Not about me

My eldest sister will be undergoing surgery three days from now. At this very moment, she's in the other room, working from home with her laptop. An applications manager of a leading investment firm, she has always been an achiever. Always with a good head above her shoulders.

Friends who know about her condition would ask me how she is, and I always say, "She's doing OK. If you look at her, you wouldn't think she's sick." Even I am amazed at the normalcy she's exhibiting. Of course, the thought of the surgery is probably looming in her head but I don't notice that it bothers her. Yes, sometimes, offhand she'd quip that she's a little nervous but that's just about it. No crying spells, no staring in space.

She's the reason I'm here in the US. Last year, when she was diagnosed with cancer, I offered to fly here and be her children's nanny-slash-cook-slash-nurse if and when she goes through the surgery. This year, she took my offer. In no way I am trained medically but I have done my share of taking-care. In fact, I've been in two ambulance rides already, as a companion to the patients, and by God's grace, I still managed to think straight then. But stop, this is not about me.

Going back to my sister, her name is Nang, and many people are praying for her. In another state, an American author who hasn't even met her tells me they're praying for her. In another country--the Philippines--dozens more are praying. Thank you. You just don't know what this means to me, and her.

This woman is teaching me how to trust God unreservedly, to see the silver lining in the clouds, to be brave enough to learn everything about the enemy. Her faith did not waver in this health crisis and did not doubt for a second that God is good.

Some people can display courage and faith that seem larger than life. Yes, it's true. And this is not about me.

alive

"Doesn't anything throw you off? Do you ever get mad at something or someone? Are you living in a perpetually happy place where rainbows dot the landscape and everywhere you turn there's a pot of gold waiting to be discovered? "

"Yes," I wish I could say yes.

Life.is.hard. And sometimes this truth slams in your face when you least expect the reminder, that Earth is not Disneyland. Your tear ducts get an unplanned workout. You get dehydrated by crying. You think yourself to death wondering what went wrong--where you made that misstep, how you can retrace your way back to the safe life.

Yet pain reminds us that we are still alive. For instance, when I bump my leg on the edge of a table, my muscles throb, my skin bruises. I'm suddenly aware of this particular part of my body. My brain reprimands me to be more careful and watch where I'm going. No corpse experiences the sensation of pain, for good reason.

Alive--I am alive now as ever before. My heart is tender, my soul is fragile. The tears come easily, and it's like there's a switch that instantly flips to on at the first sign of fear or distress, and opens the dam of tears. Yet more than any time in my life, I can say that this is a good time. Anytime I am confronted by my weakness and neediness should be celebrated. Because it's starting to get clearer and clearer to me--I can't survive life, in all its unpredictability, with all its complexities, on my own. I can't ask God to take a leave while I manage His post for a while. I need Him.

Like fish needs water.

on faith and little children

When did we cross the line from complete freedom of action to self-consciousness? When did what people say about us start to matter and we had to convince them we are a hairline away from being omniscient and omnipotent? When did we learn to hide behind the niceties of language and mask our true feelings?

And why does the thought of kids making me ask these questions?

When I’m with my nephews in a public place and I stray away from their sight—whether it’s five seconds or five minutes—there’s a good chance I will hear my name shouted, in the same way, say, a panicking woman in the outskirts of Tondo facing a towering inferno would scream, “SUUUNOG!” Just last week, we were at SM and the two boys were with their mother in the giftwrapping section at the 1^st level. I notified my sis-in-law that I had to go find something at the 2^nd level. Midway through the escalator, I heard my name as if it was being announced through the public address system: “TITTTA BENNNNG!” From the moving stairs, I saw two small creatures near the 1^st level counter waving excitedly to me as if we weren’t together two minutes ago. How could one person be touched and mortified at the same time? Believe me, it’s possible. Case in point: Me.

This scenario gets played out in other settings: the grocery, at church, video shop—name it, they did the name-shouting exercise, only in varying decibels in the different instances. I am learning my lesson: Stay as close to them as possible in public if I don’t want everybody to know who the missing aunt is.

But after my lapse of momentary embarrassment, the truth is I don’t really mind at all. Because kids are devoid of self-consciousness. And they usually mean no harm (usually being the operative word here). In general, little children simply just say whatever is on their minds, and do what they feel like doing. Sure, they need discipline but I think 60% of the time, they're really just being kids. When I'm outside and see mothers shaking their kids to coerce “respectable behavior” even if what all their kids do are harmless forms of fun, I feel like shaking their mothers back and saying, “They’re kids. They won’t be forever kids so let them act their age.”

Honest and needy. Vulnerable and trusting. Little children know they can’t survive on their own so they ask for help. For you to open the can of sausage. Cook their favorite noodles. Buy their snack. Tie their shoelaces. Comb their hair. Count their coins. Read the label. Stay close by when they feel afraid. No pretense of self-sufficiency. No apologies for dependence.

Maybe that’s the reason why Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it” (Mk 10:14-15).

For who else but the most trusting of little children could best show us what it means to be needy and come to God by faith, expecting not to be turned away but welcomed in all His grace?

Five-word advice for tomorrows

I pity the angels. Tonight, their immaculate-white clothes will be covered with soot. What with all the fireworks dotting the night sky, there's bound to be some dust that will pierce through the clouds and make their way to heaven. I should tell them,

"Sorry for the dirtied clothes. It's New Year, you know, and the Philippines. Well, here one can't drive past one kilometer without seeing at least ten enterprising persons eager to make a few bucks selling cheap pyrotechnics. Do you have extra angel clothes tucked somewhere? By the way, how are your ears?"

Right this moment, three hours before it's officially another year, I could already hear the non-stop noise. A part of me wonders why some people would do a trial-run of their fireworks. Just to make sure they weren't duped by the smooth-talking man at the corner who promised they'll be burning their money for a visually-spectacular cause? I try to drown the noise with two buds in my ears playing Freestyle's music: "But baby, before I let you go, I want to say..."

-------------------

New Year's Resolutions? No, I ain't got any. I probably made a list or two sometime ago but what do you know? Even before the second month of the year rolled by, I couldn't find my list. Or maybe even forgot that the list even existed at all. No, I'm not pinning it to lack of discipline. More like to my poor memory. Here's me doing a self-talk: Oh, I made a list? What kind? About what I'd like to change about myself? You're kidding! There can't be anything I want to change about myself. Oh there's one. I think I'm too humble but shouldn't I be proud of it?

Seriously now, the turning of the year is more like a metaphor. Like a rainbow is a visible representation of the promise of hope. New Year. Fresh start. Beginnings. All the warm, fuzzy words you can put together that can make you sleep and wake up with a smile plastered on your face. New Year. Like a new notebook waiting for you to scribble words on them. I like the look and feel and smell of new notebooks. And new years too. The idea of a new year, at least.

Yes, I like December thirty-ones and January ones. But there's a day I always look forward to more passionately. It's the day named tomorrow. This day doesn't have to be sandwiched between years. It could be any day. Any day that could make you believe you're up for another shot at the ball. Another day that could find you mumbling, "Lord, I'm sorry about yesterday. I messed up bigtime. But thank You for today. Thanks for waking me up and thinking I deserve another chance."

Tomorrow, which incidentally happens to be the first day of a fresh year, I'm giving myself an advice that will hopefully last me the next 365 tomorrows. My self-advice--simple. Five words. "Worry less, trust God more." No scholar needs to dissect it; only a humble heart needs to believe it. And believe it with abandon, as if life is hinged on these five words. Interestingly, this advice capsuled in five words aren't really my own. A Carpenter from Nazareth two thousand years ago went up the mountainside and urged His disciples,

So I tell you, don't worry about everyday life--whether you have enough food, drink, and clothes. Doesn't life consist of more than food and clothing? Look at the birds. They don't need to plant or harvest or put food in barns because your heavenly Father feeds them. And you are far more valuable to him that they are. Can all your worries add a single moment to your life? Of course not....So don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today's trouble is enough for today. (Matthew 6:25-27,34, NLT)

Two-and-half-hours from now, I'll be needing a new calendar. But I'll be needing more than a piece of paper to help me navigate through the 24 hours in a day. Tomorrow, like today and my thousands of yesterdays, I'll be needing the Lord who can make me worry less. Oh, if I could only learn how to trust God more.

Perhaps I could... Tomorrow. And then all I'd have to think about are the todays.

of baking bread and distilling thoughts

No warm, freshly-baked white bread yet.

Coming home from work, with my loot from Sweetcraft, I initially planned to use my new Breadmaker for the first time. I've searched long and wide and worked hard enough for this moment. I've combed through the aisles of baking products in three supermarkets, in three separate days, before I realized that the right shop was just P7.50 ride away from my office. [I've been trying to find bread flour. Incidentally, all our supermarkets offer are variations of the All-Purpose Flour.]

Any kind of cooking is therapeutic and relaxing for me. In fact, last night I texted a guy friend, when he asked why I cook, that I actually find joy in culinary activity. It's an extension of my creative self--instead of stringing together words, I mix together ingredients.

Now, I'm on a baking mode. Last night my hands were busy making chocolate chip cookies (which my teammates devoured this morning). But tonight, I changed my mind before cutting open the package of the all-important flour.

And so why am I denying myself this pleasure now?

Let me tell you about Dr. Izzie Stevens. She is a fictional character in Grey's Anatomy who, after experiencing a major heartbreak, retreated to the kitchen. There she built a fort. There she whipped as many muffins as the kitchen (and Joe's Bar, and Seattle Grace hospital) could hold. Unstoppable. It was as if in every bowl of batter she prepares, an anesthetic would seep through her hands and find its way to her heart. I understand. For while cooking, she didn't have to think of a dead boyfriend, or her expulsion from the internship program in the hospital.

I ask myself if I am being Izzie Stevens. Am I trying to numb myself of whatever pain it is I am feeling by doing something that will at least deaden it, albeit temporarily?

Not like the pretty doctor's reasons for sadness is how I would describe mine. Nevertheless, I am still sad. Primarily, for and because of my sister. [And until my sister gets healed completely, I will carry this lingering sadness in my heart. Yet please do not mistake this sadness for loss of hope. I know, and I am sure, that God is much bigger than the cancerous tumor in Nang's breast. But for a second, hear me out: Isn't it normal for us human beings to at least feel a pang of melancholy upon knowing that there's this shadow of uncertainty hanging over our loved one's life?]

There are other reasons for sadness. A text received the other night, exposing an inadequacy on my part to fill a role I realized I wasn't qualified enough to fulfill. I ask myself over and over: How does one overcome the guilt of having hurt someone she had no intentions of failing? How will she make things right?

And so I don't bake. And refuse to touch any cooking utensil that will provide artificial happiness. Instead, I distill my thoughts using words I can form. And later on, I will be using more words-- to voice my sadness to the One who can clearly hear the emotions behind them.

The baking pan can wait another day.

seventy times seven

His name was Art.

Will there be a choir gown for me? Maybe. There's bound to be an extra one for me somehow. Many years ago, while struggling with high school biology and algebra, I would make time to go to church every Saturday afternoon to practice the anthem for the following Sunday's service. Art, or more specifically, Kuya Art, was my choir director. A gentleman, he would give me a ride back home whenever he could. He was everything I thought a Christian man should be. Until one Sunday morning when he stood behind the pulpit and declared,

“I've been keeping a secret from you all—I have been a smoker, for many years now. And I have been diagnosed with leukemia.”

More details flowed. Kuya Art was guilty of duplicity and owned up to it. That was the first time that I was jarred by the shame of sin. Imprinted on my young mind then was how a broken man could stand before God and man, and admit his sinfulness. Our church continued to love and support him while he battled the ravages of his disease. Yet although his spirit won, his body, sadly, failed him.

His name is Art.

Or at least that what he wanted Mike Jones, the male prostitute, to call him (his second name is Arthur) . Unlike my choir director, I do not personally know this man. What I know about him is based on what I read on the internet and magazines. More popularly known as Rev. Ted Haggard, he is the founder of the New Life Church in Colorado Springs that boasts of a 14,000-strong membership.

“The fact is I am guilty of sexual immorality. I am a deceiver and a liar. There is a part of my life that is so repulsive and dark that I have been warring against it for all of my adult life.”

Aghast, I mutter: “How terrible! How could he do such a shameful thing?” But before I said any more, an inner voice challenged me, “Do you realize that if not for the grace of God, you would have fallen into the same trap of sin and shame? Don’t you too struggle with rebelliousness and self-sufficiency? Have you always won the battle against pride and lust?”

The ugly Pharisee in me was hushed—and hopefully will stay hushed for long. With my heart softened, I shed some tears for this fallen brother, and some more tears for his family. For his wife who will probably lie awake in bed at night, wondering if she can ever fully trust the man beside her. For his five children, who every time would see a gay couple might whisper, “That could’ve been my father.”

Sin breaks hearts, and not just the heart of the one who commits it.

I am not a perfect Christian; I do not have a halo. I still fall short, many times awfully short, in fact. Sometimes I don’t like to pray. There are days when I wonder if God really exists at all. If He does, I ask, then why doesn’t He make His presence more known?

During the times when I am in the pit of doubt and despair, He lets down the rope of truth and hope. When I sin against Him, the God of love grants me a second chance. A third chance. And seventy times seven more chances await me. Yet I do not claim exclusive right to this privilege. For this was also true for Art, my former choir director now in heaven, and is true for "Art", the disgraced Colorado pastor. And this will hold true for men and women who have fallen into sin, broken and repentant, and need Someone with a grip strong enough to pull them up and never let go.

Life Goes On

My tear ducts have been getting a lot of exercise lately. I don't think I can rival Judy Ann Santos in the lachrymal olympics but I've recently signed up for the race. My most recent work-out just happened today, at the office.

(I was considering to relate here what happened but am deciding against it. It still stings a bit. Let me just say that with my immediate boss gone, and with me in charge, I had to straighten out kinks in some work concerns, which involved me writing a Denmark-bound apology letter and reminding our relatively-new security guard of his duties.)

This I am learning:
I could mask the bitter taste of pills with chocolate but there's nothing to sugarcoat feelings of frustration and hurt.

As I cried out to God how I upset I was, it was like a dam suddenly burst: all the other feelings swelling in my heart flowed, and mixed with the salty tears. Like a puny creature shaking its fist at the Creator, I challenged God:

"You are not fair God, because . . . Powerful? So how come You did not . . . "

(On hindsight, it was only by the incredible grace and infinite love of God that I did not get struck by lightning the instant I uttered those words, or even thought those accusations against the Almighty. My surge of bravery--or impertinence?--came from the fact that God sees our heart, and there's no point in lying about how I felt anyway).

The rest of the day was spent with me on catatonic mode--breathing yet barely functioning. It's a miracle I still had some work done. I was placated by the sober realization that in this fallen world, things go wrong.
In relationships.
In our affections.
In urgent fedex deliveries.

Yet life goes on.

-----------------
A more positive message is what I imagined would appear as my first entry as I take on my own thirty-day blogging challenge (Yes, I'm officially starting!). But I've let this be. This is real life. Besides, there'll be twenty-nine more days to write about.

On canned replies and trivial concerns

My bed and the computer are in the middle of a tug of war, pulling me in two opposite directions. One beckons me to sleep off the remaining jetlag in my body; the other draws me to pour what’s percolating in my mind. The fact you’re reading these words gives you a hint who’s pulling harder.

* * * * * * * * * *
Don’t you want to stay in the US for good?
I’ve been asked this question countless times already. By well-meaning friends and just-plain-curious acquaintances. My canned replies sit on the shelf of my mind. I pick the can to open depending on who’s asking and how much time we both could spare. As I tap these keys, I’m considering if I have enough mental energy to open the big can with the label which reads, “the top ten reasons why Beng prefers to stay in the Philippines.” Better not. It’s too late into the night to recover from the possible indigestion.

* * * * * * * * * *
Does God have an automated queuing machine that arranges prayers according to their level of urgency or say, the fervency with which these prayers were uttered? For instance, after I shoot a quick prayer for a lost CD, will that get relegated to the back of the queue because a mother’s plea for a sick daughter just came in? Should we feel embarrassed about coming to God with our trivial concerns? If yes, then which of our concerns are trivial to Him who highlights the sky with brilliant colors in the middle of the day just to make us smile?

* * * * * * * * * * *

The thoughts are coming in trickles now. I guess it’s time I let the bed win.

hating winter, learning trust

Life is unpredictable. Sometimes the best gifts come in the unlikeliest packages. The best lessons, from the unlikeliest teachers. For instance, who would have thought I’d relearn something as central to my faith as trust from three little boys?

For the past few weeks, I have been feeling that the chilly air is freezing my faith too. The prayers have been short and shallow while the doubts and fears, lingering and deep. I could almost touch with my hand the nagging sense of wrongness about what I have been feeling. I hate winter—not what’s outside the window but what’s inside my heart.

And then, it hit me. This word, trust. How much do I really trust God? Is my trust in Him strong enough to withstand the cold winds of life’s uncertainties? Enough to keep me feeling safe and secure when I am not sure which roads to follow, or if, in fact, there are still other roads to take?

And then, it hit me. This childlike kind of trust, theirs. Ian, who sometimes is jolted awake by bad dreams, can be hushed back to sleep by a simple stroke on his back. I should know, I have been sleeping next to him for the past few weeks. I tell him everything’s going to be alright with me by his side. And no monster, make-believe or otherwise, can harm him. Noah, when we are out at the mall or some other place, holds my hand and lets me take him wherever I lead him. He isn’t worried that I don’t exactly know if we should be turning left or right. With me walking with him, even without his parents in sight, he doesn’t panic. His hand is firmly grasped in mine. Ethan, the two-year old toddler, of my sister Rae, lets me bring him up in the air with my feet. No fear can be traced on his face as he lets go of a hearty giggle. He doesn’t care, even for one second, that I might drop him or break any of his fragile bones with one wrong move from me. He knows I wouldn't just let him go. Such trust. Unbelievable, yet real.

And so last night, I prayed.

Give me a faith like theirs, Lord. I want to trust You like they trust me. If they, in love, could trust a finite, limited, and faltering mortal like me, how much more should I be able to trust an infinite, powerful and faithful God like You?

I see the snow thawing. Winter—mine—will soon be over.


He (Jesus) said to them, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as there. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." And He took the children in His arms, put His hands on them and blessed them. (Mark 10:14-16)

Blinders

Racehorses have them, and I wish could wear them too: blinders.

This random thought visited me this morning while singing a Praise song with the line which says, “You’re altogether lovely, altogether worthy. Altogether wonderful to me.” Now how could an earthly thought such as this come to me while singing a song directed to the heavens?

Why the wish?

Because I am afraid that I am missing out on how lovely, how worthy and how wonderful He is. Sadly, I am often consumed by what I can see with my naked eyes. Most of the time I think only about the here and now. I should pick up my passport from the travel agent. Will that package fit my luggage? What astringent best lightens pimple marks? Yes, my being nearsighted and not having 20/20 vision makes me feel bad. But what makes me feel worse is my nearsightedness that cannot be remedied by a pair of prescription glasses.

Now, add to my nearsightedness my unbelievably strong tendency to get distracted by what or who are in the sidelines. I would easily get rattled when I catch a glimpse of the regrets of the past, insecurities of the present, fears of the future. Now, if I had blinders on, my focus will remain steady, set as flint. And that is, on Him who is the Author and Perfecter of my faith. On Him who thinks I'm special enough for Him to give His love and life to. On Him who tells me, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

To keep my eyes fixed on Him I need to give all of me: Exert every ounce of my strength, unravel every shred of my faith, and squeeze every drop of my self-will. Either I do that or God gives me blinders.

And I still have a long way to run in this track called life.

"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen
is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal (2 Corinthians 4:18)."

Freezing Ice Candy, Learning Patience

How long does it take for a tube of ice candy to harden in the freezer? Tell me please because for the past ten minutes, my nephew Pong has been asking me if he can have one.

"Tita Beng, pwede na?"
"Hindi pa."
(Pong, whining) "Pwede na. Tingin ako."

I lead him towards the refrigerator and take a tube out of the freezer. I tell him it’s still juice and that we have to wait a little longer. The four-year-old, three-foot fellow squeezes the tube, finally believes me and goes up their room. Meanwhile, while I am trying to surf the internet, he comes down the stairs, almost every two minutes, to ask me:

“Tita Beng, gusto ko ng ice candy. Pwede na?”

I laugh out loud. Can I blame my persistent nephew? He is still mastering his ABCs and there’s no way he will understand the concept of freezing point, of how it takes time before liquid turns into solid. Besides, even if by some stroke of genius his brain allows him to understand, will I be able to explain it to him? I’d rather coach him on writing an essay detailing the link between ice candy and world peace. It’ll be quite a stretch, I know, but hey, I can try. I’ll find that easier than explaining how the movement of molecules causes the change of a matter’s state.

Going back to Pong, I realize he is starting to exhibit the inherent male quality of having a focused mind. The conqueror in him has been awakened. He has a goal (the ice candy) but its fulfillment is not yet within reach. Nevertheless, that doesn’t stop him from channeling every ounce of his mental energy thinking about a tube filled with flavored liquid in the freezer. He wants his orange-colored ice candy NOW. I hear heavy footsteps. . .

“Tita Beng, okay na ba?”
“Hindi pa. Tatawagin na lang kita.”
“Okay.”

I’m making progress here. At least he’s starting to take my word for it and doesn’t feel the need to touch the ice candy himself. Ah, my nephew is displaying faith. Learning patience.

While I’m checking in on his ice candy, I’m considering giving him some words of wisdom. “It's not always easy to wait for something but if it means so much to you, it will be worth the wait. Trust me. God is teaching me the same.”

* * * * * * * * * * *
Epilogue: Pong didn't have to wait until the next morning to enjoy his much-coveted treat. Shortly after I finished writing this post, the ice candies were ready and I gave him and his brother a piece each. And since I did my own waiting on it too, I figured I also deserved one, a red one, as my prize. Just in case you're wondering, let me confirm, "Yes, it was worth the wait."

Rain on Me

Yesterday it rained so hard a part of me was worried that it wouldn’t end—at least for the next four hours or so. I was scheduled to go to Valenzuela that afternoon and I was thinking if I’d have to swim on my way back home to Paranaque. I shoot a quick prayer—more like a quiet wish, really—and ask God to please make the rain stop (Quite audacious for me to ask when I don’t feel I’m particularly “good” lately. But then again, isn’t that the essence of grace? Getting what we do not deserve?). The Lord graciously hears my plea and turns off the heavenly sprinkler system switch. I arrived at my destination safe, sound—and dry.

But in ordinary days, that is, days when I don’t have self-serving motives, I welcome these tiny drops from heaven. The sound of rain—falling drops on the tin roof, like the rhythmic pounding of drums—echoes feelings of peace. And contentment. As if every drop whispers to me, “Life is good.” Most of the time I agree and mutter, “Yes, it is.” And add, “Thanks to God.”

Yet I have this one disappointment. Of all the many rainy days that have come and gone lately, not once have I seen a rainbow slash across the sky. While typing these lines, I am trying to recall when was the last time an arc of color swept past my eyes. Too long ago, I’m afraid. It must be the location, I surmise. For how could I see a rainbow with my view obstructed by the buildings and billboards of the city?

This disappointment, fortunately, is canceled out by one realization. That is, though rainbows shyly hide from me, God reminds me why I need not see one for me to believe it’s there. It is there. Likewise, He affirms to me that hope—what a rainbow represents to me—is always within my reach, though not always within my sight. For isn’t that what a rainbow is made to do—to serve as a sign of God’s promise of love, mercy and kindness?

Life is good. Thanks to God. Let the rains come.

At Gloria Jean's

On my way home from a publicity stint at a teachers' seminar, I decide to stop by Gloria Jean's. Partly to escape the house which feels more like an oven; mainly to use the borrowed PDA keyboard from my silly and serious techie friend Aleks. I figured, as long as it's with me, I'm going to use it every minute I could. Like now.

Not particularly fond of coffee, I order the Green Tea latte. I grimace at my first sip--it tastes like there are actually dried tea leaves in my 12-ounce plastic cup(I was hopeful when I saw its picture, imagining it would taste less like real tea and more like C2). Nevertheless, I still give it a chance. I will try to drink all the way to the last drop while I convince myself, "Green tea is good for me...green tea is good for me." The honey-dipped doughnut saves my otherwise dismal late-afternoon snack.

With the many thoughts swirling in my mind, I couldn't catch one to pin down. Not that one, Beng, too personal. After writing three paragraphs about a sensitive topic, I felt trepid about it and save the paragraphs. Maybe for later.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Last night, after reading the introduction of The Bible Jesus Read, I turned straight to the chapter about Job. Philip Yancey contends that the book of Job--though tackling the man's series of misfortunes and hardships--is less about suffering than it is about faith. Here was a blameless and upright man who suddenly becomes the object of a divine wager. Satan accuses God, "This man Job believes in you only because you give him everything on a silver platter. Take away everything from him and let's see if he'll still love you (my paraphrase)." God accepts the challenge and allows Satan to touch everything around Job, including his health, as they both watch who between the two of them are right. On trial: God's name.

The lack of space hinders me from writing a long discourse about this enigma of Job's life. Besides, how could my puddle of thoughts compare with Yancey's ocean? But here's what struck me: What if God's name is on trial in my life? What if Satan accuses God in the same way about me: that I believe in God only because of the good things He is giving me? Or what if Satan dangles a Turkish delight in my face, knowing that if and when I take a bite, it would be like him being able to slap God's face? ("She said she'd honor you with her heart? Look at how she's dishonoring you now!")

I search my heart and tremble at the hypothetical scenario. I love God but do I love Him enough? I have faith but is it securely fastened not to be blown away when the winds of adversity storm?

Do I, like Job, have the faith it takes to let God win every time?

I don't know.

But this I know: I can ask God for a good memory. I can ask God not to make me forget His many acts of kindness in my life. Memories of when He patiently waited for me to come home while I wandered off; memories of when He redeemed me from the consequences of my sins; memories of when He surprised me with unexpected and extravagant gifts.

When all is suddenly lost from my life, I will have my memories of God's goodness. I will have a portrait of His love. I will have a treasure box of His miracles.

I can never be sure about my faith--that it will always hold up when doubts assail it. But if my memory serves me right, I can always be sure about my God.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Looking outside, I see that the sun has already punched out with the moon reporting for the night shift. I'm ready to pack the PDA and keyboard and finally head for home. An afternoon well-spent with Tungsten and Targus.

Martha Moments

I’ve always been a Martha—busy in the kitchen rather than busy with the Guest. Perpetually distracted by all the preparations that have to be made. I painstakingly take all the efforts to serve the most sumptuous meal to please Him who I thought to be hungry, when in reality, I am the one who is in need of feeding by Him.

I am aware of my tendency for overactivity, and aware that I need to pause every so often. There was a period when I deliberately withdrew from almost every ministry-related work—did not attend the fellowships I enjoyed so much, stopped singing in the choir, excused myself from serving in the core group of our professionals’ ministry. Longing to go back to where I came from, I packed the basic necessities of my faith and walked alone. I returned to the roots of my redemption—studied the Scriptures more intensively, prayed more earnestly—in the hopes of rekindling my First Love. I decided that I was going to sit at the feet of my Master. And stay there until my heart was filled.

Now, years later, I tiptoe my way back to the kitchen. Upon seeing the pot simmering with stew, I instinctively reach for the wooden spoon to stir it. The line “Do this and do that, Martha” echoes through my head again. Oh no, I didn’t realize how much work still needs to be done. Surely, God wouldn’t mind if I do all these. Surely, He wouldn’t mind if I miss a day or two of reading His Word. Wouldn’t mind if my prayers become more like telegraphic messages than honest pleas of my heart.

A tender Voice breaks through the cacophony of the clanging pots and pans. “You are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed.”

Oh Lord, will You ever tire of calling me away from the kitchen and back at Your feet?