My Odette Story

 An elderly woman at church told me when I was little, "Be kind at all times." I never thought the phrase "at all times" would take on varied meanings as I grew up.

Fast forward, I found that the world could be mean even to the most unsuspecting, well-meaning people. At a workplace, I succumbed to a lot of unbelievable maneuverings which raised issues about my person as an employee. That church woman's admonition had seemed to be the most unlikely. It was the most difficult time to be kind. How can I be kind when there is so much hate around? And then another woman told me the space I occupied in that place was mine and none of those that said otherwise could reverse that. Those were the kindest words I have heard in a long while. I was stunned at how someone could still take me in despite the noise that tried to ruin my career for years. I have held on to those kind words since then.  That woman's kindness was like an embrace I needed. In fact, she was hope personified when I needed a reason to persist. I went fairly well after many years. I guess those words were enough for me to last that long. That world I was in was still mean but I subsisted. That woman at the work place did not just tell me to be kind. She was kindness herself.

Recently, as the  pandemic continues to wear on, I begin to see kindness at a vantage.

In the last quarter of 2021, Cebu saw potentials in the economy when the IATF placed Cebu at a more relaxed COVID-19 protocol level while the other places like those in Luzon were still on stricter pandemic protocol. It was but the perfect time for Cebu to get back economically. Then came Odette's manic onslaught in the middle of the Christmas rush. Cebu and some portions of Mindanao woke up the next morning to the horror of the typhoon's devastation.
Admittedly, I was not actually scared or anxious despite the fixing that our ceiling needed and countless electricity posts and trees being down. I guess I had it in my thinking that much like other disasters in other places, help and assistance were prompt. We knew that. We remember because we were there. We were there to share what kindness could afford us.

People went about fixing what remained to be salvageable. But none was hopeless. Many waited in silence. That faith in brotherhood and kindness was palpable in that silence. But that morning, the waiting took hours, then hours became a day, then a few more, then a week. Then news of the power company clearing roads in other cities came as a burst of hope. But when I turned, I still see power supply posts still lying there in our subdivision. Waiting.

Water was still scarce. Long queues for water, ATM terminals, solar panels, and power banks were now the norm. It is now the 11th day. Portions of Cebu were now lighted but that is just mere scattered portions of Cebu and who knows Leyte and Mindanao could even be worse. As for us, we were at the mercy of churches and department stores offering free charging of portable lights and gadgets just to get updates regarding help. But the assistance Cebu is in dire need of was slow or seemingly not coming at all. Now where was kindness when it was needed? There were a few fund drives thankfully. But the dismal state Cebu was in called for more than a few fund drives.

Sometimes, it may not be the goods or the money. Sometimes just being around and extending a visible hand is more than enough to know that not only few but everyone does care.

But then despite the obvious need of kindness, one can only hope for it to come. It is tragic to wait. It is even more tragic when after all the waiting, no help came. And then the unthinkable but probable happens--power wires of posts are gradually stolen by the same people whose cries for help may have fallen on dull deaf ears.
As much as there are a plethora of reasons why kindness is hard to come by, after Odette, I learned that there are instances that makes kindness easy. It is easy to be kind when:
1. you are happy,
2. you have plenty to share,
3. you have less to sacrifice,
4. you have an affinity or certain regard to the one in need of kindness and
5. when you know you can get something back in return.

Obviously, in the middle of the pandemic, people are rarely happy. So kindness cannot be expected. Second, only very few have plenty but maybe, just maybe, not for sharing, hence, kindness is not option. Third, with the economy down, there is too much to sacrifice if kindness means extending material help, which is not always the case ideally. Fourth, Cebu may not have a special relationship with some of its competitors across the country economically and perhaps politically as well. In this regard, any act of kindness is dependent on how friendly or how strong we are in relation to the country's economy. Fifth, extending any form of help can be politically motivated. It may be egocentric. Any help extended should bring back double the expended kindness. The layman's term aptly puts it, "Tabangan tika basta tabangi nya ko." Sounds fair enough but this is not kindness. This is negotiation. This is business if not politics talking. Borrowing from what that old woman in the church said, kindness is an attitude meant for all times--not only when it is convenient.

Of Drenched Chicks and Rain-soaked Thoughts--Sa Nangahumod nga mga Piso ug sa Hinumolan nakong Huna-huna

Sa pagtugpa palang sa akong mga tudlo, nituya-tuya 

Na dayun ang mga litra sa keyboard;

Mura na man ganig andam nang mabulasot ang akong 

Kumingking sa kilid ni L ubos ni P

Tayming pud ang pagbunok sa ulan sa dihang

Nahapla ang akong mga kumagko

Ug nilatas akong hunahuna ngadto sa unom nalang ka buok 

Namong mga piso sa tangkal. Naato ba kaha tog lublob sa himungaan

Ang gakurog nga mga piso. Nipadayon pagpatuya-tuya

Ang akong mga tudlo sa mga litra.-mga litra nga murag 

Giputos, gitipigan, gakurog,

gitugnaw kay 

Layo sa imong inalisngaw.

My COVID-19 Could-Have-Beens

Today, roughly seven months after day 1 of the virus, I think of the “could-have-beens.” Futile, yes, but sometimes you do what you do to keep your so-called sanity intact. So

here I go.

If I had to go back to day 1 when the COVID-19 virus struck mankind, I would have done a few things differently. I would have chatted with my friends until my saliva would dry out because I would not be able to do that from now on. I would have hugged my husband more openly and more often as that is improbable right now. He couldn’t even come home to rest in his own bed to be with us.

 

If it were only within my finite power, I would have done anything to break its spread. But what power do I hold to even track this invisible enemy that rapidly reached nooks and crannies of this planet and infected the vulnerable breathing being in our friends, coworkers, and loved ones? The pandemic becomes that darkness that closes in on us even as I write these thoughts down. And what scares us is that tomorrow is the most uncertain future we all are tentative to step into. Hours from now, a day or two my neighbors or yours might not be able to wake up and might just go too soon. And we are left with that heaviness not just because of fear of death but because of that uncertainty that hangs so menacingly up ahead. That we are no longer in control shakes the core of that self-reliant man in us. All that money that we save for our kids’ future; all those investments we painstakingly put up are now held in the frail fate of the crumbling economy; all that hopes our hard-earned reputations built are now thrown into thin air. Nothing defines tomorrow now. If anything, it’s the hardest time to see it.

Perhaps, the minister who enunciated that “it is only in God’s sovereign will that all this uncertainty and unrest be put to a perspective” is right. Perhaps the only thing I can do now is be at the posture of prayer, the one last thing we can have.

That Long Hiatus

Four years. Who would have known I would be back to writing. I had gone through a lot of uphill climbs and downhill statuses. But it has always been God's faithfulness that has brought me to a better height--one that transcends the world's standards and ideals.

This is my family now. My Shekinah Myrrh is doing quite awesome in her academics that I never thought she would in a matter of four years. She is starting to see the value of hard work. And a mother could only be too happy for that.

My husband meanwhile continues to rock the world with his unassuming ways and splendid skills that always work wonders. I remain bloated physically but I always reinvent myself so I can keep pace with the fast-paced world and technology my kid is exposed in. She is now 8 and I know she needs the tigress in me to monitor her stubborn ways to work well for her future. And I have God in His omnipotence to see us through.

SA GAMAYNG ANGHEL KAUBAN SA IYANG LIFE VEST NGA MIDAGSA SA BAYBAYON SA LAPULAPU (Gikan sa naunlod nga MV St. Aquinas)

Nunot sa mitidlum mong
Kalibutan ang
Akong pagpangab-ot---

Pagsapnay.

LOVE THAT BECOMES MY SUBSISTENCE

Love begets love. So they say. But when it comes to that I am not really very demonstrative. I used to be.  These days I’d rather choose time to whom and how should make my affection happen. It probably started back when over and over the people whom I thought matter have, one by one, ignored my unadulterated demonstrations of affection. I finally made my resolve to never again be openly the first one to show some haywire demonstrations of concern (of sort) to just anybody even to ones that matter now. And being raised in a family culture where expressions of affection are considered a taboo didn't help. So I can understand if people would begin to comment that I seem to choose to remain at a certain distance.

Unfortunately for me, having to consciously hold back has become an awful habit. The people who truly matter become the helpless recipient of my assumed coldness.

It took me time.  To pull back what used to be my generous self in terms of affection has surprisingly become an uphill climb now. My only redemption is that now I’m constantly trying. My husband is a blessing. He doesn't even know he’s a treasure. He would often say I love my work more than I love him. How could I ever blame the guy? My daughter of 4, though unable to articulate her pains when I become detached, I know is hurting inside.

One night after a grueling time with her assignments, she became too unresponsive and less willing to finish her work. I became too impatient to the point of hurting her which still makes me feel so guilty up to now. She finished her assignments all right but the next scenes would knock off any adult.

I noticed her red eyes all right earlier on that night. I knew she was trying to hold back tears. But I was too engrossed with some agenda at work that I forgot to talk to her which I used to do in moments like this.  I didn't even notice her go inside the bathroom. In an instant, I turned around when I heard someone wailing at the bathroom. It was too loud. It even sounded as though it came from someone who is deeply hurt and desperate. I opened the door and I noticed the muffled cries from her, perhaps scared of me to find out she’s crying. Those muffled cries suddenly reminded me of how I was when I got hurt, but that was what I was when I was 12. My daughter is just 4 years old.

Alarmed, I went inside and hugged her for a few minutes without saying anything. She tried to push me away. Then I prayed aloud. I told God I was so sorry for hurting my only daughter. I told God that I was so wrong for wanting her to be perfect right away when I wasn't even perfect as I am. When I opened my eyes, I didn't notice she was already calm and praying too. That was then that I talked to her and asked for forgiveness. After all, I don’t think she now thinks as a four-year-old thinks. Right there, I know her comprehension as to what is happening is as sharp as that of a twelve-year-old’s.

She forgave me. I can sense it through her hugs and smile. And yes, that smile was priceless. That brought me back to being her friend once again.

Love begets love, in my case is not true all the time. As to my daughter and husband, they don’t hold back even if what they’re getting is a measly dime meant for a beggar so to speak. They continue to give me more than enough love which does not suffocate but one that has become my subsistence.

As I said I love them so terribly. That’s the only reason I am constantly trying not to hold love in.

SA DIHANG MIHUNGHONG KO SA KALENDARYO ATOL SA AKONG ADLAWNG NATAWHAN

Karong gabii,

Muhangad ako pag-usab

Mukapyot sa imong mga sidsid, mamasin:

Pabalikon pa ba kaha ko diha sa katapusan mong luna?

Mudagayday pa ba pag-usab

Ang napulo ka tuig nga 

Mihaguros, ni wa gani mananghid?

Dad-on mo pa ba kaha ko didto 

Bisan nalang sa mga pinisik sa kaniadto 

Nga misawom sa kalimot?

Apan para unsa pa

Aduna na man kahay laing tungtungunan

Ang napanday?

Tungtunganang mas halapad pa

Kay sa trayntay-uno ka buok nimong

Mga kinwadradong luna.

Busa sige,

Inig hangad nako kanimo karong gabii,

Palili-a nalang ko sa kinwadrado kong

Kaniadto.

USA KA BASONG BALAK

Kung ako pa unta si Li Po
Magtagay ta sa akong bino

Magsusapinday ta
Tungod nianang buwan

Bisan pag sawmon
Ta ang kinapusuran

Sa dagat sa mga garay
Ug unya didto ta maglambahanay

Kay didto ang bathala
Mao ra ang akong usa

Ka basong balak

My DAUGHTER IS NOT MY OWN

Your children are not your children.They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.They come through you but not from you,And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.You may give them your love but not your thoughts.For they have their own thoughts.You may house their bodies but not their souls,For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
                                                                                                                   --Kahlil Gibran

For every mother who must have seen and passionately believed in what she thinks are potentials of her wee little baby (even before the tiny tot begins to show such signs) discovering her kid doing below par in school is way disheartening. You can ask me. Containing such frustrations is no joke.

I know she's not me.

By theory, I should not take out all on my daughter my old dreams that remained unreached until now. I lived my younger years constantly trying to make my mamma proud. And I guess for the most part I did just that. In fact, I overly did it that I unconsciously buried my personal dreams. I was a constant honor student but I wanted to do more. I gathered I was too hesitant, probably too bashful to own every opportunity that presented itself to me.

Then God gave me a daughter. I thought I find her interestingly vocal and linguistically skilled. But then again I am the mother. To a mother her offspring would always be the stand-out one in the crowd. That's how her eyes see. That's how her heart chooses to see. Now I understand every parent who sheds tears to teachers for the kid that never gets the grade the kid deserves.

I got the same frustration when I got the news that my daughter did not do much academically in school last March. The one who took the highest rank in class is the one who was so quiet but really prim and proper in class. Now there, I can accept that. She would never beat that kid. My daughter's stunts in class are more like that of an ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder) child. One would think she would never run out of steam. She gets too bossy and doesn't want to stay in her seat for more than 5 minutes, hence, she would never pass for the teacher's pet category.

Now let's look at the performance in her day-to-day classroom activities in school. The teacher said she's very good in reading and oral but too poor in writing. Well, that hurts a bit. But that's okay. I know she needs to grow in time especially in her psycho motor skills. But still, at this point, I couldn't believe that she's only fourth honors as there are only 6 students in her class. I couldn't even begin to imagine that she's just an average girl in the room. A mother dreams--very ambitious dreams--at that. This is especially that she used to have her dreams within her grasp if not for her weak heart so to speak. And now with a daughter whose skill supersedes that of her mother's is good news. So I thought.

Then one of my elders in church told me right to my face that my daughter needs to develop her study habit seriously with me, the mom. She might have the talent but such skill in hard work and study must be cultivated seriously with a parent who  can match her stubborness (in this case, me, the more persistent parent) before it's too late. Or else, she wouldn't stand a chance in the competitive world of academics. At first, I got so incensed by such disbelief in my daughter's capability. But despite the hurt that is brought on by that comment, some sense came home to me. I come home at 9 at night after my work and tutorials in the pursuit of staying above water on the daily basis sad to say leaving the chores to my husband to tutor her and have her finish her assignments every night. Until I found out that my husband could not wield the stubborn head of my strong-willed daughter that she ended up not studying enough.

Then this summer came. I enrolled her in a private prep school offering reading as the curriculum for the summer. Despite the tuition fee that rocked my wallet, I jumped in to the idea of trying a different environment for my little princess. At the teacher's diagnostic observation, she said, she needed to put her to a basic reading course which they call "Rookie Campers" class. She can perfectly identify letters and their sounds but a four-year-old should now be able to read the CVC words which she cannot. Of course, her former school has not taught her that yet to my dismay.

So, sadly she had to repeat the ABC sounds for the entire summer. Then the second week of her school came. I had to have her study as her quizzes seem to drop unlike her first week. It was a revelation. My little girl has a hard time recalling the sequence of the letters of the alphabet--that she would rather play while studying or better yet just play all the time. Perhaps, my elder friend was right. She has not developed her study skills. But then again, maybe, like I was in my elementary years, I started showing my skills way late. I was never an honor student when I was in the fourth grade although I thought I was better than the third honors in class. Then I was first honorable mention in my elementary graduation, magna cum laude and cum laude in college. It wasn't an easy ride but I did it as a scholar.

Although I'm being careful not to expect my daughter to attain what I got (which I did the tough way), I was still silently believing and hoping she would match or outdo my stunts hence, my frustration at her inability to exert effort and get serious with her academics.

A teacher that I am has tons and tons of strategies in our belt and almost always they work with my students. But they seem to never work with my little Shekinah.

But I remember patience. Along with love, I remember patience with my daughter's pacing. As I said, she's not me. She never got the pressure and stress I once had as a sad child. That said, from now on, I will be there before the day turns night to salvage what is possible. If it doesn't work, my faith in her tells me she will make me proud one day. It may not be in the near future. But she will.

I will not forget this: she is not her mother. She will never be. She came from me. But she's not mine. At least, with Shekinah, I can say what Kahlil Gibran wanted to say. My daughter is not my own.

She owns her future. I don't. But I am here as a steward who is tasked to watch what is lent to me by the Omnipotence, the Father of all fathers, and mothers, that is.

GIVING WHILE THE CHEST BLEEDS??

       
         You can't force love. You can probably make it happen but you can't just push its button anytime you want it.
          One scorching Sunday morning, a minister preached passionately on tithing. He quoted Corrie Ten Boom saying, "The measure of a life, after all, is not its duration, but its donation." And he interpreted the quote capitalizing on the literal definition of the word "donation" in the quote. He went on convincing the awestruck few in the pews: It doesn't matter how long or how many years you have been in church. What matters is your donation to God. First thing first, the term donation could be easily misinterpreted as literally to be monetary. Although we may not be privy to the context of the quote but certainly life shouldn't be about anyone just doling out money.Although that could be a product of his contributions to the world in general. Speaking of the word contribution, I'd say I might consider that as the nearest synonym for the word donation referred to in the quote. That said, donation could very well be referring to what we have done to make the world better in the sight of God monetary or not. But certainly not monetary in capital letters.

          Second of all, when the pastor paraphrased the word "duration" as referring to how long someone has been in church is way too much for an interpretation. I'd say I am vehemently offended by how he deliberately used the quotation to lead the congregation into believing that literal donation is what matters most. I have been educated in my poetry class to pay careful study of any line or stanza of any write-up to finally dig the real story of the line. I am certainly not happy. As a literature and English teacher, it is an affront to me. His poor paraphrase whether intentional to deliver his caricature of a Christian motive or not insults anyone's ability to search the internet of the accuracy of the quote in its context and definition.

          And who is Corrie Ten Boom really? Despite her contributions to the world and to the Church history, she still fell short as an authority to say that what matters is what a church member gives to the church, that is, if that was indeed what she meant by that passage. On one hand, I think it is a speaker's command responsibility to study the context and background why the quotation took place before striking a group of people with some indignation, almost condemning them for one purpose I'd rather not elaborate here.

           But while it is true that giving God what is due him is scriptural, hence, mandatory, a pastor can only say much on the pulpit and mouth inaudible prayers too much. He could not shake the head nor bend the iron will of anyone to be compliant and docile even if it  is the divine mandate. It is God himself who does the moving.

           I understand the dire need of that certain church to double up their commitment in the aspect of giving and church financial support. But more than anything, it takes more than commitment. It takes more than passion. Any preacher can be vehement in the pulpit for what he thinks is God's message. In fact, preachers tread the thinnest line there is when they deliver the message. I'd say it takes a lot of asking from up there to have him deliver God's message instead of his or instead of what he thinks is necessary.

          Now let me bring this point to another level. Loving God is not always automatic. But with the awareness that it is the way to be truly happy, we make it our aim to prove worthy of his love despite of our "filthy" righteousnes--despite of our "filthy love." However, as we grow as a church, this commitment brought about by this love we pledge becomes muddled as we are plunged into personalities and circumstances. More than the financial difficulty, there are more factors that probably stop a good Christian to send in his envelope to the offering pouch. Sometimes it takes being fed well spiritually to have our hearts reach the pockets. I am fully aware that churches go through different issues. Some stay in deserts long. Sometimes others get lost in the wilderness wandering looking for a way back to that oasis that once fed them.

         To cut the crap short, one can love God but it takes the steward of God to deliver the goods  as he should before the goods get translated into what should go to the offering plate.

          Of course, one might say if you love God you can't let anyone--not the cranky youth leader for instance nor the legalistic pastor--stop you from giving what is due. That's cliche all right, but that's admittedly ideally true.

          However, when a soul gets parched for long, when the stomach has been painfully empty for quite a while, one can't help but get paralyzed.

          It takes a reconciliation with a brother or a sister before anyone can offer anything of worth to the altar of his sanctuary. No matter how true what Malachi said to bring all the tithes in, how can a famished church member who's spiritual decay involves someone among the church leaders and ministers make his offering sweet-smelling to God if his heart remains unreconciled to someone who refuses that reconciliation as well.

         Doesn't the Scripture say, "Leave your offering behind for they are rendered useless and go reconcile with your brother before you can bring it to his altar? (Matthew 5:23-24) So that after all that would be said and done: the patching up,the kissing and the making up so to speak, love becomes a natural reaction. Not forced. Hence, in such context, giving comes with a lot more sense and meaning.

     

IF I COULD

I f I could make your tomorrow's troubles
Transient bubbles,
I would make thousands of the frailest of them;

Then I would borrow the sky's rainbow brush
And paint each bubble
Colors in your fairy tale books;

If I could ,
I would.
But I am just passing through.

And all I could do is look up
To Him that lends me
You.

COMING HOME

 I used to think of staying home as the better alternative this season of celebrations and calamities. But due to an unpronounced love pact I made with my husband, I have to brave through the rowdy weather to go to the Western part of the Visayan region every Christmas. This year has been my nth time. But this particular season is the most turbulent not only plane-ride wise, but even with my spiritual and family relationship as well. And yet going away from the “mundane-ness” of the usual domestic clutter could actually mean something more than going away. Bu leaving our physical home, I actually have come home closer to my husband and kiddo.

I only stayed practically 18 hours in what could be the most remote town in Iloilo where the beach is but a stone-throw away, where the nipa-clad house of my in-laws are void of any basic gadgets like a radio or TV. Those 18 hours proved to have cleared my perspective of family and home. I have never seen my husband that happy and refreshed seeing his humble parents and siblings overjoyed by his homecoming. Each year every homecoming is like the first time.My husband could be aptly describe as one tot proudly brandishing our 4-year-old daughter to her grammy and grappy. I thought, my, this is home I have never been before. I have never seen and felt so much love by a family which I thought as entirely of different culture and language. I looked at my husband during our separate dinner for two somewhere away from the city and I saw in his face once again the reasons why I fell in love with him the first time and still will for the second time. All these years, I have always been drawn to a pure love that emanates from a home that brews unconditional love continuously even during stormy seasons.

If someone asked me one more time why travel away from home, I’d say so I could come home to what used to be “us” once again.

                                                                                                   

MY DAUGHTER'S ANTENNA

I wish I was not a teacher.

It all came  like cold water pouring on me on a seething hot day. I thought all was all right until I had to help Kiny practice her writing letters A and E the night before her big examination day. Maybe just maybe, it is unfortunately inherent for teachers like I am to pound on students what is ideal and what is required or at least what is expected. But for a three-year-old like my daughter, whose hand control is yet to be developed, doing those slanting lines and vertical lines that consist in what appear to be letter As and Es to me in her small doodled paper is calvary. Worse, her self-appointed tutor,  that's me, whose brows remained twitched at a letter E that looks like an antenna of a television, had to sometimes raise my voice just to tell her that a letter E has but 3 horizontal lines and not 4 which would virtually make her E a TV antenna not to mention the lines that could never stick to blue and red lines. Of course, in all these things, I was aware that her psychomotor skills are yet to be developed. But there's just something in me that drives me to go for more even if I noticed that she has gone far too stretched already.

Then I noticed tears welling up in her eyes looking up at me as though pleading for the insensible torture to stop. It was then, after my head swirled in ache after finding ways to have her hold her pencil  THE RIGHT WAY that I needed to rest my teacher-stature and come back to being a mother.

The next day after feeling guilty for being too hard on my tiny tot I bought her favorite crayon set. And what met me when I was about to brandish the crayon set was a shrieking, "Look, Mommy, I'm making nice As and Es. It's not antenna anymore, right?" She stood looking at me waiting to celebrate my approval. Needless to say, my heart sank. I had to hug her. I did not wait for a second to go by to give her the confirmation that she needed from her mom.

 As early as now, I don't want my daughter to go through what I went through as a kid. I was an achiever all right, but I was only achieving because the approval that I wish to get from my mom took a long time in coming. It did come, all right. But I wished it came just when I badly needed it.

Being a teacher and getting all the techniques, strategies, and approaches right in the classroom do not necessarily manage a family well. But I intend to be good at these two tough acts to my wonderful little girl.

T A K I G

Bugnaw ang akong mga lutahan

Dugay nang wa mag-alindasay

Sa matag hagsa sa

Ritmo sa garay-garay.

 

Kung mahimo pa lang

Gitukmod ko na palayo

Ang kabugnaw nga galiyok-liyok sa

Nangamig nakong alimpu.

 

Kanus-a pa kaha

Mupuli ang dilaab

Sa gakuray na  nakong mga laray

Aron unya,

 

Sa pagkabanhaw,

Mudagayday na usab

Ang dugay nang nabagtok nga

Salimuang?

OUR FATHER, MY BROTHER, OUR PASTOR

It's amazing how God can make all things grow--even men.


I remember him when I was 9. Three decades have allowed me to see his growing pains including mine under his tutelage, under his ministry. 


In those years, somewhere there, I thought I snapped; I thought our friendship and "sibling bond" have snapped. I thought one more shove, and things will graduate from brittle to broken. But the great Omnipotence, the healer of all sores is good and perfect in using time to blur what used to be excruciating.


Now I see him preaching tonight in our midweek service. He stands there like no one has ever stood before preaching about Jonah and the guy's lack of humility in the forefront of God's order to go to a place of people whom Jonah thought are abominable, now considered forgiven, loved again by his own God, by his own commander.


But in his sermon, I'm seeing a lot of things so differently. Now I see the man preaching clearly without even trying. I hear the sermon because finally the man I'm seeing now is my brother again. The minister I'm seeing now has become a real father to me, a real pastor of an often-time confused sheep like I am. 


For the first time, my eyes are welling up--too overwhelmed of so much respect--respect for this man who could equally say with me, "God is not finished with me yet." He might be under construction before and he might still be now. But I am amazed at how much wisdom and God's blessing have made him grow to be a man whom I can call father.

Boy, am I so glad Pastor Nats came to Banawa Church in 1995 when we needed a father. Most of all I am so glad he never gave up on the church! Not on me, not on us!

Coming home to my Man

I used to hear clamors from married women that men are silly and childish. As to how men can be that preposterous despite their swagger and relentless pride just escaped me until I married one of them.

I am not in the position to hammer this on any man, much more on my man, so to speak. Yes, men and women are created totally different from each other in strengths and weaknesses. What my women friends say about men may have sprung from what they presume as proper for a man.And as to how men behave in crucial moments of decision or indecision compared to how we, women react may be less impressive as I myself have witnessed one of them dealing his own crisis as well.

I think of how my husband often reduces himself to a helpless sheepish pesky child each time he's at my mercy. As to what case does this normally occur, I couldn't let slip for now. But in moments like this, instead of berating him, deep inside I pity him. Initially, I get exasperated. I would think men are too self-absorbed not considering a woman's day's predicament. Then I would think he needs me to understand his needs and needs me to be there as I need him to understand my need as well. But I tried to forgo necessary remedial actions! I would say "later," I'll fix that one.

Then he texted me one morning while I was in the mix of things in a national seminar. He said he misses what  I used to be to him before. This summer vacation I have been absent. He has been alone in his emotions when he needed me.

Right there, I was jolted. I knew even before then that I was quite of a slack as a woman, more so as a wife. I might have been an A++ as a mommy but not as a wifey. And unexpectedly, in his unpredictable quiet way, my husband has beaten the crap out of me.

Time to go home.

I DON'T KNOW

Author Willingham's thoughts in his book Crumbs for the Would-be Christlike Christians were staggering. They struck a chord that drives my appetite for reading crazy. 


He said,"I try as much as possible to steer away from talking or from preaching heavy doctrines" like that one where the Armenians and the Calvinists differ.  I got a little bit flabbergasted when he wrote that confession, coming from a Nazarene veteran professor, writer, and preacher himself.


 I admit I kind of found a home in what he said. Contrary to what younger generations expect from us theology graduates and literature teachers, we have some things that we remain uncertain about.  And I'm not in any way embarrassed to say "I don't know" at times. For what we call knowledge here on this   planet of seemingly all-knowing guys are nothing but dung to him, the Wise of the wise. Paul, one of the most learned Jews in the New Testament time, has spoken in 1 Corinthians 13:12:

                    Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face 
                    to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully 
                    known.

What we have at hand is but a portion of that vast reality we are not privileged to know as of yet. How true of Paul when he thought he knew everything that was moral and upright and then he met the Lord who changed his outlook of what he thought he already knew!

Just as I am tempted to gather my wits and forget my regular sleeping hours to research on stuff I am expected to be good at, here's this almost-a-century-old guy who brandished a new thought to me."It is okay to say I don't know about a lot of things. He went on to say, "This one thing I know. It is not wisdom that saves me. It's faith!" Faith even in the middle of stark uncertainty.

The dark almost always scares children. The unknown is like a faceless monster to us that prefer treading familiar pavements. Hence, we prepare for the uncertainties ahead. We study. We train. We search for answers. Unfortunately not all answers are visible. Hence, the fear. But faith says, "I believe." And it's not blind faith as some would tend to label this passion to trust in the God that is seemingly unseen and detached. It's faith in the heart of the Father that I always come home to at the end of the day.

POUR IT ALL, SUMMER

There's not much air to breathe right now. I'm awed, that's what! Awed at how little we know of the depth and breadth of God's possibilities for each one of us. Maybe all this is because I really am a worm.

At a worm's vantage, he can only see a portion of God's universe. In the same manner, he doesn't see what goes on in the heart of his creator that causes every force, friction, and motion in his world. It remains the same heart that stoops to every worm as I am and in his tenderness pulls us to where his sun and provision are. He secures us to where safety resides.

This summer, which I fervently hope (summoning all the positive powers of his possibilities) not to end soon. For while the restless summer beach waters sleep, I'm seeing God so big in the littlest details of my life, quite far better from what I have hoped for.

So, summer, drag me to your endless glorious heat!

SA SAPA SA PUERTO PRINCESA, PALAWAN

Lunhaw ang bulok

Sa imong lamurok nga aping.

Samtang nanghuyatid pa ang kalibutan,

Miabi-abi na ang mga bukton sa imong

Kalasangan.

Ang hapuhap sa imong tubig

Mao ray akong pangitaon

Inig suong na unya

Sa langob sa mga kwaknit ug

Pag-inusara.

Didto

Sa mga agay-ay

Sa mga lusparong kabatohan

Mahabilin ang akong

Pagkahingangha.

Mupauli ako nga adunahan

Mupanaw ako,

Gabitbit sa tinipik sa imong

Kaanyag.

WHERE DREAMS COME KNOCKING

God does love me.

Truly, there are good reasons why some unlikely changes have to take place in my life.  To a human who in his vantage point is capable of looking at things in his capacity as a rational being will naturally repel to the idea that goes against what is normally comfortable to him.

There are moments I get to feel small when I begin to compare myself with my other colleagues who have stayed well-compensated in a place where I used to hug as my work hall while I’m here in a small corner of a public school earning just barely enough for a family of three.  But moments like these are my unguarded times where I am free to spill my bare humanity to my creator, who while listening to my confused cries, remains understanding. And in his seeming silence, I deem it best that right after crying I remain in the posture of waiting and trusting.  I would not say this comes easy. It’s a long journey in the desert, I tell you.  I have no other means of surviving but through this.

And then all of a sudden, the old dreams that I dreamed came all at once not in drizzles but in torrents at a time when I don’t expect them.

I always thought for a dream to come true I have to have the cash, the connections and the courage. I don’t have the three, especially the third one. But now that I’m a Journalism teacher in an institution where I’m only content to work in a classroom with my 34 teen-agers eager to see how life turns with a new weird teacher, things simply began to fall into place. You do your honest day’s work and you get some surprises. Mine came in the form of me being snagged to coach a radio broadcasting team bound for the National School Press Conference.

My boss came up to me and told me to prepare no less than P10,000 for the travel and registration to the Palawan stint. I was thrilled with the thought of going to a dream world called Palawan! But I had to decline as I don’t have the money. I couldn’t produce the money needed even if we were promised a refund from the city local funds.

I told God that if He really wants me to go He would make me go come what may but if He has a better idea for me this summer then I wouldn’t mind. He’s God and remains God even if the sweetest of dreams have to crumble to pieces.

And then last Monday, March 20, my boss came up to me after the nth time and told me, “OK, prepare your things. You’re coaching the team with me, with or without your 10,000. You should not decline this offer to come with us. There are others who are dying to come. But you’re going with us!”

I was dumbfounded. But I heard him right. God does love me.

You bet, I’m going to Palawan with the team!