I’m Back!

I know I abandoned this space for almost a year simply because I ran out of space on WordPress. Marc, my brother-in-law, graciously worked (and spent a whole day) on transferring my blog from WordPress for which I am very grateful. Thank you, Marc!

My father would have turned 86 today, 17th of April 2019, and these are two of my favourite photos of him as a young man. I say ‘young’ yet I always say that he died ‘quite young’, only 51 years old. To this day it’s still hard to conjure fond memories of him, of the past when the grief still seems raw and the sense of loss profound. If he’s still around and I could buy him a gift today, I think it would be something that would express everything I have felt over the years as his daughter: love, thankfulness, respect, pride, and appreciation. And so I ask myself, “how does one find a gift that expresses these things?” I don’t think such a gift exists in the material realm. I do wish my father is still around, and wish him a ‘Happy Birthday’ and I could tell him everyday how much I love him. Such things can be done effortlessly and mean more than any amount of money. As I ponder on losing my father at such a young age (as the youngest in the family I don’t have as much memory of him compared to my siblings), these are the things that I believe linger in my mind and heart, making me smile in remembrance and love, more so on occasions like this.

Around the time of my father’s illness, I started asking some very deep questions about life, but never talked about it to anyone. After the doctors told my mother that they couldn’t do anything more for my father, he was brought home to make him more comfortable after several months of hospital confinement in Manila. Providentially my dad’s illness, and death prompted me to search for the true meaning of life. I first heard the gospel through a home bible study with both of my parents still around, but my dad was practically on his deathbed. Though he was weak, I clearly recall him being able to walk on his own, and quite lucid. He could sit down for an hour or two and join in the bible study. I was quite young to understand everything that went on, but my older brother who’s already a Christian at the time, is convinced that dad was saved, and went home to be with the Lord as one of His children.

In my case, the search for life’s meaning went on; while other young kids of my age resorted to drugs, or alcohol, or some other vices just to fulfil their deepest longing, I went into reading self-help books and studying the bible. And the Lord has graciously saved me one day, while on my knees praying at my dormitory. No one has asked me to repeat a prayer or do something to be saved. He providentially arranged it all; worked through my roommate, Jen, to bring me closer to the Saviour.

I always say to the young people at our church to seek the Lord; not to be too focused on their future career and whatever worldly pursuits they may have. And not to take things for granted and think they’re too young and have all the time in world to seek God later on. We never know what tomorrow brings. Seek God while he may be found. (Isaiah 55:6)

Here’s an old post, one of my best memories about my father.

From Ten to Twenty Eight

Last week I was reading through the sixth book of The Old Testament, and was struck with chapter 4, Joshua’s account when God prescribed the elders of Israel to take twelve stones out of the midst of Jordan, so that when their children ask their fathers in time to come what these stones mean, the elders might reminisce on the faithfulness of the Lord bringing them safely across the river. I wondered how many times did the elders have to explain to their children the meaning of these stones. Or what about Rebekah? I have often wondered what evocative thoughts came flooding into her mind every time she drew water from a well after she met Abraham’s servant. Did Rebekah rejoice at the remembrance of that occasion which ultimately led to her marriage with Isaac? Or what about Moses? After God appeared to him at the burning bush that wasn’t consumed, did this great prophet pause with joyful memories every time he saw a similar bush? Or, what about Peter? Would this impulsive apostle remembered his denial of Christ afresh every time he heard a cock crow throughout the rest of his life? Did he break down in tears on each of these successive occasions? Or, what about Paul? Having persecuted the church of God prior to his conversion, what type of emotions stirred in his soul as a servant of Christ whenever he looked at the marks of the Lord Jesus he bore in his body? Were these scars in his own flesh a reminder of the scars he was responsible for inflicting upon many believers? Continue reading “From Ten to Twenty Eight”

SENTIMENTS AND REFLECTIONS

When I was growing up, the period from October 31 to November 2 was a big holiday in the Philippines. It is not a huge festivity like Christmas but people would normally take a few days off work, travel back home to be with their families to honour their loved ones, both the dead and the living. Filipinos are very superstitious and religious people you see . . . even those who claim to be nominal Catholics do pray for, and to, the dead (the image of President Duterte crying in his mother’s grave uttering ‘Tabangi ko, Ma!’’ — please help me, Mother! — is a classic example of this). Back in my day, and I’m referring to 30-40 years back when I was very young, everyone did lit candles in the cemetery to commemorate All Saints’ Day (November 1st) and All Souls’ Day (November 2nd). In our family we always had a novena (a form of worship consisting of special prayers on nine successive days) at home every night during these festivities aside from offering a mass (that is, paying money to the priest to hold a special service) for the dead family members. A lot of Filipinos still do practice this tradition to this very day. Personally though, All Saints’ Day took on a completely different meaning when my father died on November 1, 1984, exactly thirty three years ago today. Three days ago my older brother turned 50 and as I was on Skype chatting with everyone, the family gathered to celebrate his birthday, I was reminded once again that my father died at age 51 — really young. 

So this is the time of year when my own particular brand of seasonal affective disorder sets in. And no, I’m not talking about a depression that goes on for months, or until the dead of winter is over. Rather it’s intentional, I purposely spend some time being sentimental, reflecting or dwelling in the past, and sometimes I seem to get stuck there, at least for a week or two. I don’t get weepy, or spend time crying for hours on end, or have no appetite and don’t wanna go out or see anyone. None of that. I just tend to be more quiet and solitary. I naturally keep things to myself and not bother to share my deepest thoughts and feelings with anyone, not even with my husband. I deal with it on my own. That’s just the way I am. I know how to live inside some of my sorrow, the grief that never really goes away.

Around this time of the year since my father’s death, I become quite nostalgic for the way things were, in what seems like only yesterday, but in fact they’re long ago and far away moments. I’m no longer a little girl, anticipating Christmas or any of the holidays. We all grow up, we get older, and yes, we lose people we love. Our siblings, or those we’re close to do get married and move away, and start spending their holidays in other family circles. In my case, I am the one who moved farther away, thousands of miles from my family and friends. In the same way that once we settle in one place, we make friends and then some of them move to other parts of the country, or other parts of the world, or become estranged. And as we get older, our beloved elders pass on and the list of people we miss gets longer.

Just about everyday last week I listened to my parents’ favourite music, and I haven’t listened to any of it for many months. But the other night I played one of my mother’s favourite songs ‘The Autumn Leaves’ over and over — probably a hundred times that day (FYI, Eva Cassidy’s rendition is my number one favourite). For some reasons, I have vivid memories, as a 3-4 year old girl, watching my mother playing the guitar while singing The Autumn Leaves and I tried to replay that particular moment in my mind as I was listening to the song while doing calligraphy and watercolour painting — which, by the way, I find very therapeutic.

A good part of the weekend and yesterday, and yes, a fair portion of today, particularly this morning, were laced with these melancholic moments, and broody concern for the past. Each time I was ready to caw under the weight of my own deep oblivion, strong arms wrapped themselves around me and Jared would simply say, “I’m here, my dear!”  That was all I needed in order to remember that indeed, I have a lot for which to be truly thankful. It seemed time, today, to come full circle, and invoke the spirit of my father and mother, thirty four and eight years gone respectively (November 1,1984 and November 15, 2009), by going through old photographs, videos, listening to their music — simply reminiscing the days gone by.

Christmas is just around the corner; strong arms are wrapped around me as we make plans for the holiday traditions we’ve begun to evolve over the past seventeen years. Making plans always cheers me up. And really, how sad can I be when there’s so much to be joyful and thankful for? Besides, I’m drinking English tea right now, and a cup of tea makes everything better! 

I’d better stop right here before I get maudlin again.

AutumnLeaves_London2.jpg
Last week I noticed these tiny flowers in one of my walks at the park, and I have no idea what they’re called, but they smell so good that it actually reminded me of my maternal grandmother. When she steps out of the bath, she always smelled just like those tiny flowers. After my morning run today I picked some of those flowers again, and yes, more autumn leaves, and I kept smelling the flowers on my way back home. That, my dear family and friends — picking flowers and smelling them — is my own particular brand of seasonal affective disorder.