Keeper of My Heart

On August 26, 2003, I gave God a part of me I'd previously held back from giving. I'm sure that I believed it was an eminently practical decision on my part, because I could no longer trust myself when it came to matters involving that particular part of my being, but I gave Him my heart. Lock, stock, and barrel - to do with as He pleased. I granted Him sole occupancy for a certain period of time, after which He'd be warden and gatekeeper, with the absolute prerogative of letting anyone in or out (talk about passing the buck). The "sole occupancy" issue wouldn't be resolved until - according to a journal I was keeping at the time - four long months (!) after the execution of the contract; in the meantime, He and I had to kick out some unwanted tenants who weren't paying their dues as well as squatters who had unlawfully entered through stealth and subterfuge (haha). But what a wonderful thing it was to wake up on the morning of December 8, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, and finally say, with all sincerity...there is NONE but You, ONLY You! I remember a joy unlike any other; a brother-in-Christ, my dearest confidant throughout this particular chapter of my Love Story, said that the joy certainly showed! The designated period of "sole occupancy" passed, but I still held Him to His appointment as sentry and watchman over the fortress of my heart (with apologies to Sting).

Today I kind of "asked" Him how his gatekeeping duties were going; after all, He still has absolute control over whoever enters that once-ravaged, still-fragile region. I asked Him if He had finally allowed anyone in.

His answer was tremendous. All this time, I've left the door open and let in anyone who wanted to enter!

And He reminded me of the hundreds of people who I have met in the last months since I gave Him guard duty over my heart - the people I have been called to love on this mission He has set me on, the brothers and sisters in Christ who I have had the pleasure to travel this road with, some of His children whom I once thought were unlovable but who now occupy some of the most sensitive compartments of my heart.

As I continued to talk to Him in tearful prayer about it, He "asked" me: Did you think that I would lock the door and keep it secure from all trespassers? That wouldn't be like Me!

Come to think of it, He did exactly what I should have expected Him to do. Keep the door open. He doesn't promise that those who gain access won't wreak any havoc while they're in there, but hey, that's the way He "secures" His own Heart, and I always ask for the grace to love like He loves, right?

As I was trying to process these soul-stirring revelations, I had one more practical concern: Lord, if this keeps going, how are they all going to fit?

Ah My child, now We have to talk about plans for expansion...

Uh-oh. :-)

Love Christ, Love His Church

I’d forgotten I’d kept a copy of this letter, written almost a year ago, only hours after one of the great “landmark” experiences on my journey Home – I guess it probably best captures, although not completely (there was one more “landmark” up ahead) how I came to fall in love with the Church. There are some incidents that are repeated in other reflections, but I kept them intact nonetheless; I suppose that the fact that I always seem to mention them highlights their significance. The addressee is someone who played a pivotal role in my coming to know Christ, but with whom I have parted paths since.

Dearest *******,

Like I told you earlier, the intensity of being led towards this was something I could not ignore during this morning’s prayer time – indeed, I did not even mean to bring it into prayer with me, but was nevertheless immediately gripped by it even as I began to approach Him. It was so overwhelming that I had to ask the Lord to allow me respite to regain my bearings, and to pray over it some more without being overly consumed by sudden emotion. Yet even now, after having allowed many hours to pass, and to preoccupy myself with other things in an attempt to moderate my sentiments and allow feelings to settle, I am still strongly affected. I suppose that the past several days' experiences and meditations have built up towards this; you already have some idea as to how I have been moved, but I suppose I never can quite orally articulate the extent of what I mean to say. And so I write.

What has been overwhelming me with inexplicable intensity is a sudden – almost violent – increase in my love and concern for the Catholic Church. The circumstances over the last few days may have contributed greatly to this, but as He speaks to us through our circumstances, I cannot help but to hearken.

I do not completely comprehend my heart’s burning attraction to the bride of Christ – especially since only a few months ago my sentiments towards the brotherhood of Christians outside the Church were more “magnanimous.” I used to believe that, after all, we loved and worshipped the same Lord and God; in fact, I had naïve notions that we as recipients of the gifts and charisms of the Holy Spirit had more in common with the “Born Again” Pentecostals than with the other members of our Catholic family! And yet my heart now tells me I was far from the truth, for reasons I cannot yet even begin to explain.

I want to share with you that last night, when we attended the VCF (Victory Christian Fellowship) activity, I was asking God for forgiveness for not being able to find in myself the freedom or willingness to worship Him with the same abandon. Though I did not have the slightest animosity towards our fellow Christians – in fact, I was moved many times by their sincere devotion - I had a very strong sense of not belonging. The cross I had hidden under my shirt felt like it was burning through the cloth, begging to be exposed; I could also feel the burning gaze of the usherette beside me as she stared at us obvious first-timers who she probably concluded were “seekers.” She would occasionally break out in tongues, and I suppose she would have the shock of her life if these silent strangers in the back row did the same.

The only word I could use to describe that particular Sunday worship is – “incomplete.” I had worshipped God many times under the same night sky, under the same stars, but I thank Him for the appreciation of the fullness of His sacrifice in the truest form of corporate worship! Minutes later, at Mass, I was so transfixed by His image on the cross and the love I could feel radiating so warmly from that direction. The ceremonies, the rites, the vestments, the symbols – every single one was laden with thousands of years worth of meaning, handed down from one Christian to another over the millenia, from Jerusalem to Greece to Rome to Saint Michael’s parish in Fort Bonifacio. The celebration of the Sacrament of the Holy Eucharist in that steaming-hot church with the hokey-sounding organ and all the sweaty children, was the most beautiful experience of my day. We received the Lord’s own flesh and blood, broken once again to heal us, and we had worshipped in the way He Himself had taught us to! I am not sure if we were the only ones in that church last night who knew exactly what had happened, but I praise Him for the great gift of being able to partake in such a magnificent celebration.

Now you know all too well that I would be the last person anyone would expect to be a zealous defender of the Catholic faith. I had absolutely no religious instruction (except for the few sessions required before First Communion); my parents are not even sure that any of us has been confirmed. We had to be dragged or otherwise threatened with the fires of hell to get us to Mass; when we grew older it was to each her own, and I fell away from the Church numerous times in adolescence and young adulthood. Mass became an “option,” confession an unthinkable horror. I used to explain away my “selective” faith by condemning the Church as anachronistic and detached from the realities of the world; when I became a feminist it was the patron of patriarchal evils. I believed in Jesus, but it was a user-friendly relationship; I loved Him – or at least thought I loved Him – but did not appreciate His Church. I used to think I was oh-so-smart and (like my friends) oh-so- progressive-minded with all these pseudo-intellectual convictions condemning the Church. But the truth was, I knew absolutely nothing…I was just running my brain and mouth on the basis of assumptions about Catholicism, without a single thing to back up my distorted illusions.

But I know the Lord had His reasons for me to stay Catholic because of one incident, several years ago, which I have never forgotten. Sometime in 1991, Ken Angliongto, one of my best friends from college, became a Born-Again Christian. Since one of the basic rules in evangelization is to “sow the seed” on ground that seems to be the most fertile, it’s a sad testimony to the moral quality of our large group of friends that Ken believed me to be the most receptive to the Good News. I still remember that evening in Canimog when he started talking to me about how Jesus changed his life (this is my ex-“Satanista” animator friend) and inviting me to the same relationship. I recall being deeply moved and open to the idea, except for one thing. Ken had left the Catholic church (he is a very sleepy person; and his favorite nap time was Mass – not just the sermon, but the entire celebration!) and embraced Christianity outside it. And I suddenly had strong convictions about leaving the Holy Church. I told Ken that changing “religion” would be like changing one’s name – although I have hated my Christian name for as long as I can remember, there must be some reason, some history behind being called “*bleep*bleep*bleep*.” Once I’d found that reason and learned that history, then I could make an informed decision about rejecting it.

Today I have found that reason – and I continue to find it everyday as I learn about the history of the Catholic Church. As my mind is much too skeptical for its own good, I can only say that it has been through the grace of revelation of the Holy Spirit that I have been able to accept and embrace the truths of the Catholic faith. This process of acceptance is slow but progressive; it is only through God’s grace that I have great conviction of the necessity of the Sacrament of Reconciliation, the importance of the Blessed Virgin Mary and the communion of saints, the significance of the Sacrament of the Holy Eucharist. And yet there are so many teachings of faith that I remain ignorant of, and the richness of the history and tradition of the Church over the last two millennia is a vast ocean I have not yet even begun to wade into.

This is already a little over-long, but herein I will state my point. Some of us have been blessed with solid formation in the doctrines of the Catholic faith, or at the very least, with an appreciation for and an ardent desire to be further enlightened by the teachings of the Church. But it is unfortunate – I go as far as to say distressing, given certain recent events – that the great majority of Catholics, including and especially those within community, know very little about the Roman Catholic faith.

Indeed, we are relatively secure in our growing faith as Christians, and devote our daily efforts to loving our Lord and Savior and following His Word. And yet, as renewed Catholics who have the fullness of both a personal relationship with Jesus Christ and the fellowship of His one true Church, we have for the most part paid little attention or devoted less effort to building up the Bride of Christ.

One thing you once said struck me hard: “The one distinctive characteristic of Catholics is ignorance.” I cannot agree with you more. It breaks my heart to attend Mass and find that many do not observe the solemnity of the celebration or appreciate the rites – I should know, I used to be the same. Most Catholics cannot quote scripture; most Catholics cannot even defend Christ. And yet, we, as renewed Catholics, are changing all that – equipping ourselves with the necessary armaments to be staunch defenders of the faith. Then again, we have to ask ourselves, what faith?

We may be arming ourselves with all the weapons to counter attacks against Christianity and to conquer the world with the Good News. Yet I cannot help but observe that we have an Achilles’ heel – the one vulnerable spot we have left unprotected. We are defenders not just of the Christian faith, but of the Catholic faith. As I have recently come to realize, the potential attacks come from right within our own Christian ranks. And the most hurtful thing is that our fellow warriors know exactly where to strike.

Anyway, I’ve exhausted myself for the moment – I’m pretty sure I’ve exhausted you too! But this is pretty much how I feel about it right now. I suggest that we start to build up our arsenal to advance and protect the Catholic faith, side by side with the continued acquisition of Christian weapons. We know that true Christianity necessarily includes Christ’s universal Church, but we must make that truth all the more evident if we identify ourselves as defenders of the faith.

God bless you. I have never been so thankful to be – or more “aware of my heritage as a Catholic” in my entire life.

Yours always in Christ,
Honey

4 April 2004

Love Story of a Lifetime

Good girl. I’ve rarely been called that in my life, and right now I take pause to wonder why. I’ve never murdered anyone or even been cruel to animals; I didn’t get pregnant or sleep around when everyone else was doing it; I didn’t get addicted to drugs…uh, maybe that’s the only thing I didn’t get addicted to. But anyway. I think people never saw me as a “good girl” because the way I lived my life, although not exactly “evil,” was far from pristine.

Curse like a sailor, smoke like a chimney, drink like a fish – yes, I was Bridget Jones personified, perhaps even worse, because I did not know the meaning of the word “moderation.” Party like there was no tomorrow, seize the moment, be merry for perhaps later tonight we die. And I fully expected to die of lung cancer, or in a drunken car accident, or something of that sort. After which, I would get to heaven, and that would be that.

Neither could I be called a good Catholic girl…except for a couple of years in a private elementary school, I spent 17 years getting my elementary, secondary, tertiary, and graduate education at the University of the Philippines, where religion belonged to the geeks and the losers we used to make jokes behind their backs about. We were having too much fun drinking, smoking, and cutting class to be bothered with faith. Because of this environment, and since my parents at the time were also non-committal Catholics whose only requirement from their children was attendance at Sunday Mass, my faith was virtually non-existent, what more my commitment to the Church. When we got old enough to go to Mass by ourselves, I officially became a non-practicing Catholic. Worse, I became a non-practicing, cafeteria Catholic…picking and choosing what suited me and my lifestyle, and convincing myself that the rest was bureaucratic nonsense. I believed in God, a God who would punish if you did bad, answer prayers if you prayed hard enough, and who loved me anyway, so it didn’t matter what more I did. For me, that was enough.

And yet that same God was reaching out to me all that time – through the girl in 1989 who prayed with me because I was going to get kicked out of Italian class because of excessive absences (otherwise I had a perfect exam record!), through all the people who, over the years, tried to invite me to Christian fellowships and Opus Dei study groups. But my environment, permissive as it was in all imaginable ways (we were usually drunk before 3 p.m. and many of my friends were notorious for being sexually promiscuous, right inside the school facilities!), was hostile to these approaches. It didn’t change much when I began law school (people just dressed better and were a lot more boring), but then, God decided to hit close to home.

One of my best friends at the College of Mass Comm, Kenneth Angliongto – nice guy with a gentle disposition but a terrible tornado of a rare temper, who also went to IS, not UPIS but the other non-Catholic-more-expensive school, and whose darkest depths were revealed in the gory details of his animation, which oftentimes bordered on the Satanic – became a born-again Christian. What persecution he suffered from our group of friends, none of whom was even a regular Sunday Mass goer! But, except for that inner light and his quiet faith, he didn’t change for the “worse” like we thought he would. He didn’t proselytize, he didn’t condemn us for being such pagans; he just went on being Ken – the nice guy who didn’t smoke or drink or do drugs and who would always take you home at the end of the night, always stopping at red lights. One major change though was that his Christmas cards no longer featured bloody machine-gun toting Santas with their guts spilling out. And then, one evening when he was home on vacation from his film studies in the US, he began to talk to me about God.

I’m not sure why he chose to share the Good News with me first, but I think he knew that I would be the one most receptive to the idea. I’d seen how Christ had changed his life: he was no longer in the darkness that once devoured him, he made peace with his family, and he spoke so surely about God’s love. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately in the long run, I was unwilling to accept the idea of leaving the Catholic Church (how ironic, when I wasn’t exactly a model Catholic myself!), particularly since I had to forget about honoring the Blessed Mother. I remember telling him during that dinner that I couldn’t turn my back on something I didn’t know much of yet (one of the reasons he left was because he kept falling asleep at Mass!) – it was like changing your name before fully understanding why you were named that way.

It took me a few more years to open up a little to God. In law school, you inevitably find religion…in desperation, there is no one else to turn to but a Higher Being! Especially around the time of the Bar Exams. I was no different; from never attending Sunday Mass, I suddenly began to go everyday. Even if it had been 14 years since my last confession, forgive me Father for I have sinned…

One weekday Mass, I knew something was terribly wrong when I could not bring myself to offer peace to a girl who uh, brazenly stole something (actually someone, grr) precious away from me. My conscience was screaming so loudly at me that, after the Mass ended, I grabbed one of my sorority sisters and asked her how to make a proper confession. Fourteen years of sin was a lot to account for! I sat in the church, debating whether I should go through with it or not, and in a moment of cowardice, decided to put it off. But God wanted to wash me clean right there and then, because just as I stepped out of the chapel, He suddenly opened up the heavens and unleashed a heavy downpour! I had no choice but to run back inside, summon up my courage, and confess my sins. Bless the good Korean priest’s soul – he was sensitive enough to recognize a long-lost sheep who wanted to return to the fold, comforted me as Jesus would, and gave me a penance that I could scarcely believe. For 14 years of what I thought were the most horrible offenses against the Lord, he asked me to say ONE Our Father, and even offered to help me with the words. It wasn’t just the heavens that poured down that afternoon; for the first time, I felt the healing power of tears washing clean a forgiven soul. God and I had a very intense, romantic “fling” during those Bar months – we had a great connection, but just as He wanted more of a commitment, I slowly broke up with Him and left Him holding the bag of empty promises I’d made after I’d gotten through the tough times solely through His grace. But God is a relentless suitor, and He will woo you in His own special way, tailored to win your heart.

In my particular case, I value trustworthiness in a relationship most of all: proven loyalty and steadfastness through the years. And that is exactly what God set out to show me in the next seven years (it didn’t take another 14, thank Him), even when I myself was at my most unfaithful. I fell back into the world, and hard! My values became more worldly as I advanced in the world’s eyes – in age, in career, and later, in fame and fortune. I did not swim against the tide of destruction – I surfed its very waves! And I thought I was having the time of my life. Young, fairly successful, popular, influential…with a growing legal practice and a writing career that was taking off beautifully. There wasn’t a mass medium that I wasn’t on, and the world was at my feet, literally. I started to explore it while all my dreams were coming true. Travel, name-partnership in a firm of my own complete with black leather armchair and window office, new car, fan mail, parties and parties and parties and press junkets, recognition on the street and in supermarkets…

Just as I was about to fulfill yet another dream – living in Paris while getting an advanced education at one of the finest law schools, and then later on actually continuing around the world – He wanted to resume our long dormant relationship, this time for real. And He did it slowly and steadily, just as I like it, over the course of a year and a half, before making His “move.”

In December of 2000, my “bingoboys” gave me a book that would change my life completely. Not the Bible, but Left Behind by Tim La Haye - the immensely popular book about the rapture and the people who were “left behind” to experience the tribulation that would follow. What upset me so much about it was that I didn’t know if, given my present state of faith, I would be left behind, or not. I was so bothered that I shared this with another group of good friends of mine, one of whom was so concerned about my million-and-one questions that she decided to call in a long-“lost” friend and masteral student in Theology to clear up any confusion. What followed, starting February 2001, was a year of Saturday bible studies – more academic than anything else, given our varying states of religious indifference – that opened up God’s word to us. After we’d celebrated our first year of studying scripture (with a little exchange-gift party that landed me a New Jerusalem Bible, one of my most beloved possessions that I still cherish even if I no longer have a relationship with the person who gave it to me), our group slowly moved on to other interests, namely badminton (which I have never quite taken a fancy to). But God still had me by the collar.

One Saturday, I was getting ready for the bible study session – which means that I was putting on my “face.” In particular, I was engaged in a task that demanded my full and complete attention: I was lining my upper eyelids (mahirap yun). All of a sudden, the Lord moved me in a way I cannot forget; it was as if He physically tugged at the strings of my heart. I wanted to fall on my knees at this theophany that came from out of nowhere, this consolation “without cause” (how could you consider eyeliner an effective “cause”??) that St. Ignatius identified as solely being from God.

Are you willing to give up all this frivolity and serve Me, and only Me?

Where the heck did that come from? Unless my lipstick could suddenly speak, I knew that it was God, and Him alone, who was calling in my heart.

Serve Me.

The promise I had made Him in the summer of 1994 came back to mind. I was only kidding, Lord, You know I wasn’t serious. Three years of missionary work in exchange for surviving (not even passing) the Bar ordeal? You KNOW that I could never make good on that! I’m much too busy now, too many commitments, too many dreams that I’m busy making come true…

Only Me.

What answer can you give that kind of question? Eyeliner now smudged because of my tears – the tears that would later become all-too-familiar as indications of my unworthiness being in His Presence – I said, “Lord, I will give EVERYTHING up, if you want me to.”

EVERYTHING. My car (which is almost like my boyfriend). My clothes, my shoes, my makeup. My long nails. I was ready to go where He was calling me, wherever that was. I told my little group of friends this revelation during that evening’s bible study and you could literally hear the sound of jaws dropping to the floor. These people had known me for many, many years, and they could hardly believe what was coming out of my mouth. Neither could I. All I knew was that God was calling me on a promise long overdue, and it was now all up to me to make good on it.

Our bible study leader, quick to realize the opportunity, led us all to basement parking (there was no functional tape player in the condo!) to listen and pray with VeePee Pinpin’s Out of Roads.

I just ran out of roads again. Don’t know
where to turn. I started counting stars again,
then I lost my way.
I just ran out of time again.
Will I ever learn to stop my chase of hours
again, only learn I’ve lost the day?

The last thing I need is to hear this
whisper in the wind.
The last thing I want is
this voice that rises from within.
I’ll need to go
home soon, I know. But maybe tomorrow, not
now, when the last thing I need here and now
is this lasting need for You.

I’ve been rushing out of rooms again.
Too afraid to stay. I’ve been dreaming of some
rainbow’s end, but the colors melt away.
Should my heart be like an open door, helpless
to the storm? Permit your wind to touch my
soul, only to leave this aching song?

The one thing I need is to hear Your
whisper in the wind.
The one thing I want is
Your voice to go home soon to You. Won’t wait
for tomorrow, right now, for the one thing I
need here and now is this lasting need for You.

And she asked me to go to Bo Sanchez’s Feast for Mass early the next day, which she promised I would never regret.

Charismatic spirituality was something I could not ever see myself having. It was a little too weird and unnatural for me, especially coming from a family that did not even raise hands during the Our Father (this has since changed, in a major way). I went with a friend, Roger, who had plainly and simply wanted to attend a normal, regular Sunday Mass with me. But the Feast was FAR from that. I wept within two minutes upon entering the Mass, just as Father Steve began to lead the Gloria, my spirit desperately longing to join the worship and abandon all self-consciousness, but my worldly self still resistant to any of these strange novelties. I wept and wept and wept all throughout worship, and Bo’s talk, and now I know that it was then that the healing had begun and the path towards Him was being cleared.

It took a few more months for me to encounter the God I’d been putting off from meeting. In the meantime, I attempted to find out where it was He was sending me to “serve” Him: was it in the mountains of Mindoro to teach grade school children for a year through the JVP? Was it in the island of Camiguin where I found myself with a profound desire to help educate the “unenlightened” electorate and free them from the shackles of political oppression? I was floundering about, trying to determine His will.

But He had other things in mind: He set the perfect stage for our major rendezvous by first giving me everything my materialistic heart desired at that particular time. Yet I was empty, listless, disoriented inside...the last column I wrote prior to my renewal came out on May 31; it was about Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist, personal legends, and my quest to determine mine. In June of 2002 I was soon going to embark again on a dizzying flurry of major trips all around the country and the world – Cebu, Boracay, Kuala Lumpur, Europe, the US…my ultimate adventure. But still, there was a longing for something more, something – or SomeOne – Who I found on the weekend of June 1 and 2. On a retreat, which was actually an LSS called the “Road to Damascus,” I was unexpectedly struck down by His light and I melted into His arms. The highlight was my acceptance of His unfathomable mercy and forgiveness as He washed me clean with His indescribable love (especially after a confession of seven years’ worth of sins!). I was changed forever.

But not completely. I took off into the world, and into my desert. For many months, away by myself from home and my new community, sin and temptation tormented me, and oftentimes won over. But God just would not let me go. Despite my unfaithfulness and disloyalty to Him, with Whom I had just rekindled a brand new relationship, He held me fast and did not allow me to slide completely into the depths of Hell. I was killing myself with self-imposed misery, but He stuck it out with me.

Finally, I came home. And what I would call the major part of my conversion began. Within a matter of weeks, my world and my heart were shattered beyond – or so I thought – repair. I could not function properly; the pain, which I thought I’d have some amount of control over, as usual, took so very, very long in going away. I had never been at my weakest, or at my most vulnerable, in my entire life. They say that it is only when one is flat on her back that she can look directly into the face of the heavens. And I so totally agree with that. The familiar onslaught of depression - the uncontrollable urge to sleep all the hours of the day away to forget interior aches – was curbed somewhat by something equally unquenchable: a thirst for His word. I could not stop reading scripture; it was the mefenamic acid of my soul. I could not stop calling out to Him; only He could hold my hand when no one, not even those closest to me, could understand what I was going through. Although some people, at the most opportune times, apparently could. This was the time when He also sent me into service and ministry – to praise and worship Him as His servant David did. And this is why I am most thankful for the wide open arms of the sisters and brothers of my first ministry, especially Oman, upon whom I spilled a lot of my heartaches, and who so sagely advised…”Wa na yan! Kalimutan na!” Even though I so wanted to cry, “Yes pa, yes pa yan! Naaalala ko pa!”

It was because of my Lord’s faithfulness through the most trying of times – the faithfulness of a best friend who will stand by and hold you steady through thick and thin, that I surrendered my all to Him. That I began to raise my hands and my heart and my whole being for His glory. That I will forever sing of His goodness and His greatness, because He has healed me from so many pains and ailments and loved me to wellness like no other. Only in my absolute brokenness was He able to put me back together the way He wanted, making out of the pieces and shards something even more beautiful than I could ever imagine possible.

This is only the first part of my story, which is still being written as we speak. Since that day I truly opened myself up to His bidding and decided to follow Him, the road has not been easy. But neither has it been uninteresting.

Sometimes we have a tendency to doubt if there is indeed a God, a Higher Power that holds everything in His sway. As for myself, I only have to look at how my life has been changed – not by myself, for I could never pull myself out of the deathtraps of addiction to the world, to life, and to sin – and acknowledge that indeed, it was not of my own doing that I am finally free. My heart is Spoken For…and may it always remain in His precious safekeeping.

Amen.

Part Two, the conversion to the Church, and to Mission, soon to come.

Consolation

There is nothing quite as joyful as consolation, when God is so very near and so undoubtedly present before you. These very brief glimpses into what Heaven must be like - to bask in the loving presence of the Eternal Father - are what sustain us on this difficult pilgrimage.

"Consolation," St. Ignatius wrote in his Spiritual Exercises, is when "the soul is aroused by an interior movement which causes it to be inflamed with love of its creator and Lord, and consequently can love no created thing on the face of the earth for its own sake, but only in the Creator of all things."

My journey Home, while only fairly recently undertaken, has been spectacularly highlighted by a handful of consolation experiences - the breathtaking landmarks along the difficult, narrow road that make it worth the effort to get up and press on, and which unmistakably point us in the right direction. It had been quite some time since the last "landmark," and for the last month or so I'd been praying for the grace of knowing God's will with respect to the mission He'd given me on one previous "landmark," as well as some other matters I needed His guidance and direction on. I began to approach Him about these things on a retreat right after Christmas, but still He told me to wait, and to listen...He'd "call me back" about them.

He finally called yesterday, with a Grand Canyon of a landmark, on two of the most important questions I had been asking Him. I begged for the grace of His affirmation, confirmation, and reassurance, and I received it the same day in full measure, which added further to my joy.

The Lord asked me, once again, how much I loved Him. Would I still, like I had once promised, do anything He asked? And would I continue to ask for more of Him and to do more of His will? And my tired heart was filled with that kind of love for the Creator that St. Ignatius was talking about - a love directed upwards, that spills over to all created things below not because these things are lovable in themselves, but because of the One who created them. Before the tabernacle, in the Presence of His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity, I was overwhelmed at His own joy at my reply.

I will always love You and only You before any other, more than any other.

Bago ang lahat, Higit sa lahat.

And He said: finally, at long last, you got it. With the most loving "embrace" He could give me, He set me back on a path I thought I did not want to tread, because I had fallen on it too many times. What lies in wait is yet to be seen, but, when it comes to "landmarks," He has never done me wrong so far. :-)

Bago ang lahat, Higit sa lahat!

It's The Little Things

I cannot let today pass without thanking God for the little things, for the sweet favors that so obviously were His doing, that made my life so much easier.

I got home very late - or should I say early, as in schoolbell early - in the morning today, and, after a couple of hours' sleep (on top of the two I'd had the night before), woke up in not quite the very best state of health. But what lovely news to wake up to: an important court case (my very last one, he he) won and a close girl friend I haven't been in contact with for many months wanting to share some girly talk about the one subject we could go hours on end about - boys. Actually, God first, boys a distant second. Teehee.

God probably knew that I needed some girly-sister-chika at this particular time, because another long-"lost" sister in Christ, now mired in the toxicity of working as a physician, also chose today to come up for air and to commence one of our famous kilometric-text-conversations about life, love, and the Lord (our actual conversations are even more intense). Just what I needed yet again, even if I hardly got any work work done today. Thank goodness for girl-chika...and these two sisters I can chika with like no other!

And then my computer started acting up just as I needed to finish up Father Steve's missalette for tomorrow's Mass, grrrr...It took me long enough (not exactly fun to translate from English to FatherStevefriendly-Tagalog) with my dearth of Tagalog vocabulary and lack of an English-Filipino dictionary, but with a splitting headache and the hammering going on inside the office (of all days!), it seemed like eternity. Finally, when I got home to print it out, my silly laptop would not cooperate and load Windows properly. After several "smart" attempts, I finally gave it up to the Lord. It's His word and His celebration after all! Even I can still hardly believe that right after I said a prayer, as in count 2 seconds...my computer creaks and comes back to life!!!! How amazing. :-) God's really looking out for me today.

Finally, I was supposed to photocopy the missalettes once printed, but because of final corrections and procrastination, I didn't get to leave until almost 10 pm. And of course by then no more photocopy places were open. So I have to do that early tomorrow morning!! But WAIT. God had a reason to keep me from reproducing the missalette...I read the Gospel again and EEEK! There was NO GOSPEL; I'd cut and pasted something else. He he, looks like He truly does not like being misquoted...But it's a good thing that He brought it to my attention when He did!

How sweet of the Lord to be so considerate of my needs even before I know what they are :-) He's my Provider and my Cornerstone, the Love of my life and the Joy of my morning...my God and my All.

And what a superduper celebration (neverending it seemed) it was last night; a party like no other :-) Praise God for that too!!

For all these and the littlest things that we forget to be grateful for...THANK YOU, Lord!

No Word for Goodbye

I recently said goodbye to two people very dear to my heart. One of them I’d known my entire life; one passed through but for a moment. But my farewells to both were strikingly similar, and I can say that the Lord prepared me well to deal with both – He cushioned my heart with the assurance of His promises.

I’d never quite known what it is to lose to death someone really close to me. Friends and family have passed on, but no one from among the small community that occupies the most tender region of my heart. No one, that is, until my grandfather went Home on the 2nd of December (the day was already special enough for being the birthday of at least four of my friends). Only a couple of years ago I could not bear the thought of losing him, even if he was in his ‘90s. I grieved every time I parked in the hospital where he had been confined to relieve a clot in his brain; I prayed in desperation to a distant God like I’d never prayed before. And praise Him for listening, even if at the time I was far from being righteous (James 5:16), because my grandfather was given a few more years of health, sound mind, and happiness. In the meantime, I underwent a healing of my own, and decided to put my heart and my life in the hands of the One who had healed me.

And I know that it was only because of the relationship I have with Him that, when my grandfather finally left this earth, I felt none of that desperate grief that had so earlier afflicted me. I wept buckets of tears, but only because I am human and will miss the physical presence of the person who was one of the most influential forces in my life. But I cannot even properly call it grief, because the center has not fallen out of my life like I thought it would. I weep even as I write this, but my heart is intact for it is in good Hands.

There were no tears when I said goodbye to my dear friend Vince a couple of evenings ago. Which is ironic, since tears were one of the most special things I had shared with him, many, many times in the few months we’d known each other. I suppose that the fact that I could cry in his presence so freely (something purely unintended but unavoidable) was one of the reasons why our friendship became so deep in such a short time. One late evening after a very moving mission in Montalban, I was so overwhelmed that I could not even speak without my eyes leaking uncontrollably, which they did the entire way back to Quezon City. That was perhaps the first time I knew that he was a kindred soul. We “got” each other – no need for too many words or explanations, although we could talk up a very violent storm! But some of the best moments were spent in the comforting silence that exists between genuine friends; there is no need to say anything to someone whose interior hurts cannot surface to be properly expressed. It is enough to simply be with the other in loving silence. There are many more things worth remembering about this unusual friendship, but Vince, someone I’d learned to love just like a younger (albeit very smart) brother, had to go as well. He went, initially kicking and screaming at the turn of circumstances, but later on bravely resigned to God’s plan for him (or so I hope). I suppose that I did not shed any tears at this goodbye because I’d already shed so many when he was around me, or because I did not see him actually take that plane ride towards a whole new mission.

One of my favorite truths is found in Romans 8:28 – all things work for the good of those who love Him and who are called according to His purposes. I know my grandfather loved Him so dearly, and I even have a very powerful assurance that my Lolo is now happily in the heavenly home and in the presence of the One he had so looked forward to meeting (that’s another story for another time). And I know that Vince – who so loves the Lord as well, or is at least trying to - has been called to an exciting new mission that may not be what he had wanted, but will be the best thing that ever happened to him, if he continues to be sensitive to the One who called. This promise has made it so much easier for me to say goodbye to people I love, something I’ve never really been good at.

It is no coincidence that there is no word either in my grandfather’s Ilocano language, or in Vince’s French, for “goodbye.” Only a blessing that God accompany one on his journey - Dios ti kumuyog – and au revoir, until we meet again. And I know, without a doubt, that I will see these two dear people, who continue to share a space in my heart, again.