saying goodbye. I really could not bring myself to cool him down or to play the mush a wife normally resort to in a fix like this. For one, I do not feel physically well. Second, I hate it when this gets in the way of our very busy work day. Third, today, unlike two days ago, he was just plain pathetic. Yeah, men can be quite childish at times. When they don't get what they think they deserve to get, they just go senseless and silly.

Tonight could well be an extension of this cold war. Or perhaps, if the rain does not drop as expected, all might just be well. Might, that is.

MY KITE RUNNER

Limbs at strange angles

Touching another tree’s boughs

Blocked his view.

His “whys and I don’t knows”

Pulled each string

Of each kite he flew.

But each kite came on a tumble

With the one he flew for me.

There,

His hands let go

Of all those strings

He held on for years,

Ran and tripped past those craggy trails,

And caught the only paper-thin portion

I ever held with him.

KNEES-DRAWN-TO-CHEST MOMENT

Sleep heals. For a great many, this is a stress-buster of sort. When beset by a busy day, the body just refuses to go on like a well-oiled machine. It just slows down, a warning sign that the body is crying for rest, for sleep.

But how could a wife sleep over on a decision, on a family conflict, on an emotionally whipped husband?

Truth is, I do not know how. I'd rather bury my weary head to the pages of this book I'm reading to cure me of this unwanted anxiety. I have done enough sleep--too much that I guess it's time. It is time to pick up the painful tools and start digging for a way to peace land--wherever that is.

In the back of my mind, I know all this time that it is not healthy to stay with in-laws. It needlessly invites conflicts and gathers emotional dents and pricks here and there which could balloon and blow anytime soon. I know this is what my husband is going through right now while we are in my parents' house. I know we have to move out some time in the future. I am not sure where or how. But I am pulling heaven's door string hoping God will send us in a neatly-packed box our very own house and lot near my work place.

I so love my husband that I feel bad he has to go through this. I felt though we have no choice with so much debts but meager income. Other than this, I can be very much of a nag to him especially when work and clutter at home send me to hell. I just let it all out to him. I know he too needs to let out some toxins that he has at work. When a wife needs to be there for him, here i was dealing with my own inferno as well.

I can hear so much hurt in his voice trailing off my waking seconds before sleep triumphantly dragged me to oblivion last night, too bad I was too exhausted when that moment cropped up. This morning, the overdue talk does not even have a chance beating the day's ruffles and traffic jams. For a while there, I wanted us to miss work and go somewhere together and talk. But even that is unaffordable; literally, our pockets won't allow for a get-away no matter how unluxurious we want it to be.

I know some long-time married couples have this as peanuts to them. But God, this is weghing me down like I carry a hundred of sacks of peanuts at my back. For how long we can hold on--I and Jom--, I don't know. All I know, is that I do want to hang on. I need no other husband or family.

I can only turn to you, my Omnipotence, our Omnipotence.

SOME GRAVITAS IN AN AQUINO

Kris Aquino. I used to puke at her stunts and gabs that all spell "self-absorbed rich showbiz brat in yellow." Yes, she's still a brat but today I am spellbound by her honesty and pizazz.

Recently, after the needless hullabaloo of the crazy local entertainment world between her and one celebrity beauty queen, she tried so hard not to blurt out any audience-biting comments too soon (which was wont of her). But not for long, unfortunately, for then after the surprising silence, she nonchalantly admits to the public that she can't help to be "self-absorbed" when interviewed by the media icon femme fatale Jessica Soho. Blame it on the world she's in, so she quipped. And then much later on wept the entire 10-15 minutes on air obviously releasing all stress that clambered on her skin since election campaign began.

But of course, it's plain easy to lie and sugarcoat one's answer when caught in a fix. Especially when you are a well-loved celebrity. And like it or not, the TV world knows how the poor public would readily cleave to this gab icon. And why not, she had made an indelible mark, whether negatively and positively in the world the public is crazy about. But here goes Ms. Kris Aquino spilled a spontaneous admittance of herself. What courage. And what composure.

She could devour cameras and PAs if she had her way. If she had her way. But she has learned to remove her butt from the diapers the patronizing public incessantly prop for her every time some leaks crawl out.

This lady has learned to tame the cat in her. She has come of age. She has ceased thinking what suits her. Never mind her usual Sunday afternoon lamentations and your tear-drenched boob-tube.

She does have some sense of gravitas despite her antics.

WHAT TAKES GRIT

In this littlest cubbyhole of my small numbed world, I'm taking in harsh realities one by one as each comes.

People at a distance (at least those whom I choose to stay at a considerable distance--a little away from me for a reason other than solace), who see only the introverted haughty snob in me give me a lot of labels and a whole lot of reasons to dislike me--which I care less, at first. I don't know why but I am happier sheltering my own world, keeping my own thoughts to myself. The generally ultra unreserved ones repel me. Unfortunately, from this stems my usual far from pleasant encounters. And this, no matter how I know deep down that I seriously have a heart of a Christian, sends me to a lot of misunderstanding and needless troubles.

I have understood down through the years that everyday everyone gets judged by the kind of smile that one paints on his face and who one rubs his elbow with. It's a day-to-day basis. But the stigma that it subtly creates gets to compound everyday and stays like a stubborn wart that thickens the skin nastily. They just stay there no matter how baseless the preconceptions are. That, I know.

Several times in my younger years, I went frantic wanting to deftly erase these labels I earned. But nope, they just would not go. Thus, I hang on to the Biblical cliché, "Man looks at the appearance, but God looks at the heart." So, does that give me a little breathing room to hold on for one more day? Definitely. It takes grit, but definitely.

People as crazy as I am understand every bit of abnormality in me. Although I have learned to open up to people, I still own that secluded world inside and often cleaves to it as often as I fancy it. And everyday, I get misunderstood for not smiling, for not shaking hands, for being too quiet, for not volunteering to do the dirty job (not because I don't want it. I am just not the type that calls attention to myself), for being too strict, etc.

Not many people gravitate to me alright, but I am happy with a handful that I can call friends.

CROSSROADS

Fear and anxiety are real.

So, how does faith happen in the midst of all these? While it is true that God was and is in control, it is still an uphill climb to be right in the middle of a fix. I wouldn't be surprised if the Israelites grumbled at Moses and indirectly to God to the point of causing Moses to strike a rock twice when he was clearly told to only speak to it and bingo, the answer to faith would come spurting. Well, despite the failure of execution, water did come out. As to obedience, that's another question. The important thing is, faith works. Neither should I be stunned by Moses for blowing his top. One thing is sure, faith is tough. The difficulties are harsh.

The stark difficulties become even harsher after the I do's and after the first cry of the first baby. All the more reason that the singles should not be too itchy to jump into this quagmire called marriage. I do not intend to sound regretful or nostalgic of the things past. It's just that it is true what many say, "Reality bites." In fact, reality grabs you unawares and devours you sapping all your energy at crucial times.

And crucial time is now.

While I like this dainty, expensive project in front of me, presented to me by my student from an affluent family in this institution of affluent kids, I could not help contrast this high-priced creation made of costly materials what my humble home suffers from as of this moment. Nahh, we still have food in the table, water in the fridge and enough clothing to cover us which is generally not bad. But looking closely to bills and debts in tow, all these basic things may just disappear few weeks from now.

Tomorrow, I would not know where to get money to pay these bills and carry-over debts from the time when I delivered my baby. At the time I was practically jobless. I would have had not much of this problem if I decided not to get pregnant and have Shekinah. But the choice I made will be the same choice given another tummy-bulging nine months--same excruciating labor pains, same debts, same nostril-expanding Shekinah cry.

So, here, this little woman is at crossroads again: leave this present work and go back to the public where future benefits lie (but wait when to get hired which would perhaps take months, months of fasting and famine) or stay in this private institution and be assured of a job next year. This is probably the time when faith comes to play--huh, easier said than done, all right. I tell you, this is scary.

At times, I don't think about it. Why? I don't want to wrestle with my own doubts. It's bloody.

But I have no choice. Pretty soon, I will have to face all these.

Maybe, tonight.

A STAUNCH GRIP

I don't know about tomorrow;
I just live from day to day.
I don't borrow from its sunshine
For its skies may turn to grey.
I don't worry o'er the future,
For I know what Jesus said.
And today I'll walk beside Him,
For He knows what is ahead.

Many things about tomorrow
I don't seem to understand
But I know who holds tomorrow
And I know who holds my hand.



If songs with a tinge of sad melody would qualify for a wedding song, the old Gospel song of faith above should top my list of wedding songs three years back. This would have sent my sponsors with doctoral degrees in their crisp barong and gowns perouetting to the altar (such reminds me of the youtube episode of maids of honors and sponsors dancing out of whack to the music while going to the altar with groom and bride strutting their litheness in front of the minister). Or so I thought. Such innovation, I mean, such bizaare choice of song might send their eyebrows to Neverland.

A wedding is a wedding. So as they say, the dainty look of the bride and her hordes of flowers in the church will be forever remembered by her generation and the next. But see, shouldn't such song be logically fitting to how a wife and husband should see a third-world future together? For all they know, they will not only need to hang on to each other's hand but a staunch, solid grip together on the Savior's hand most importantly.

GEISHA ON THE WALL

Today

She faces the wall

Laced with tiers

Of mingling litanies:

Morning murmurs,

Smoke-drenched throaty cries,

Salty cold drops.


The wall is hers,

A mirror where she wipes

The blanched geisha aside

And picks up the faint

Traces again

Of that pale

Brown silhouette

By the old morning crib.

HEALING OF AN INFAMOUS NAG

A promise is a promise. It is supposed to be as easy as that. I could only wish. What's tough to take really is when you make a promise with a loved one in the presence of God and fall short in keeping it. At the time that you suspect you might just break it, all hell let loose and it happens. No matter how hard you try not to. It just happens. Right there. In front of the man you married.


I simply promised not to nag on him on small stuff a woman thinks a husband should or should not do on a Sunday.


So how does a wife with an electric drill (of sort) of a mouth deal with that? I wish I could just look up to the clouds, call on one of God's trusted angels and help me deal with my furious husband. I knew our Sunday morning was screwed up already. We would be late to church.

Our one-year-old Kiny was bewildered at the collition of galaxies. Her wide-eyed look stopped me short of my litanies. This couldn't continue. So, against my usual noisy nature, I went silent for the longest time--one whole hour or so.

I knew the whole time, I was guilty. I just lay down beside my anger-stricken husband and whispered my apology. As expected I was crying. I tried not to. But being a cry-baby, there I was. And there, my husband took my apology. I knew he would. He tried to hide a smile of delight and relief in his eyes, tried to be mean and quiet. Then he took me in his arms, hid me there for a brief moment. Just that, and I got healed. We got healed.

SCREWING WITH THE HORMONES

It went on a blur. So it seemed. Because right now, I am still smoking and spewing hot lavas. I never wanted to spew rusty slimy vile preaching on any kid, no matter how depraved he becomes. Neither do I wish to send these kids to the judgment hall--the headmaster's office--the most dreaded place to be. They are just kids, victims of their own boredom and their own manufactured vulnerable world.

But yesterday, screw them all! All the sinking sand in a desert can devour them and vomit them off to the deepest sea where either Scylla or Charybdis could jauntily nibble on them. For days, I let go. For days, they thought they could do away with murder unscathed. But they screwed up on one important day--Mock NAT examination day, yes, but no, yesterday was more crucial than that. I had a terrible dysmenorrhea yesterday. And anyone who messes with me when my brain is water-logged and my hormones are all over the place loosening all my tightly capped acrid fumes, can better find a formidable rampart to shelter them. They can call their filthy rich parents and body guards. They can come in hordes and droves. They can kill me, right there and then. It's my word against their foul-smelling lies.

All teachers have been through a lot of distressing rounds with them. And each time, these kids would just shake the dust off and go on with another series of bouts later on. Perhaps my encounter with their viles yesterday might just be one that would soon be forgotten by these sons of their fathers, so to speak, it does not matter. So long as very soon they will face the judge.

They will wallow in the consequences, while I watch them grinding their teeth.

AFTER ONE PITCH BLACK MORNING

God indeed listens. Yesterday, I was typing down my fears and implorations. My husband announced that he's about to lose a few weeks of work since the company has suspended general work. Our daughter is sick and the medicine cabinet is running empty soon. I was thinking God must have punished me through my loved ones for missing something I promised him. I almost literally lay prostrate to the floor while writing. My eyes were welling up in remorse. I plead, "Lord, please not my family. Punish me. You can yank me down this mud hole, just not them."

Expecting more blues to even worsen the day, my husband told me work materials are to arrive today, hence, work would no longer be suspended. While I was remarkably composed receiving the best "swell" news, my insides were in knots in pleasant disbelief, dispelling all the pitch blackness hanging on my head the entire morning. I was thunderstruck, needless to say. Until now, God remains the God of surprises.

In the most desparate prayer, when the only option is down the pit, you suddenly find yourself looking down the pit where you were.

He does listen.

MUD HOLE

How does one get out of a mud hole? There is a point in a man's life that he gets squeezed up by two formidable forces that either he dies squeezed or he hurts one of the two forces because there is just no option. And I chose the only friendly option available. But no matter how I tried, I felt bad, because in so doing I had hurt the promise I made to my God and it felt so bad. I felt being punished and suffering is not an option.

So how does one get out of a mud hole? I still do not know. What I know is that I'm willingly going through the process--kinda like allowing myself the punishment and holding on to God's mercy for later on, I know, this will come to pass in due time. Yes, in God's time, the climbing will begin.