My Stupid Violin

I remember the night when the piano arrived. I sat and pounded the keys imagining some virtuoso performance. Of course, my aunts applauded the concert.

And then came the violin. I was seven and was a cultural savage. Papa got the strings from some street peddlers in Tarlac. I have not seen a Stradivarius but I somehow sensed the gross inferiority of the gift. Worse yet, I was coerced to home lessons with Professor Teodoro (doesn't this rhyme with terror?).

The shriek of my stooge guaranteed the howl of dogs in the neighborhood. Not to mention the cruelty of my peer's denigrating cracks. I was most miserable when my tutor came. I always prayed for him to be sick. I was in musick prison for 4 years.

There was however a haunting each time my teacher played his gorgeous violin. There was some elegance in his implement that drew me to its lure. Even the wood scent was seductive. Not mine, of course. The wood was more like fabricated plank emitting some lumber whiff. 

I never developed any heart for violin. I mastered Jules Massenet's Meditation (Thaïs) but never committed it to heart. The moment I was granted freedom to choose to stop, I took all my classical pieces and literally paper-walled my room with impunity.

But then, I vowed to own an expensive violin some day.  Just for some throwback revenge.

I forgot all about the vow and the bow. Life never moves adagio. 

Something happens though when spiritual rebirth takes place. All beauty suddenly becomes appealing. I repented from my indifference with a hope of possible redemption.

One day, mother called from Los Angeles with a surprise: "son, pick me up from the airport, I will come in for a brief vacation and I do have a gift for you ... a violin."

My heart pounded as I welcomed Mama. The encased instrument was however my focal point. While driving, I was thanking God for being so personal. I have long been desiring a comeback. I couldn't wait to unpack the blessing.

It was close to midnight when I was finally alone in the living room. I slowly unlocked the gorgeous case and peeked through the grain. Alas! A thing of beauty! I perched it on my shoulder ingesting the hint of expensive wood. Ah, where was this crafted? Cremona, Italy?

I tried playing a few strokes and was convinced that this was truly swag, until I realized that a paper tag inside actually disclosed its origin.

It was no Guarnieri.

It came from somewhere else ...

I was so disappointed, I left the violin uncased. I just huddled up to bed and sank in doloroso.

The proof of being reborn comes with internal rebuke when one walks off the road. I began to realize the insanity of my vanity. Out of generosity, my father grants me what he deems best; my mother does the same; and I spit on their acts of love. My self-absorption camouflaged in self-styled preference stinks.

Come to think of it, If God played me as His violin, I would have been used as firewood at the commence of the first note. Christ kept on playing though and through the challenging hours, days, and years, a serious melody has been taking form.

The dogs are not quite bothered. My playmates have now shifted from Rock to Classics. And I have been convinced that it is no longer about the price and slice of stuff but all about the unselfishness of a true gift.

I have recently decided to be a bold receiver. Not too concerned about the vogue but the absence of rogue.

My violin was never stupid. I was.

The minuet of mercy has begun.

Tent Maker

Raymund was caught in a crossfire.

His new relationship with Jesus hijacked his heart. He was Geri's protégé. This gifted styliste modéliste was his partner since 17. Then, a lovely Rose sprung amidst the scene and quite briskly, a wedding was set.

Geri was crushed.

He came in for counsel. At first glance, I thought I saw Nero. His desperation led to a wild conversion. The gravitas of Christ's offer wrecked not only his train of thought but every cardiac rail. I have never seen a man transformed with such spiritual muscularity. 

Raymund suffered a massive heart failure during his honeymoon. It is from heaven's window that he now sees his friend on a journey so riveting.

When I was still serving a parish in Manila, my friendship with Geri went deep into brotherhood. Almost every single day, I read my brother's witness of God's impressive intervention. His present culinary preoccupation is served for God's glory.

He is mentor to countless university students.

He is friend to those who long for divine depth.

More than two decades ago, I was his passion-model. Every single Sunday, I wore a Barong Tagalog designed and crafted by this incredible tentmaker.

Just a few days ago, he confided about a recent pull: a lovely orchid showed up and his heart caught some Crossfire.

It is disclosed that our bodies are tabernacles of God. It is His sole purview to woo us towards an existence that has long been sewn prior to our birth.

Geri's tent is an example of this epiphany. His worn out apparel is gone. 

Glory be to God. His work is all too grand!

The Opulent Tree

Trees raise my curiosity. I once imagined interviewing one:

Me: Good Morning, Tree. I know it's a bit too early and misty but may I ask a few questions?

Tree: Sure! I have never been interviewed ... this seems exciting. Go ahead, I'm listening.

Me: You look so healthy and sturdy. Have you always been this way?

Tree: I was planted some years back. The seasons have been unflagging. I am fortunate to be near the springs. It is dead winter and most challenging. I look forward to better days. But it's all good. I just have to sink my roots deeper.

Me: Do you ever worry about your fruits and leaves?

Tree: Come to think of it ... I never do! The fruits just pop out, and the leaves too. I just sort of position my limbs towards the sky and everything seems to run on schedule. I had such a heavy yield last Summer, the kids went crazy climbing.

Me: If you never think of how your fruits and leaves bloom, what really preoccupies you?

Tree: Only one thing: I just thrust my roots all day towards food. The deeper I go, the more scrumptious the feed. That's why look at my size ... big, huh?

Me: Thank you, Tree. This was so informative.

Tree: I wish you had come after Winter. I would have appeared more luscious. But then don't be fooled by what you see. I feel so verdant inside. The fruits are all in. The leaves are on stand-by. I feel good and ready to take off!

How well God must like you - you don't hang out at Sin Saloon, you don't slink along Dead-End Road, you don't  go to Smart-Mouth College. Instead you thrill to God's Word, you chew on Scripture day and night. You're a tree replanted in Eden, bearing fresh fruit every month, Never dropping a leaf, always in bloom. (Psalm 1:1-3 MSG)

Art Detail: Lisa Grosfeld NYC

A Birthday Prayer

My dear Heavenly Father,

It has been fifty-five years of grace and mercy.

From the depths of my ignorance, you have led me out to your open field of truth.

The foolishness of the message of your Son's Cross has become my saving anchor. His shed blood is the only reason I am able to stand. His broken body is the only donor that seals my walk.

I am astounded by your resplendence. 

Your beauty, O God is my strength.

My soul sings with hymns of praise.

I do cartwheels of joy for I am drowning in your oceanic love.

Why, oh why, my God .... did you even find the time and effort to grab my sure damnation and hurl it to Yourself?

But I receive it gladly with life-long tears of infinite gratitude.

I cannot wait for your embrace, my LORD, while tenderly kissing your nail-scarred hands. Thank you for even thinking of adopting me to be Yours.

Today is more than a happy day.

This is the day that Lord has made. 

I shall be glad and rejoice in it. 

May my life be your unceasing Amen.

The Science of the Lambs

Science was my favorite high-school class. The intricate details of Biology got me hooked.

Our teacher was the version of John Keating's (Dead Poet's Society) genius. I was awed by his passion for minutiae. Mere leaves were studied for the universe they disclose. Frogs were sacrificed to provide throbbing wisdom. I followed him with psychopathic loyalty.

There was one thing that set him apart: he took his classes to a level of divinity. It's either you paid full attention or caste as fool.

One morning, as profundities were being discussed, a general announcement was made: the varsity will be playing! Classes suspended. 

Not ours. We were under Martial Law. Our experiments come first, hoops will follow. And so we were warned not to waver in focus. Of course, I checked in.

When the hysteria of dismissed young boys filled the corridors, attention flung to the throng. For a split second, I looked (with disdain over the rowdiness) outside. The next thing I know, the Lion's grip was on my collar, dragging me out towards the door: "you ... go to that stupid game, if you so desire ... go leave my class!" I was so stunned with the absolute myopia. I almost wet my pants shriveled with nervous fear. How can he possibly misread my impeccable loyalty? 

I roamed the corridors disoriented from a tectonic realization. The science of my hero has failed.

It affected everything that had to do with Science. Funny, how one incident can turn one's worldview towards another spin.

Well, all is not lost. When I found the Maker of the Universe, I began to see the folly of over-rating humans with undue competence. No one can truly figure what is going on except the One who makes all our goings and turnings. I have since restored my affections to depths of scientific inquiry.

From east to west, north and south, I am kept safe by His faithful omnipotence.

It is all well with my soul: the lamb in me is in silent rest.

photography: Paolo Esquivel

Law of Diminishing Affections

How many indices of affection does one count before a thesis is born?

I recount the inception of some plague one brisk morning. I was born a trooper. My toddler pictures document this fascination. I wore a cowboy hat down to spurred boots all day while chasing imaginary coyotes. When the cub scout season began, I begged mother to enlist me ASAP. 

It was our first troop meeting. As soon as I got dropped off, fun was profuse. 

And then came the nightmare of dismissal. The kids were fetched. One by one. Until there was none. I had no clock, but the sight of our school gate screeching to a lock sent me trembling. It is not easy for a four year old to imagine abandon.

Home was some 7 miles across the public market and MacArthur highway. My mind went numb as I calculated the possibility of a hike.

Picture this: a confused cowboy-kid, clad in starched scout uniform, knee-high socks, neckerchief and all, drenched with nervous sweat and gooey snot. Crying my way each step, I tried to improvise GPS. The stares I got from strangers seemed like verdicts. I cannot recall how I managed to eek through the puzzle but when I reached the highway, I turned stone.

Something happens when paralysis and fear tango: adrenalin kicks and the weak become strong. I dashed across, ignoring speeding buses, not looking behind ... stretching to reach nothing but home.

What killed me was what happened when I finally kicked the stupid door:

Papa and Mama with all my siblings were gathered at lunch, oblivious of my absence and psychological rape. I broke down and headed straight to mother. She looked at me, with quixotic surprise and said: "Oh, I thought Ana (our house-help) fetched you."

No empathy, just a psychopathic prompt to move on and join the feast of fried chicken and white rice.

I was so hurt. Deeply hurt. That day, I went on a bank run: I pulled back my affections away just so I can stop the bleed.

I have since earned a doctorate in perfecting the art of diminishing affections. I not only drop friends but I cage them in sealed quarantine. This seemed like the only way to keep my heart safe from social brutalities.

But the bleeding is never abated this way. The drip turns into a clot. The clot turns to a tumor that turns my self-absorbed ego into a monastic recluse. I am with people but they cannot touch my heart. All they can have is my nicked-Name.

Redemption begins with the heart.

And that's where Christ enters.

Through my restless wanderings, the only Person who truly understood my cardiac-perdition was the One who deemed it to pulse. 

I still hurt when I get ditched. I am just awed how my affections have now been altered to welcome the pain and weep until joyful pearls appear.

Oh, the Sweet Heart of Jesus, my true fount of love and mercy has transplanted mine!

photography by Renchi Arce / Art and Soul

The Lostness of My Goodness

I struggle to be good.

Beneath the lamination of my saintly countenance resides a duplicity so dark, it is invisible to naked eyes. And so I fight just to keep my cover up.

My efforts towards goodness were fierce: I imbibed a compliant kindness to register my deeds; I was a knight of religion; I made good grades; I drilled my best to develop character, I respected the elderly, I was gentle to the young, I was a gent to the ladies, I pursued proper ethics, ad infinitum.

In my pursuit of rectitude, there grew an unusual hubris. I began imagining that I was actually better than anyone else. My moral compass pointed to a deeper wickedness: I have become a demigod surrounded by unknowing serfs. 

It does not take much social survey to sense the rise of self-pronounced deities. The most notorious ones come from religious circles. They flaunt ecclesiastical firepower. They are always angry: wroth pastors hidden in gentle-looking tents. The attraction of feigning good comes from self-fulfilling benefits of egocentrism. I am good not for other's; I become good for my own sake. It is the game of relational imperialism. My goodness shall conquer the world! 

I will only assume goodness to serve my best interest, of course, at the expense of your naiveté.

Veni, vidi, vici!

I know this all too well. I had this malignancy until God's mercy salvaged me from the dregs. Prior to my redemption, I roamed the wasteland of societal intercourse leaving no weight of blessing whatsoever.

The incisive gospel of the Prodigal Son illumines this with a thud. The eldest son's goodness hindered true joy. His embittered anger stems from his goodness. He had entrenched himself at a pedestal that views all other humans as marginal. His long list of behavioral points served as badge to indict the rest of humanity. His goodness was wickedness personified.

Little wonder, when the Messiah hurled his scandalous counsel to a dying criminal hung next to him, heaven's gates were flung wide open to a sinner who had absolutely no good thing in him, except his last minute faith in Christ.

No one is truly good, except God. Period.

My Previous Enemies

Growing up with sisters can be most pesky.

My little brother and I were constantly at odds with in-house female power. There is something about tigress-persona that chases the cat out of you.

Tetay was cunning. Jeng was snooty. Bing was bossy. Ricci was spoiled. Together, their alliance was a fortification of superiority. There is certainly a force behind this enigmatic aura that emaciates.

The first book of the Bible reveals the debilitating origin of these species. The Fall caused every female to usurp the role of every man in their lives. They are cursed to view men as dimwits. By way of retaliatory psyche, the male will struggle to quell the uprising by resorting to brute dominance. Hence the battle of the sexes. 

This is so true. I once bit my elder sister's arm when she beat me in basketball.

But this noxious environment is no more. It was subverted by the infusion of brand-new hearts.

The influence of the Redeemer has reintroduced fountains of glee in our clan. My dearest sisters are now my opulent companions. There is not a single day that I cease praising God for their endearment.

They treat me with deep respect and I see them as women of supreme substance.

Only God can cause enemies to become glorious siblings.

The Day My Egg Hatched

I was most restless in heart matters.

I had my first girlfriend at seventeen. It was more of a cirque. My second and third attempts were futile. The fourth was foul.

I actually considered celibacy just to arrest my ego.

And so I went to freeze. No more of these relationships until …

Sometime in 1986, an endearing missionary perceptively asked what she might pray for. Her countenance was beguiling. I disclosed my ineptness and fears.

I remember her brief advice:

“You do have a good heart but you’re out of focus. Delight in the Lord and He will grant you the desires of your heart.”

“Take a piece of paper and cut an egg-shaped stationery. Stop looking and concentrate on God.”

“Tell Him your resolve, but don’t forget to write down an honest list of traits you feel your wife should have. But remember, you are giving God the option to modify.”

I made my list that night.

I got married on December of 1988.

One morning, my wife was organizing my closet when she found a weird-looking list.

She read through the numbers: 1) She should be at least 5’5” just because I am 6’1’’; 2) It will be grand if she’s good in Math; 3) She should be an athlete; 4) She must be natural with kids; 5) It will be nice if she had Chinese eyes … etc.

Out of my twenty, nineteen were bullseye. The only thing that was not checked was a request for chef de cuisine kitchen aptitude.

Well, that was twenty-seven negotiable years ago.

Her French omelette is beautifully succulent. The egg is hatched.

Switch Side

Depression runs deep and wide.

Age does not even matter. The longer it marinades, the bitter its torpefying asylum.

I have met many of its subscribers and empathize quite well just because I have gone through my own deep dark night.

Call it whatever you want, it stays rigid to its screw: It seeks to stub out life. 

I know this not from a distance but sourced from an unusual discovery of profundity. There are two divergent paths from the dumps. Either you surrender to its assault or you turn to the only One who can redirect its raid.

I have experienced both. The former courts your demise. The latter enlivens your soul.

There is an invisible war that rages within. I am left with a choice. To defect from my emaciating gloom or switch to faith toward a Mentor who seeks enrollment from the weary.

I follow the Teacher who leads me to a Crossroad of suffering that leaks to an oasis. 

I choose not to rest in peace. I rest in Christ, its Prince.

Photography by Renchi Arce : Art and Soul

Ouch Move

The American drama series True Detective resonates the warning of Ray Velcoro (Colin Farrell): "My strong suspicion is we get the world we deserve." 

The game of chess illustrates this ethical rule: once you move, it cannot be undone. You lose your queen, you live with it.

I find this truly burdensome. I have chosen paths that caused immeasurable pain - best described by incarcerating wounds. To this day, the haunting of what I deserve seeps into my awareness. I battle with obstinate whispers of guilt.

For my countless relational genocide, I deserve the hadean indictment.

It really looks bleak, not unless someone retrieves my chess board and alters the rule. If only I get to play the pieces with options to replace fatal mistakes.

Astounded as I am by my ineptness, I am absolutely blown away by God's intervention. He takes the hell I deserve and catapults its fury towards His Cross.

All that my Redeemer beckons is that I look to His mercy.

Only the Grand Master can serve that.

The Starbucks Effect

I hold important meetings at a reclusive corner at Firewheel branch.

I gather my blog thoughts at the Garland centre joint.

I meet to sort out issues at the Renner Lookout place.

In three months, I finished my dissertation at the Campbell club.

Why do my thoughts flow profusely while ingesting roasted scent? There is something about coffee traffic that moves my caps to think well and deep. Some of my most delicious converse with people were over a demitasse. Is there some enchantment that has somehow bewitched me to visit each time I go for some involved task?

The world I live in is protean. Change is not only frequent, it happens with impunity. I find deep longing for stability through all my competing allegiances. Everywhere I go, I seem hauled by some bullet-train racing towards oblivion. My café rendezvous halts this.

There is something settling each visit. I get the reset.

English teacher Jerry Baldwin, history teacher Zev Siegl, writer Gordon Bowker, and witty Howard Schultz had a good glimpse on what truly pulls me. I crave for pure recess.

Like most North Americans, my days are lived from the front-end of Market economy. Everyone has to rise early and stay up late. The work load relentlessly drives free-spirited servants to run the capitalistic spirit. We get toy compensations and hospital provisions, just so we can work heavy again and again. The Great Dream is to reach retirement at some Island where work is done and life finally takes over.

Starbucks is up to something deep. When barista Scott calls out my name: "hot Chai Soy Latte, six pumps, no water, with a hint of vanilla for Russell," I get my virtual transport to Balesin Island. I am ushered to a whiff of rest. A quiet that I wish lasts longer than my sip.

Rather interestingly, When my Alpha beckons me to enter his place of rest, he provides more than ambient coffee.

He  serves Himself, the aroma never dissipates and I never have to scan the Apple pay.

Builder's Brew

Arthur Brooke introduced Manchester to its Pre-Gest-Tea in the 1930's. It was distinguished for the snooty quality of using only the top two leaves and bud of each plant. I had my first true cuppa last night complements of Jonathan, my British brother-in-law. The robust zest is referred to as Builder's Brew, reflective of its perky boost for early risers.

My youngest sister's husband is father to three adorable little princesses who are constant reminders that simple moments need not be ordinary.

I have met a few good intellectuals but Jonathan's inference on most things is deeply impressive. Young as he is, he serves as SVP for one of our trending DigitalTV stations. Our chats hover from kick-boxing to in-depth political musings. The best conversations however are the unspoken ones that articulate his organic commitment to serve his family with nothing more and nothing less but with his top two leaves and buds.

When the Lord redirected me from business to ministry, my initial trepidation came from my commitment to help out my aging parents to proceed support for my younger siblings. We were six children and finance was tight. It was difficult to live out the vow of simplicity somehow knowing of my responsibility as eldest son to augment help.

Thus, my only true contribution were spoken prayers. I was redundant in asking for a deal. I say yes to His bidding. He foots the bill for my siblings. 

My present vocation is currently at prime metrics. As I ponder the inventory of what God has done, I am so convinced of His impeccable brew.

Jonathan's supreme blend: three minutes of seeped tips + a hint of milk underscores the gravitas of succulent grace.

Builder's Brew, Anyone?

This Crying Lady

Rocelyn attends the church I pastor. If one craves for a shot of unabridged smile, she serves as repository. If there is one person I know whose life has been a narrative of exquisite challenges, it has got to be this saint.

Being an artist, her craft serves as vehicle of praise to the One source of our sightings of pulchritude. She is a professional esthéticienne. Whenever some celebrity visits Dallas for a session, she is the usual choice for styling preparation. There has yet to be an appointment where her client got spared from her contagious glee. A few times, I have gone for haircut, I come home glee-embellished.

Not a lot of people know her secret. She weeps quite frequently.

Her tears are different. She has discovered the depth of Christ's loyal love in its capacity to sabotage her most furious complaints. In her silent corner, she is quick to claim the power of God's available mercy in her life journey. Her husband shines because of this incredible support. Her children soar because of this immutable anchor. All these, while joyfully trusting her Lord with profuse tears.

I have learned deeply from this crying lady. Not all tears swell from toxic brutalities. There are times of weeping that are so deeply spiritual: they produce the pearls of Christ's abiding beauty.

The Heed for Speed

No. I am not quite past the default of my ultra-careful demeanor. This is Michael’s Ducati. My fast and furious cousin roams Manhattan with blaze.

But I do have a brewing urgency to break off from my turtle-paced orientation. And so, I gravitate towards the fantasy of speed.

It does not take much reflection to sense the advantage of those who are quick. They build their stacks in volumes, heaving sighs of triumph. The losing field is left to watch their climb while settling for acquired indifference.

I’ve always wanted a bicycle. I was eight years old, when my uncle handed me a used one. Oh, the experience of learning the intricacy of balance was invigorating!

I rode and rode and rode.

It was my version of world exploration. I took on every road-less traveled.

It seemed like I started the trend for bikes in our neighborhood. All the kids were suddenly on wheels. It was fun and grand until it evolved towards spotting who’s got the best fixie.

I took the challenge seriously. I stripped the original red paint and sprayed it bold-blue. The chrome was whistling. The saddle was taut. I was ready to run.

It was no longer about looks but velocity. A race was set one Sunday morning. It was a gathering of at least twenty. The route was just about a circular mile around the neighborhood on gravel and dust but it approximated the hype of le tour de France.

The chase went wild. As I pedaled to exhaustion, I somehow wondered why I was being driven towards the tail end. As I proceeded with leftover adrenalin, I hit the accelerator while hitting a loose rock causing me to fly up and down a ridge. My bike got snapped!

When the dust settled, the boys gathered in some post-race huddle. One smart aleck jeered: “How can you win? Have you not realized that you are actually riding a girl’s bike?”

The sad realization that one’s inferiority has been sealed by way of acquiescence is most cruel. My uncle, of course, was clueless of my peloton dreams. All he did was pass on his wife’s leisure bike to a nephew.

If such was the rule of life, I am dead finished. I imbibed multiple handicaps that hinder me towards haste. I am slow to act. In the field of faith, this is most fatal.

Life in Christ is trail-blazing fast. It moves alongside the speed of light. When Jesus declared that he is the light of the world, he was not kidding. He meant to demonstrate this claim through radical obedience. Living well is not for the faint-hearted. It is earmarked for those who are willing to run with tenacious hope.

That expectation is not towards winning. The race is over. Christ already finished. The struggle is no longer towards the pedal but towards the will to believe that He will push us to where there is tetelestai (consummate victory).

In my present crawl, I find much reflective reminders whenever I spot appearances of speed. I am compelled to seize moments of grace and mercy.

My zoom must come from the Lord who covers the blitz of our rising sun from both ends of the earth with fleeting splendor.

Why No One Came to my Father's Funeral

It was Tuesday morning of August 17, 2010, when my father died.

He was a most unusual man. So gifted, yet so deprived. He skipped his adolescence in lieu of a coerced maturity during World War II. He served as kid-help to some American GI's in war-torn Bamban, Philippines. Story has it that he barely escaped the bayonet if not for his father's hand gestures distracting the Japanese soldier to look at the sky. Being a pastor's kid, he played the organ, taught Sunday School, and swept the sanctuary floor.

He had a brilliant mind. He took up law at the University of the Philippines. He joined the Upsilon Sigma Phi, the oldest fraternity in Asia. He worked for the government diligently and with much pride. He did his best to elude the seductions of power and corruption.

When he met the beautiful Carolina Carlos-Manalili,  a University muse and pharmacist, life took on a fascinating hue. Being a simple man, he had to measure up with the natural flair of my mother for social concourse. Papa was a very silent man. After work, he would always rush home. His passion was chess and a bottle of beer. His life was rather monotonous to a fault. But he was always there, dependable to the bone.

He was well loved for his simplicity. He was iconic in faithfulness until an invitation from the local Lions Club turned his wheels somewhere.

I guess he reinvented himself and turned into some crowd favorite. The nightclubs, the secret flings, the one-night stand, became frequent. With his troops, he would come home early, at 3:00 in the morning. My mother went down the wire to bear this but the fury of a darling turning into a disaster was just too much.

My mother left for the States. That was when I witnessed my father's withering. He kept a mistress, whose name was unsurprisingly, Carol. Every single day, his deterioration went South. Through the deep canyon, I knew he was trying to creep out and reset. He was no match to the combination of loneliness and the offer of a drunken bliss. There was one night I had to fetch him from town, in an accident, drunk and out.

He had esophageal cancer and emaciated to a scary 80 pound frame. He was pronounced dying. It was rather awkward for him to ask me, if I could pray and ask God for a few years of extension. He was granted 8 more years.

The piercing hits of chemotherapy were unforgiving. His cognitive and affective nerves were shot. He acquired Alzheimers overnight. It was surreal looking at him. The congruence of his speech was gone. He would come up with wild stories like having been appointed as the head coach of the Los Angeles Lakers. He would curse at my Mom like she was some junk. I have lost my bearings several times, reprimanding him for his insanity.

I was all too ignorant of the barbaric nature of Alzheimer's disease.

I could have decked him with a punch had it not been for some hard restraint. He was most of the time angry and incoherent. To avoid harm to our mother, we decided to take him to a care facility. There, nestled in paid-attention, he lived quietly but totally detached.

One day, I was alerted to what seemed like a miracle. Papa suddenly became lucid and well versed. He talked to me about his wife and how beautiful and kind she was. He was just wondering where she is. He ended our spell-binding conversation with: "Son, please tell my beautiful wife to come home now, I need her here." 

A week after this conversation, he succumbed to coma. My mother flew in from New Jersey and as we gathered around his last few moments, there was a most unusual spark in his countenance. I have never seen such deep peace laced within. When we all whispered our final affections to him, my mother was most eloquent in affirming her life long vow.

The funeral was well attended. I just observed that none of his friends were there. Of course, I understand. It is quite difficult to plan to attend the wake of a monster.

In tears, I repented. My father was never a savage beast. He was ravaged by the true nemesis. Sin was too luridly delicious for him.

In all these, there was one thing that was left untouched. One day, somewhere back in time, he turned his life over to Christ for pardon. Although most of his years where served in his prison of lust, the outstanding grace of Christ halted his descent.

His death was actually a gift. His true nature as God's saint was set in order. Although not a single buddy showed up, the most resplendent of heavenly beings carried him to the bosom of his loyal Father.

My Hideous Meekness

I got introduced to the cruelty of peer-pressure at an early age. For some clearly practical scheme, I was enrolled first grade at age 4. Don't do the math, I thought it was merely a joke. My mother had quite a clout in our school system and so I got in without proper evaluation. 

The exposure to big boys and sassy girls was disconcerting. They were brash and downright ethnocentric. I felt marginalized each time I tried to enter their clique. In my solitary trail, I stumbled upon a most potent weapon: I hid my true rambunctiousness and assumed meekness. It was marvelous how this got me empowered subversively. In my deliberate distancing, I found a way to control the stupidity of aggressors preying around me. I simply played dumb sheep. 

As I went along in years, I discovered that my cover was not original. I met all sorts of masked men and women, all seemingly timid but undeniably, wild at heart. The pretensions are both funny and nauseating. I know this because of my own disposition: I walk in and out of social intercourses leaving a self-effacing impression but insidiously marking my territory with impunity. I have learned a way to get what I want by appearing to be saintly unprotesting. There is no holiness in this. It is self-absorption at its best disguise.

It has been a most tiring existence to say the least. Duplicity never produced rest. And thus I get what it means to spin unceasingly.

It was until my attention was halted by a quake. The redemptive weight of Christ not only dislodged my camouflage but utterly demolished it. He saw through my veneer of shyness and undressed it for its blatant sin. It is truly nothing more but one more weapon in my armory of fear.

When I understood the holiness of Christ and took on faith to enter in, I was stripped with all pretensions. I was revealed for who I truly was: a dark sheep with a foul breath. The deep gorge of my self-esteem is merely a by-product of my delusion to create my own holiness. This was of course, a colossal exercise of futility. I am chief of sinners.

When one faces the true HOLY, HOLY, HOLY, the soul breaks to a point of disintegration. I chose headlong to run towards repentance and claim God's reasoning over mine. As a result, I found my shyness resected and replaced with a boldness, so humble and devoid of guile.

This miracle cascaded through the initiative of the True Meek Lamb who alone is able to uproot my hideous lie and usher me to His righteous tie.

 I am becoming gentle and true because of Christ.

The Poorest Engagement Party

Six months before the actual endowment of wedding rings, the story of my engagement ushered me into a humbling brokenness that ironically took me to God's supreme opulence.

How can a man so poor propose to a woman so rich?

Inconceivable as it is, my identity as a child of God took its rubber to the dirt road when one foggy night I just had to trade my puny concept of God with His promised reality.

Maria Danielle came to my life like a psalm. I have no words to describe her introduction but in silent joyful hums. I knew it was the right time to ask if she was just as crazy to marry me. We were hand in hand in conversation around a secluded tennis court atop a hill. The chat was gloriously redundant. It was all about the dream of living life together. 

An hour into the rendezvous, I knew I just had to say it.

I could not say it. I had no diamonds to show.

Having turned my life over to God, life in the seminary was lavish with trained wisdom but fueled by disciplined poverty. I never got hungry, but I just did not have money. And so, there was no ring for the night of disclosure.

And so, I just circled in some confused intention. I was half-praying and half-improvising on how one gets things done without the necessary engagement accessory.

Without any sort of warning, she paused her steps, looked at me in the eye and said: "I know you are about to say something important and I also know why you are taking so much time."

She then did the most emancipating gesture I have ever witnessed: she removed a most beautiful turquoise ring with six shimmering diamonds from her finger. She took my palm, dropped the jewel and said:

"Now ... you can speak."

A Complete List of My Ex-Friends

Friendship is perhaps the most notorious of all undertakings. One gets ushered into its arrangements with so much hidden agenda devoid of any warranty of permanence.

Our list of enemies has more stability. These remain unmoved in our social embargo.

Thus two distinct lists are made and migration from either side moves quite rarely.

I have been ruminating lately about my Facebook alliances. Like most, I often wonder about the significance of the Add Friend/Accept/Remove exercise. I somehow detect a semblance of rising power when I get accepted but the inverse of sadness when my request for ingress is made to wait. When I get un-Friended, that's when it turns ugly. I retrieve my list and implement life long sanctions against the idiots.

That is perhaps the reason why God is not into social media.

God's version of relationship is summed up in a most alien term: incarnated. He is all in and all out with the people He pursues. They can do whatever they want and His love stays unmoved. He offers the invitation of true friendship until we run out of hiding space. 

He has no buttons that shuts down his site just because of any cookie jar theft. Actually, there is nothing that can unmake His determination to stay on, not for life though, but forever.

Three years ago, when I went through my deepest valley, I noticed the remarkable trending of my personal contacts. There was a corporate withdrawal of posts. It was perhaps my own doing. It was so dark where I was and I could not even see most faces. The chats were frozen silent. I guess, my appearance of gloom was no longer vogue in someone else's list.

No one is to blame. I am guilty of that myself. I tend to gravitate towards certain categories: I keep only the ones I can use. This is not friendship. It is nothing more, nothing less but market-place transactional circus.

And this is the reason why Jesus Christ came. To offer a relationship unknown to humanity. It is a friendship that is sourced from an intentionality that exudes from the depth of His wonder. 

It has a tag: agape, unconditional love.

I read from Scriptures that it is God's desire for all to be on His list. But, most choose to ignore the one offer that can change all our imaginary scripts. We'd rather choose sophisticated human moorings and shun what is perceived as moronic faith.

I am on His list not because I deserved it. It was determined by His pursuit which incidentally found a heart craving for true love.

Lately, I turned to my secret list of Ex-Friends and was roused to the incongruence of my favored status. I have tasted the most succulent of affections in Christ, why am I keeping such a repugnant inventory?

Alas, I have decided to follow my True Friend's lead: I threw the book to the fireplace. 

My site has just been opened for all.

The Letter I wrote to Manny Pacquiao

It was December 8, 2012. The Fight of the Decade at MGM Grand stirred the pulse of the world of sports.

The illustrious Pacquiao suffered a stunning loss to the legendary Juan Manuel Marquez. With a second left in the sixth round, the perfect punch careened the champion to the canvas to sleep.

I remember feeling a sense of kindred loss while jotting down these thoughts for him to ponder:

My Brother Manny: (Kapatid kong Manny:)

I am but a small voice amidst the oceanic murmurs, yet I feel compelled to share a few thoughts, just because you are my brother in Christ.

(Ako ay iisa lang na titik na nais magbahagi ng iilang palaisipan, bilang kapatid mo kay Hesus.)

When God's children are knocked out, either literally or metaphorically, although I find myself still at a loss for words, the aftermath of humiliation when it turns into humility astounds me, even more.

(Kapag tayo ay lugmok sa pagkatalo, yung kahihiyang dala nito ang siyang lubusang nagbibigay ng pagkamangha sa aking kaisipan.)

I seek to follow Christ, myself ... and like you, I am faced with the dilemma of wondering and wandering why God allows unseen punches to knock me out. I won't go into the details of my personal travails, but the more I seek intimacy with Christ, the more I get introduced to suffering's embrace. People who are not quite versed in the ways of God may be too quick to judge the ineptness of my faith, and at times, they turn to mythologizing the deity of my Lord.

(Tulad mo, ako ay masugid na taga-sunod ni Kristo. Kadalasan ako ay litong-lito sa mga debuho ng malulungkot na kamalasan sa aking buhay. Kaya nga lang, kapag ka itong aking mga pagkatalo ay dinudulog ko sa Kanya, ako ang nalulula sa Kanyang mapagpalang yakap at pagmamahal.)

Manny, when you are in the depths of your faith, remember that even your present humiliation is God's gift (Psalm 139). We are sometimes allowed to go under, so that we might experience the incredible commitment of our Lord to be with us, especially when we are down and out.

(Ang mangangawit ay nagpapatutoo na tunay nga ang katapatan ng Diyos lalung-lalo na sa mga siglo ng ating kahinaan. Siya ang tapat na nagmamahal.)

I leave you with Proverbs 24:16:

(Sa iyo ang Kawikaan 24:16;)

"For though a righteous man falls seven times, he rises again, but the wicked are brought down by calamity." 

(Kahit ilang knock-out ang ikabagsak ng kanyang mga anak, dadamputin at iaangat sila mismo ng kanilang Ama. Ang mga taliwas ay mananatiling lugmok sa kanilang mapagkunwaring kumunoy.)

This is perhaps, your first real fall. You have more to come. But be of good cheer.

(Heto marahil ang una mong tunay at mahapding pagkatalo. Marami pang darating na kabiguan. Huwag kang malilinlang: ngumiti ka at magtiwala sa bagsik ng pagkupkop ng ating Diyos!)

God wrote these words for you and me. He knows that we will fall, seven times seven. But He also knows that each time we fall, He will pick us up, cause us to rise again and in humility, I pray that you and the rest of us will declare who is truly the Hero and the Champion: Jesus, the Suffering Servant and Victor.

(Ang mga katagang ito ay para sa ating lahat na nananalig. Tayo nga ay makakaranas ng pagbagsak, at marami pang pagkatalo. Subalit, dahil sa pangako ni Hesus, Siya ang tunay na Kampeon at Manunubos na magdudulot ng ating panghabangbuhay na kagalakan at tunay na pagwawagi!)

Soli Deo Gloria! (Sa Diyos lang ang Papuri!)

Dr. Russell Diwa
Senior Pastor (tumatandang katulong ng ating Dakilang Amo)
Biblical Community Church
 

(Translations in broken Tagalog)