My Mother has 9 Lives

This is a myth, of course.

Hello Kitty has only one.

The Old English aphorism: "A cat has nine lives; for three he plays; for three he strays; and for the last three he stays," probably hints more about the Labyrinthe Righting Relfex that allows for these cute creatures to perform aerial acrobats.

But Mother has been quite a feline in many ways.

When I was five, they were on their way to a personal appointment with President Marcos when our 1955 Ford bat-mobile plummeted from a 14 feet vertical-clearance bridge. During the pneumatic drift, my mother sliced a prayer: "Lord, my children are so young, please spare me." 

There was commotion not because of death. There was chaotic wonder on how this vehicle maintained its equilibrium while landing on all fours with only a cracked windshield. Papa's nose broke. Mama's spine was compressed, but breath was not snuffed.

And then, there was a massive stroke. Mother was taken to the nearest hospital which happened to be one of the more sophisticated rehab center in Manhattan. My sister called crying. They were going to charge Mama, 15 grand a day for about a month of recuperative stay. She prayed every single day. Her shine was dazzling. She gained the reputation of being the joyful angel of 9th floor. The good Jews decided not to charge her the actual rates. Her final assessment was 10 cents.

During my recent illness, she flew in to serve as nurse. The soup and care I received was unequaled balm. After all the caring, one night, I heard a loud cry for help. We were both limping as I took her to the ER. After multiple scans, the doctors couldn't find the trace of what appeared like a serious storm. Little wonder ... during her brief stay, she would always sing a song I wrote: " I'm getting stronger, when I sing your praises ... I'm getting stronger when I think of Jesus ..."

She is now traveling towards 90's. She still looks unbelievably young.

The renewal of her strength does not come from some pithy mythology. It is derived from an exchange: she waits upon her Lord ... thus she soars on wings like eagles. There is no tiring flapping, just unrelenting trusting.

By the way, she has more than 9 lives. Read her daily FB posts: she will cat-walk you through the alleys of her warrantied eternity.

Photography: Renchi Arce / Art and Soul

A Pig and A Pearl

What happens when a pig sees a pearl?

Perhaps due to its luster, the animal might attempt mastication.

Since it is awfully hard and tasteless, it is but apropos for the pig to spit the pearl.

The hog only cares for what is edible and what fills up its belly.

I once acted like swine. My agenda was simple: it was all about me. I never committed to anything not unless its instrumentality would clearly favor me. As I looked around, I began noticing that I was not the only porker. Everywhere I went, the herd was supremely attracted to its own existence. Just like the rest, I turned fat with ethnocentric-steroids.

One day, I met a prince. He told me that he was formerly a pig. At first, I did not believe him until he showed me his photo album.  He then revealed to me how one can be transported from the pigsty.

With measured trepidation, I considered the alluring possibility. One day, I was not able to stand the staggering reflection of beauty. I melted and asked him to lead me to the King who can undo my curse.

I was led to a Cross, instead. There hung a pulp-beaten King staring at me with utmost compassion. He saw right through my heart and in a mere twinkling, my snout was gone.

When a pig turns into a prince, he looks at a pearl of great price quite differently. Beauty takes on a different hue. The world stops revolving on the axis of self. It turns into a panoramic canvas of beauteousness.

When I got introduced to Danielle, the pearl-in-her was so resplendent to ignore. I was no longer a pig looking for corn husks. I was a prince ushered to an incredible benefaction of grace-laden royalty.

The most unusual thing was that I had absolutely nothing to do with it. I was a sardonic creature transformed unto Christlikeness.

My King is Jesus. I have become his little prince. I am not escorted by some valentine date. I had been endowed with a most ravishing princess that harks my feelings back to an old rugged tree where it all ironically began.

I worship Jesus Christ! ... I was once a lowly pig but now His nasikh (נסיך).

Core Issue

Three years ago I went through an involved surgical procedure that practically shifted my weight.

My lower jaw was resected. All accompanying teeth except for two went with it. The fibula that kept my right leg in balance was harvested to form a substitute mandible. The large stripes on my thighs are tattoos of grafted grace. The lacerated scar across my neck reviews the wonder of it all.

As of this writing, I have never been this physically fit.

The recovery has been miraculous. My doctors attribute the bounce to the prequel of my historical commitment. Prior to my operation, I went to the gym six days a week. I was told that all that hard work prepared me for the armageddon of August 2013.

At the helm of this preparation was a personal trainer. Somehow, I sensed the need for a true bolt to anchor, if I were to recover again.

I researched the vast field and was led to Kelly Maresch. She has the equivalent of a PhD in the aspects of core anatomy. During the brief but intense training, my mentor honed my psyche towards the center. The core muscles must be built.

Every now and then I get a glimpse of Kelly leading a flock of neophytes. With kindred involvement, I  also see her often with his son, bonding: pilates-parenting. It does seem that everthing in life stems from the core.

At my nucleus is the centrality of an invitation: Christ is constantly offering what He deems as paramount workout. He pumps out all my weariness. He spots my deep issues. He grants me membership in gymnadzo: the life of sanctification.

A guarantee is thrown in: a lifetime set that always leads to blissed out rest.

The Ginseng of Gen Z

I had no need for adrenaline.

Ask any baby boomer.

Instead of conceptual depression, we had residual hypertension. I remember sleeping without bath just because I was bone-tired but joyfully-intoxicated from outside-play.

Home-made kites soared. Boats crafted from rubber flip-flops sailed. Guerrilla war-games were funded through wooden craps. Tin cans were treasured targets. Marbles filled the street tee-golf.

Oh, those days ... meals were missed just because of a universe offering unlimited glee. Creativity pulsated without boundaries.

I never stayed inside the house. Why should I? My bicycle won't let me. I was on to exploration the moment I rouse.

Those were the days ...

And now these days ...

With a current population of more than 23 million and growing, the Generation Z (born 1995-2012) are demonstrating a mind-boggling diversity. The intelligence of this batch is wild.

No wonder Steve Jobs had to raise his own fence.

Our marijuana was extreme sweat and dirty feet. Today's little tykes are into technological heroin. New York Times reporter Nick Bilton once assumed to have asked Jobs:

"So your kids must love the iPad?"

His response was quick:

"They haven't used it. We limit how much technology our kids use at home."

It is interesting that a trending preference among tech executives and engineers has been observed: their kids are sent to non-tech schools like the Waldorf School in Los Altos, where no computers are seen. The curriculum serves only focal hands-on learning.

I know it is not wise to judge these trends based on my personal bias. Who is to say that my crude outside glee was better? Opinions are always subjective and fleeting.

My anchor has been altered by the image set by Scriptures. I read about the necessity to train up a child according to the sacred blueprint implanted by God's wisdom.

I do things differently and I am told that this was not an accident. If I pay close attention to the craftsmanship of my Maker, I will not find a clue, not even a manual. I will awaken to a clear voice that tells me how fearfully and wonderfully I had been made.

I guess it has nothing to do with Gen X or Gen A. It has everything to do with what Steve Jobs had keenly seen: boundaries based on wisdom are non-negotiable anchors.

The question is therefore about the peg. Who holds my parameters? It is either the internal chip or the external blip. These won't both work, if the Bible truly holds water.

There is only one path that guarantees wisdom. It is devoid of an OS. It does not even have a play-space. It is not an IT. It is not some farm-playground. 

The path is a Person. His name is Wonder. Wonderful Counselor.

He knows where we ought to go and not to.

photography: Paul Supelana

I Really Thought I Was Right

99% sure.

I keep the 1% just to maintain a semblance of humility.

I have been in countless situations where I fume fury over some person whom I have quickly dismissed as marginal.

Too many to count.

Too many to retract.

I have made a fool of myself for not vetting into the 1%.

The honest tragicomedy The Big Short was on point to kick off the reel with Mark Twain's quote: "It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so."

I really thought my Dad was wicked.

I really thought VW Diesel was impeccable.

I really thought I was exempted from cancer.

I really thought Protestants were doomed to hell.

I really thought Rock music was stupid.

I have a million of these thought patterns ...

I would be lying if I pretend to have stopped. The list has exceeded the word-count but new jargon is added.

I find that I am prone to bang the verdict due to an insidious agenda: my self-esteem needs the fuel of self-absorption. Thus I become the Supreme Court for all.

No wonder, if it were not for Jesus Christ, I would have plummeted to deep incarceration. My Lord is firm: He beckons me not to judge. I get it. I do not have an iota of absolute proof on what is truly right.

I once thought my Alzheimer's-smitten Dad stole my mother's cash. I frisked him to my shame. Just yesterday, a well-meaning person requested that I remove my post from the FB portal because of my alleged self-promoting scheme. Apparently, there was clairvoyance involved. She knew me better than my cause. Quite shamed, I erased.

That's the reason why I struggle with my own deep propensity to put the cuffs on others. I had been released from the malignancy of my myopic froth. Why should I retool and spit the goo that was merely taken off my soul?

Praise be to Jesus, the only ONE who truly knows everything that is Right!

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.