Waiting...

I woke up to a chilling news today. Typhoon (Ondoy) hit my home country (Philippines) in such rage and fury unequalled for the last several years. As of this writing, death toll is continually rising as rescuers began to reach submerged places, thousands more were rendered homeless and injured.

The images on tv and you tube were truly heart-wrenching: a couple whisked away by a sudden gush of water, a man desperately holding on to a coconut branch hanging loose from the trunk, cars tumbling against each other in the midst of the flood, rescuers braving the cold and the rains to bring people stranded in a roof down to a safer area, a mother and child walking from roof to roof, trying to maintain their balance lest they tumble towards the neck-deep waters below.

As I started watching the searing images, my vision started to blur and my lips became numb in anguish. My sister and her family live in Marikina – the city that was hardest hit by the typhoon. Fatalities continue to be reported round the clock. Since her place is located right in the middle of the city – I knew they could be right into the center of the flood. What if ......what if?

It is so debilitating to watch something happening right before your eyes but you are helpless to do anything about it. The feeling was beyond description –the knowledge that they are out there in the flood – helpless, hungry, cold – and there’s nothing I can do about it.

As usual, I had to turn to my greatest SOURCE of comfort, my greatest HELP in moments like this.

But even as I said my word of prayer, I wished I could go back to sleep and realize that this was all but a DREAM.

When Things Don't Make Sense

I’ve been thinking about faith lately.

Sounds too profound and complicated? Yes it is. But I’ll try to simplify it as much as possible.

When I was younger and have not encountered crisis situations in my life, I believed then that life would always be happy and carefree. Having lived for more than 3 decades now and having had my share of pains and sorrows and difficulties, I am beginning to see life from a different perspective.

I admit that there were moments in my life before when I struggled with the most troubling question that every human has ever asked: “Why? Why did these things happen to me? If God was truly a caring God, why did he not do something about my situation?”

God did not answer my “why” questions right away then. But as days and years went by, the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together. I still don’t have answers to all of my questions (perhaps, I never will), but the message that I got translates to this very simple understanding:

“trials happen so I can exercise my faith"

The bible defines faith as believing that which has no absolute proof. It is holding on to what I believe even when the circumstances are in opposition to my belief. It is deciding to trust him even when things do not make sense.

The solution to my struggle was really simple. I must never forget that He is God. He wants me to believe and trust in him despite the things I don’t understand. I don’t have to comprehend what he is doing (much as I try, I could not because I am finite in my thoughts) but I just have to learn to TRUST him.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with trying to understand, but I discovered that it is much easier not to lean on my ability to comprehend. My intellect has posed questions after questions that I cannot answer. It dawned on me then that it would be wise to remember His words:

“As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts”.

Only when I learned to trust did I find comfort in my approach to life. Finally, I was relieved of the responsibility of trying to figure things out. It is enough to acknowledge that God makes sense even when things around me don’t make sense.

Winner

The first time I saw her last summer - an old, frail-looking woman walking so slowly with a cane to brace her steps - my heart instantly went out to her. I thought to myself a woman this age should not be left alone. She had difficulty walking, each stride carefully taken else she would lose her balance. If it were not for her cane, she would definitely trip off.

I had to resist my initial reaction to help her. Something told me she was different. She was limping, and was literally dragging herself when she walked. But I also saw determination in every step she took. From the way she moved, she seemed to have gone through a heart stroke, which probably rendered half of her body paralyzed.

Every morning since then, she had become a familiar sight to all of us. We would see her garbed in her sweaters with matching toque and scarf, rounding off the corners of the walkway in our apartment complex, all by herself.

I tried to imagine myself in her shoes.

"Oh, it is utterly helpless to be trapped in a body that will not let me do what I want to do, or to be dependent on a piece of wood to keep me standing. It is so tiring to physically drag myself from the comfort of my bed just to brace the early morning creepy chill, just to fulfill this hateful walking regimen. Oh, this entire thing is so pathetic, and so hopeless. When will I see the end of it?"

I had to correct myslef - does she really think that way?

"Oh, now, I no longer have to drag myself from bed just to get up. Thank God I have this most reliable cane to bear me out. It is cold outside but the sunshine would feel good on my skin, and maybe I can complete 10 corner rounds instead of the usual 8 this time. Oh, how good it is to feel that I am improving everyday. How it gives me hope that I am making progress day by day".

Yesterday, my daughter and I saw her walking down the pathway again. She still had the cane in her right hand, but her steps are faster this time, more resolute, more assured, more determined. She has definitely gone a long way compared to the first time I saw her.

My daughter said she pitied the woman. I told her no, she did not need pity. She is to be admired and modeled for her courageous spirit. She's made a choice to overcome her circumstances, and I know she will.

Leaving

I felt something different when I walked into the office last Monday morning. The usual “hi, how are you” greetings and morning chuckles from my officemates were conspicuously absent. Over in the corner of the room, I saw the HR director in a close huddle with two other managers, intently talking to each other in hushed tones.

In the hallway, I met two colleagues who seemed so self-absorbed that they didn’t even bother to return my hello. I think I also saw something in their eyes – was it grief or sadness – I wasn’t exactly sure.

Did I do something wrong – I asked myself. My mind raced back to the events last Friday. To the best of my recollection, I could not think of anything I have done that could have caused their indifference.

A few minutes later, I was able to put the pieces of the puzzle together. I understood. They were grieving for the loss of a dearly-beloved colleague of 15 years who succumbed to death due to heart attack right inside the Office at 5:00 PM last Friday.

His name was Bryan and he was in his 50s, a father of two teen-age daughters and a faithful husband. I didn’t know him personally, but from what I’ve heard, he seemed to be a very jolly person, putting a smile in everybody’s face with his wacky humor. He was a health buff, they say, hitting the gym everyday and forever conscious of his diet.

And so for the entire day last Monday, the world seemed to have stood still for the employees of MPI as everybody mourned the passing of Bryan.

Every time I hear stories of death or witness the death of somebody, my heart goes out to the family of the departed. I know how it feels. I’ve been there. But one doesn’t have to go through this painful experience to feel the pain of losing a loved one. Death permanently cuts off our physical and emotional ties with our loved ones, without any hope of being able to see them again, talk to them, touch them, embrace them. And this is quite hard to accept.

The only consolation, the only source of strength and comfort for the grieving, is the belief that somebody, she or he will be reunited with his loved one in eternity. In a different realm where there is no longer pain and suffering and death. Where there is only pure love and pure joy.

That is, if the grieving person believes.

If he doesn’t believe, death will never make sense.

Post-New Year Reflections

My favorite John Lennon sound track was playing: ♪♪♪"And so this is Christmas, and what have you done? Another year over, and a new one just begun.”♪♪♪

As I listened to the song, it brought me into serious thinking “what have I done” so far. After all, the dawning of a new year is as good a time as any to do an inventory of what we have done during the past year.

Of course, I haven’t done anything spectacular or grandiose for 2008 that would consign me to the pages of history, nor do I intend to do anything of historical proportions for the next year. I don’t intend to climb Mt Everest, be a world changer, or do something extra-ordinarily heroic that would land me to the top pages of a newspaper. What I learned over the years is that with maturity comes the awareness of what I can and cannot do, and finding peace in the knowledge that I am whole and complete despite my limitations.

But what I think I have done, in my little corner of this world, is that throughout 2008, I have tried to be the best person I could ever be. I have sown kindness to the people around me and I am now reaping the harvest. I have remained true to the values and ideals I hold dear in my heart, although not without great pain and struggles. Best of all, I have given as much love as I could and tried to make life easier and meaningful to the people I care about.

These may not consign me to the pages of history, but these have definitely made a mark in the hearts of the souls that I have touched. I love them and I strongly suspect they love me too.

With the passing of every year, I have come to the realization that it really has nothing to do with how hard or how much we work. Sometimes we can delude ourselves into thinking that we have done so much but in reality, we are simply convincing ourselves.

Because by the end of the day, what really matters is that we have brought a smile in the faces of those we love just by our simple act of caring. And here is the thing that I have long realized: there is no substitute for doing that.

As I contemplate 2009, I think of how far I still have to go in this mission of loving and caring and giving.

But I expect to see all of us there, down the road.

The Things That Matter

I just turned 41 last December 7. I woke up to hugs and kisses from my hubby, a serenade of my favorite songs from my daughters and love letters and a bouquet of roses waiting at the breakfast table. Later in the night, I had a quiet dinner with my family.

What more could a woman ask for? I was asked by friends about my birthday wish. I told them I have everything I wished for, and so my birthday prayer was actually a prayer of gratitude.

At 41, I find it interesting that I have taken one step closer to 50. But the feeling is no different when I was 21 or 31, which seems to lend credence to the saying that “age is only in the mind” I still have the passions and excitement and inclinations of a twenty- or thirty-something year-old. I feel life radiantly bursting in, through and around me. I feel that there is still so much to do but at the same time, time is slipping away.

As I think about the fact that I am now into the middle age, this also brings me to reflect upon the things that truly matter in this stage of my life. My values and my priorities in life have changed tremendously over the years. What seemed important before is not nearly as important to me today.

• I used to define success as being able to make it based on the standards of this world – a name, a position, a bank account. Success for me is now being happy in whatever I do – whether as a simple housewife or mother or a corporate employee. Rank, position and money maybe important, but they no longer define my worth as a human being.

• I must and continue to take responsibility for my own life. I consciously live my life with a purpose and meaning. I now seek to be more joyful than to be happy, because happiness is a function of circumstances while joy is a function of inner peace inspite of the circumstances.

• Family and real friends are most important than anything else in the world. In their deathbeds, people usually died wishing NOT that they have spent more time working, BUT that they have spent more time with their families and loved ones.

• My relationship with God is of chief importance to me. I make Him as a part of my daily life, even with mundane things. He walks with me and I walk with Him everyday, even if my walk is not always straight. I realize that I am utterly dependent upon him. My life is in the palm of His hands. Just one click of his fingers and I am gone. Everything I am and I have I owe to Him. In fact, I am nothing without Him.

Everyone has a journey - and a story of what their life is, and what it isn’t. I have danced around inevitable changes all my life, taking and missing some of the precious opportunities that have come my way. But I have no regrets. I have accepted my place and have revolved my life on truths and values that are fundamental to my sense of being.

As I continue to write my story, I want to seek a life that truly matters. I want to continue to ponder on life’s great surprises, to feed on my natural sense of awe and wonder for ordinary things with extra-ordinary meanings, to affirm who I am as a person and to live the fundamental truths that have given my life meaning.

For every birthday marker that I go through, I see the “grains of sand” running out of my hourglass. And I’m rushing to ensure that I won’t run out of time to accomplish what I believe are the things that truly matter.

Our Generation

Got this yesterday from a forwarded e-mail. The text had me traveling back down memory lane when life was a little less complicated. Some of the texts tugged at my heart and I couldn't help but nod my head in agreement.

TO ALL THE KIDS WHO WERE BORN IN THE 1950's, 60's and 70's !!

First, some of us survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they carried us.. ( sioktong ang inumin)

They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, fish from a can ( brand : ligo ) , and didn't get tested for diabetes.

Then after that trauma, our baby cribs were covered with bright colored lead-based paints , pati na yung laruang kabayu-kabayuhan.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, no kneepads , sometimes wala ngang preno yung bisikleta.

As children, we would ride in car with no seat belts or air bags – hanggang ngayon naman, di ba ? ( jeep )

Riding in the back of a pick up on a warm day was always a special treat. ( maykaya kayo pare ! )

We drank water from the garden hose and NOT from a bottle ( minsan straight from the faucet)

We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this. Or contacted hepatitis.

We ate rice with tinunaw na purico ( dahil ubos na ang star margarine) , nutribuns na galing kay macoy and drank sopdrinks with sugar in it, but we weren't overweight kasi nga ..... .

WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!!

We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on. Sarap mag patintero, tumbang preso , habulan taguan….

No one was able to reach us all day ( di uso ang celfon , walang beepers ). And we were O.K.

We would spend hours building our trolleys or slides out of scraps and then ride down the street, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem .

We did not have Playstations, Nintendo's, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 99 channels on cable, no video tape movies, no surround sound, no cell phones, no personal computers, no Internet or Internet chat rooms....... ....WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them!

We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no lawsuits from these accidents. The only rubbing we get is from our friends with the words…..masakit ba ? pero pag galit yung kalaro mo,,,,ang sasabihin sa iyo…..beh buti nga !

We played in the dirt , washed our hands a little and ate with our barehands…we were not afraid of getting worms in our stomachs.

We had to live with homemade guns – gawa sa kahoy, tinali ng rubberband , sumpit , tirador at kung ano ano pa na puedeng makasakit…..pero walang nagrereklamo.

Made up games with sticks ( syatong )and cans ( tumbang preso )and although we were told it would happen, wala naman tayong binulag o napatay….paminsan minsan may nabubukulan.

We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just yelled for them!

Mini basketball teams had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. Walang sumasama ang loob.

Ang magulang ay nandoon lang para tignan kung ayos lang ang bata….hindi para makialam.

This generation of ours has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and managers ever!

The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.
We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned
HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL!

And YOU are one of them!

A life of Contradiction

I chanced upon the name of David Foster Wallace in one of the old issues of Time Magazine citing his novel “Infinite Jest” as one of the 100 best English novels. I got to read some of his nonfiction works and instantly, I developed a particular liking for his style and the depth of his works. He had become one of my most admired writers/novelists/essayists.

Just this morning, I read from a blogger’s post that he passed away last September 12. What a sad news, what a great loss, considering that the man was only in his late forties with a writing prowess that can only belong to a genius.

Here is a sample (which I copied from the same blog) on how beautifully and poignantly he can mesh his thoughts into words.

"Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship -- be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles -- is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It's the truth.

Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.

Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful, it's that they're unconscious. They are default settings.

They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing.

And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation ... The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.

That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing."

Here is another that will knock the wind out of you.

“There are these two guys sitting together in a bar in the remote Alaskan wilderness. One of the guys is religious, the other is an atheist, and the two are arguing about the existence of God with that special intensity that comes after about the fourth beer. And the atheist says: "Look, it's not like I don't have actual reasons for not believing in God. It's not like I haven't ever experimented with the whole God and prayer thing. Just last month I got caught away from the camp in that terrible blizzard, and I was totally lost and I couldn't see a thing, and it was fifty below, and so I tried it: I fell to my knees in the snow and cried out 'Oh, God, if there is a God, I'm lost in this blizzard, and I'm gonna die if you don't help me.'" And now, in the bar, the religious guy looks at the atheist all puzzled. "Well then you must believe now," he says, "After all, here you are, alive." The atheist just rolls his eyes. "No, man, all that was was a couple Eskimos happened to come wandering by and showed me the way back to camp."

It's easy to run this story through kind of a standard liberal arts analysis: the exact same experience can mean two totally different things to two different people, given those people's two different belief templates and two different ways of constructing meaning from experience. Because we prize tolerance and diversity of belief, nowhere in our liberal arts analysis do we want to claim that one guy's interpretation is true and the other guy's is false or bad. Which is fine, except we also never end up talking about just where these individual templates and beliefs come from. Meaning, where they come from INSIDE the two guys. As if a person's most basic orientation toward the world, and the meaning of his experience were somehow just hard-wired, like height or shoe-size; or automatically absorbed from the culture, like language. As if how we construct meaning were not actually a matter of personal, intentional choice. Plus, there's the whole matter of arrogance. The nonreligious guy is so totally certain in his dismissal of the possibility that the passing Eskimos had anything to do with his prayer for help. True, there are plenty of religious people who seem arrogant and certain of their own interpretations, too. They're probably even more repulsive than atheists, at least to most of us. But religious dogmatists' problem is exactly the same as the story's unbeliever: blind certainty, a close-mindedness that amounts to an imprisonment so total that the prisoner doesn't even know he's locked up.

The point here is that I think this is one part of what teaching me how to think is really supposed to mean. To be just a little less arrogant. To have just a little critical awareness about myself and my certainties. Because a huge percentage of the stuff that I tend to be automatically certain of is, it turns out, totally wrong and deluded".

No doubt Wallace was incredibly brilliant and capable of biting satire, profound depth, utmost sensitivity. He impressed me as a man firmly grounded in the unnatural. After all, most of his work is a reflection of an awesome, brave stab against materialism and a natural inclination towards compassion.

But alas, he lived a life of contradiction. His life is the ultimate jest. He died in a most unlikely, unimaginable way that I could think of. He hanged himself inside his own home, knowing that a few hours later, he would be found by his wife of four years.

Loss

I received very sad news in a row this week – the death of the loved ones of two of my close friends.

Judel’s father who is in his sixties was rushed to the hospital on Saturday night due to chest pain. In less than an hour, he succumbed to death due to massive heart failure.

Cookie’s only sister who is in her mid thirties had just started a family. She had been in the pink of health all these years. A week ago, patches suddenly began to emerge in her skin. The doctors ruled out leukemia and suspected it might have been blood infection. She died a week later, leaving a husband and two very young kids behind.

Two people: one nearing dusk, and the other at the prime of her life. One having lived a full life and the other just about to taste life.

Their death only affirms the hard truth that I’ve long been wrestling with. That death does come like a thief in the night. No choosing of victims. No pattern to watch for. Sparing nobody when the timing is right. Sometimes gently. Sometimes harshly. Always painfully.

The deepest pain and the greatest burden are for those who are left behind. The pain of those who are in the process of mourning just cannot be captured by words. It feels like a hole has been torn in your soul that cannot be mended. I knew, because I lost my brother twenty-five years ago and my father five years ago.

From a positive perspective, the death of my loved ones has changed me in a most profound way. I was never the same person again after they were gone. My personal loss had forced me to come face to face with myself and inspired me to seek the answers to a lot of questions about life. It brought me to the feet of a God I never knew before.

I may not still have found all the answers (perhaps in my lifetime I never won’t) but one thing is certain though: This world is not our home. We are not meant to live here forever. We are simply passing through.

A Sad Soul

I have met my new friend Anette, a 77-year-old Caucasian widow during our church’s annual outreach project a few months ago. She doesn’t share my faith but she believes in the existence of God. She lives alone in a two-storey grandiose house with a big yard that needs regular mowing. With her limited pension, she can barely afford to hire a grass cutter. So we volunteered to do it, at least every other week till winter.

She has spent the prime of her life taking care of her ailing husband who eventually succumbed to diabetic complications while she was in her fifties. She has serious back problems (her tendons and ligaments have twisted due to heavy lifting of her husband while still alive) that run through her legs. She takes pain relievers daily which provided little comfort over time. The last hope is a back surgery which could cost her her life.

She is in such physical distress, but this is nothing compared to the pain that is searing through her heart. Anette is a very sad woman, with the burden of solitude weighing down her soul day by day. Her gaze reflects an inner ache, her voice a hollow vacuum.

Her children had long left her behind (2 daughters and a son are in Winnipeg while another son is in Toronto) to live their separate lives. Curiously, none of them bother to pay her a visit though they are only a distance away. They only meet on important family occasions like birthday or Christmas. Anette speaks fondly of her children and wishes in her heart that someday, all of them would have a happy reunion in that grand house of hers.

Something has gone wrong somewhere, and I am not about to pass judgment.

My family makes it a point to visit her every Sunday, just sitting for about two hours with her in the kitchen, talking about nothing over a cup of coffee. One time just as we were preparing to leave, Anette told me: “I hope I can fulfill whatever expectations you have from me”. I replied: “We don’t expect you to do anything for us, it is our pleasure to do something for you, and it had been a privilege that you allowed us intruders into your heart”. Her eyes were red with tears when we parted.

I am drawn to Anette, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s my way of appeasing my guilt of leaving my mother behind. In my lifetime, I am happy that I am given the chance to meet this wonderful woman, and hopefully to touch her soul in a positive way.

But I will have to admit this - everytime I see her, I feel a gnawing fear inside me. She reminds me of how fragile life can be, and what will become of us all by the end of the road. When all is said and done and we have loved and given everything we have, and then find ourselves alone when dusk time comes, from where do we draw courage to get out from the abyss of despair and loneliness?

In my bed of thorns, He is the fragrant rose;
In my wilderness, He's the stream that flows;
A shelter built with loving grace,
His refuge shall be my dwelling place. —Krippayne
© 2002, New Spring Publishing, Inc./Chips and Salsa Songs

Mayhem

I was greeted yesterday morning by a most horrific, bone-chilling news flashed all over Canadian television.

A 40-year-old man repeatedly stabbed a twenty-something man sleeping next to him as they rode in the back of a Greyhound bus together along the Trans-Canada Highway near Portage la Prairie, Winnipeg. Afterwards, he decapitated the man and waved the severed head in front of thirty-four passengers who watched in complete and total horror.

How I wished this was simply a gruesome scene from a horror movie, or photos in magazines from faraway places. But this was real, the grit and pain and horror of life, up close and personal.

Amid my disbelief and horror, I rationalized that there must have been a deep motive for the gruesome killing, like a personal vendetta of some sort. It was my mind’s way of tuning out a most shocking and unacceptable reality.

Subsequent reports about the incident had my defense mechanism crumbling to the ground. Alas, there was no motive that would account for the mayhem. The murderer and the victim didn’t know each other. The latter, a simple, unassuming boy who worked in a rolling carnival in Edmonton, was going home to his parents in Winnipeg. The killing was not planned nor pre-meditated. The murderer simply went on a rampage, attacking the first person closest to him who happened to be that sleeping boy.

The psychopath is now in jail, and during his brief court appearances, he never said a word, never had an eye contact with people. He provided little clues as to what was going on in his mind. Sketchy reports said that he worked as a newspaper delivery boy and his supervisor attested that he appeared like a "normal" person although with some marital problems.

I came from a country where crime happens everyday to the point that its vastness has numbed my senses. But this incomprehensible incident has personalized the horror once again and made me shudder anew in terrible disbelief. It is an intensely personal matter that has tied my emotions into knots and leaving me dazed, angry, scared, almost like a spiritual vertigo.

By the chilly manner of killing his victim, it is as if the psychopath was telling me “I am doing this and I can do it to anybody.” I cringe at the thought that that that anybody could be me, or someone I care for.

Why does it have to be a world where predators stalk prey and violence is an integral part of life? why do terrible things have to happen to innocent people?

I hope that the indifferent stars will give me the answers soon.

Knowing

Part of my morning routine is to walk Danee to her summer school located around three blocks away from where we live. Hubby and Bianca are still very much asleep by this time, unwilling to trade off their pillows and blankets to a brief walk under the early morning sun. That is just fine, as this is is my moment to bond with my youngest daughter and to have brief time for solitude as I walk my way back home, alone, undisturbed.

On my way back today, I took a different route for a change. Having negotiated the same familiar pavement for the 9th time, I looked forward to a new path this time. Once in a while, it feels good to stray away, knowing that you will always find your way back. This was one morning that I felt different, and the prospect of getting lost but finding my way back somewhat thrilled me.

No sooner than I started traversing the pavement to my right was I led to a beautiful scenic place that had me repeatedly muttering “ohh and ahh!” What with a quiet small lake surrounded by lush of green where ducks and wild geese congregate, a beautiful park where colorful flowers abound, and a quiet and well-landscaped community with neat bungalows lining up the pavement - enough to take my breath away. Before long, I started to dream living in that community and enjoying every moment of it.

After an idle time at the park, I lazily inched my way back home, running a mental note of the many chores waiting for me. I was nearing the intersection of a busy traffic and had in fact stopped to pave the way for the rush of incoming vehicles when my heart suddenly froze. There in front of me, at the other side of the road, was a toddler running so fast towards the traffic, with only about a ten-meter distance between him and the edge of the road. Trailing behind him - about fifty meters away - was his mother with another toddler in tow, screaming, yelling at her child to stop running. The child, oblivious to the impending danger, seemed to be enjoying the “chase” game and henceforth continued running with all his might.

I was closer to the boy than the mother was but the endless surge of traffic prevented me from crossing the intersection right away. Time seemed to stand still as the distressed mother's cry echoed so loud in my ears. With the “go” signal still on, I instinctively braved the traffic with the hope that I could outrun the boy. I didn’t know how I did it but in the next moment, I saw the little boy making a 180 - degree-turn towards his mother, scared at the sight of me, a stranger, looming before him. The poor mother could only mutter “oh my God, oh my God" in between sobs as she held her precious boy in her arms.

On reflection, I was amazed at yet another powerful realization. It wasn’t an accident that I took a different path that morning, sat idly for five minutes at the park, reached the intersection at that precise moment in time. It wasn't ordinary that I felt differently that morning and took the unexplored path hoping to find something new. I did find something - an affirmation of a higher truth, at a different realm, about how perfect strangers are connected to each other in the overall scheme of things. The timing is perfect, not one second advance nor delayed. Another person may not be able to see the connection in those series of events. Someone up there orchestrated them to be so.

Living

I was doing an inventory test in relation to life's purpose, and one of the questions that made me do some deep soul-searching is this - how do you approach life?

It's a very tough question. For one, I particularly don't approach every situation in the same manner. Different strokes for dfferent folks, as the wisdom of the old says so. But I liked the question, because it enabled me to look deep inside and get in touch, once again, with the things that really matter in my life.

So here goes...

When I embraced my newfound faith, my perspective about life has changed tremendously. I now consider myself as a "realist optimist", believing that everything that comes my way, no matter how unpleasant, carries with it valuable life lessons through which I can grow and mature.

I realized that when I didn't learn the lesson in a particular situation, it kept repeating itself. Not necessarily the same situation but through different circumtances and different persons, but always the same lesson. For instance, I had great difficulty before in controlling my emotions when I get really pissed off. What happened is that I continued to be exposed to many situations that really stretched my patience. And so by being exposed to these situations, I learned what patience is all about.

The lessons were there because they were what I needed at that moment. Once I learned the lesson, life would then open up new opportunities through which I can learn more advanced lessons. Sometimes I learned easily, at other times I learned painfully. Or I didn't learn at all. When it's the latter, I kept moving around in endless circles.

I used to define my life in terms of milestones and significant accomplishments complete with timetables. I felt then that happiness is contingent upon these accomplishments, so I was deeply frustrated when things didn't happen as planned and expected. Now this perspective has changed too. I still consider it magical and exciting for me to get from point a to point b. But I also know that I will definitely miss the point if I don't see the day-to-day life in the same light. I found out that the beauty of life is found in the joys of the present moment, although my goals will provide me the compass how to live my life.

What is amazing is that my positive approach to life had become somewhat contagious. I never knew that I could make a great difference in the life of another when I encouraged them or simply said a word that boosts their spirits. I realized that when I am able to comfort somebody, I become happier. There's a song in my childhood that resonates with how I approach happiness and it goes this way:

"The time to be happy is now,
The place to be happy is here
And the way to be happy is to make others happy
and to make a little heaven down here"

Why I Blog

Time is such a slippery thing. I cannot seem to get enough of it.

Where I am concerned, life is taking such a rapid pace. I now live in a different world, across several continents. I have given up a lot of things I used to have, in pursuit of a different direction. I am no longer the same person I was yesterday.

Yesterday’s memories have all been consigned to imagination. Today’s memories will similarly be buried into obscurity very soon.

Should l allow the present moment melt into yesterdays and tomorrows without a trace? Should I let the treasures, wonders and joys of my journey pass by without me pausing a bit to acknowledge them?

These were the questions in my heart when I discovered blogging. Instantly, I liked the idea of being able to capture in words what I felt at the moment. And then, I couldn’t stop anymore. It felt wonderful – the idea that I can actually conquer time, albeit momentarily, and hold it in my palm. It was deliriously joyful that I have something to go back to when I am old and done. That I can actually collect and preserve today’s memories so I can remember who I was before I became who I am today.

And then there was an added bonus. As I blogged and hopped between blogs, I discovered as well the joy of being able to reach out to kindred spirits, including my newfound on-line friends and those from the olden times.

They were right in saying that blogging allows for rediscovery and reconnections. Blogging has made the world a much smaller place for all of us. Their blogs have touched me in a way I could never imagine. I sat in front of my laptop smiling and sharing with their little joys and life’s pleasant surprises. At other times, I can’t stop the tears rolling down my cheeks as I feel their pains and inner turmoils. Talk about a true and beautiful connection!

The Prodigal Father

I wasn’t particularly fond of my father, nor was he of me. He was there since I was born up to the time I was growing up. He was physically present but was so elusive, near yet so distant. I could only recall one or two bonding moments with him, obviously not enough to cement our relationship.

I grew up becoming cold and aloof towards him. Something has gone terribly amiss between us. And I knew exactly why and how it happened.

My father was an incurable womanizer. For sure, he did not abandon us. But his bad habit of leaving us alone in the house for three straight days and reappearing later without a word of explanation had rendered my little world unsteady. I would wake up in the middle of the night wishing that he would be home soon. But when he wasn’t around, I felt strangely settled and secure. And yet, I envied my friends who had fathers that obviously cared for them a lot. Their world was a lot complete than mine.

Slowly, I became painfully aware that my resentment was turning to anger, then hatred, then betrayal. I sincerely doubted in my heart if he truly truly cared for me or his family.

When I became financially independent enabling me to support my college education, I basked in the newfound freedom. At last, I was free from his control. I was determined not to have anything to do with him. I left home and cut whatever ties I had with him. I communicated with my mother and siblings throughout the years I wasn’t home but never with him. The truth is, I was consumed with so much anger and pain inside. Strangely, I also felt so empty and hollow.

For years that I was away from home however, my father’s shadow kept following me. I viewed every man that showed interest in me as a potential heart-breaker or home wrecker. I had all my defenses solid and intact around me. I tended to question my authorities, whether in school or at work, and always doubted their credibility as leaders. I greatly envied my friends every time they would talk about their dad being their best buddy, and dismissed that as sheer nonsense.

After several years of unbroken silence, my father and I were eventually thrust into a situation that we both didn't like, but had no choice. He was into an extensive medical treatment for his heart ailment and he needed me to care for him and to assist him financially. I had the choice to either give or withhold my support. I chose the first, albeit grudgingly.

When my father lay comatose in his hospital bed after a near-fatal heart surgery, I saw the image of a different man – helpless, weak and broken. I suddenly felt the need to touch him. As I touched him, all the feelings within me were miraculously unearthed -first there was confusion, then anger, then bitterness, then pain. And then there was something else underneath, a solid core that never left me. It was a deep kind of love, compassion and kindness that had been there all along, only these were masked by the negative feelings that I carried with me through the years. Sometimes, we wander to look for answers only to find out that the answers are within us all along.

After his heart surgery, my father lived on for five more years. It was one of the most meaningful events in both of our lives, as we tried to gather the broken pieces, deal with our own hurts, confront our own weaknesses, and forgive one another, over and over again. It was not an easy process, but both of us tried and gave our best, and in the end, both of us triumphed. He died with peace in his heart, knowing that he has reconciled with the one person he has hurt the most.

My father was far from perfect. But looking back now, he managed to give me something precious, a unique gift that has sent my soul soaring – the discovery of who he really is and who I really am. He is divinely-connected to my destiny, a God-sent companion that taught me, not by words or examples, but by presenting himself as the instrument through which I could understand, what real healing and forgiveness is all about.

Belated Happy Father's Day!