Last night, Sean and I were talking about how the title "best friend" (aka BFF) gets tossed around so lightly... and tagged on the wrong (or on too many) people. When I was a sophomore in HS, I made that mistake. I never really used that label again.
In ninth grade, there was a guy I had a couple classes with. In Science, he was in my group with another good friend of mine and the three of us became pretty close. We would talk on the phone during th wake of three-way calling, watching TV together from our separate homes. And long before our freshman year was over, I had already dubbed him my "guy best friend." He was the only male I knew who fed my writing itch by had notes for me in exchange to the ones I handed him in the halls during passing period. And because I have always been pretty blind about guys liking me, I didn't even pick up on the fact that he walked a few miles during Christmas break to drop off a three-foot teddy bear at my house.
After our mutual friend confirmed that he had always had a crush on me, I began to panic. And I did the most un-best-friend-like thing: I started to avoid him. I tried to be sly about it at first, and then eventully, I simply ignored all his efforts to pursue the same friendship I had always enjoyed - even when he never made any unusual or inappropriate advances beyond our usual exchanges. In fact, I never even gave him the chance to share his feelings nor did I give him a reason for my sudden distant attitude toward him: the guy I claimed to be my best friend.
Not long after that, I started hanging out with another girl to stay way from my usual path of contact with him. And perhaps I felt a need to have a "best friend," she inherited the title very quickly and without having to prove her worth to me. She said I was her best friend too, so how could I go wrong with that decision, right? Well karma bit back with a vengeance after what I had done just a few short months earlier and yet, when all the drama was flying about, my 15year-old self-centered nature couldn't believe my "best friend" could betray me. How dare she be so careless with our friendship?!
I went through the rest of high school working on my friendships with others. The cheerleaders and jocks, the decathalon team members, the wallflowers, the gangbangers of Fontana - I was in good terms with them all. In fact, I was voted "Friendliest" my senior year. Yet I always feared the curse of the title, and even when someone had finally earned her place on that stand, I still referred to her as my "closest friend."
Because up until last night, I used to think that claiming someone as your best friend raised one's expectatitions to almost unattainable levels. You wanted them to be beyond human and incapable if disappointing or hurting you, especially on purpose. But then it dawned on me: maybe we look at it all wrong. Perhaps giving someone the "best friend" title doesn't describe how they should treat me, but instead how I already treat them now.
So just before we fell asleep, I told Sean that I wanted there to be nobody on this planet who appreciated and loved him more completely than I do... and that I would do my best to ensure my actions reflected those sentiments. It doesn't mean we will not disagree or misunderstand each other - we ARE married, after all. (Lol.)
But the way I see it, in my limited comprehension of this wide, vast universe, if I claim to to have married my "BFF," shouldn't my husband receive better treatment from me than any other person he comes in contact with - including his own family with whom he left in order to build a future with me? And at the very least, shouldn't I treat him better than I do all my other friends?
Food for thought...
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Monday, April 15, 2013
Non-pregnancy-related cravings
It is official! As of today, I have entered the second half of my pregnancy. Twenty weeks down, another twenty left to go, God-willing. And even with so much time left on the countdown, it is difficult at times to fathom that this is already three times further than our first pregnancy last year.
But as always, with excitement comes a feeling of trepidation. After all, the bridge between these current days of spring to the dawn of autumn is a long, hot, and unbearable summer. As if the mere thought of being the size of a young elephant isn't enough to send sweat beads to rolling down my body, it terrifies me to know I must bake in the heat of a typical Southern California summer at the same time. To make matters worse, my gestational diabetes is going to limit, and perhaps altogether restrict, the usual heat-breakers
But as always, with excitement comes a feeling of trepidation. After all, the bridge between these current days of spring to the dawn of autumn is a long, hot, and unbearable summer. As if the mere thought of being the size of a young elephant isn't enough to send sweat beads to rolling down my body, it terrifies me to know I must bake in the heat of a typical Southern California summer at the same time. To make matters worse, my gestational diabetes is going to limit, and perhaps altogether restrict, the usual heat-breakers
Monday, April 8, 2013
A long time ago, in a country far, far away...
Yesterday was an eye- and heart-opener for me. In the company of my longest friend (one I have seen a handful of times in 25 years), I have come to appreciate my life so much more.
Exactly a quarter century ago, shortly after meeting Shella in 4th grade, my siblings and I stepped off a plane at SFO for what should have been summer vacation from school. It was supposed to be about visiting our grandparents and relatives, but most importantly, we were thrilled with the idea of going to Disneyland. This is one long summer... a Gilligan's Island sort of three-hour tour.
I am not going to say that life in the USA became easier or better than in Manila because in many ways, it was much more difficult. Gone were the days of maids making my bed, preparing meals, cleaning the house, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, etc... all the same tasks that I struggle with now. However, it appears all America's best efforts to make me completely independent of others has backfired. I find myself more reliant on my family for the most vital, yet under-rated, needs of love and moral support. Instead of cutting the strings loose, I have welded myself to my siblings permanently. I have also found a husband I choose not to live without, in this simple life of essentials that is actually reminiscent of my days in the Philippines.
Life has not always been good... because life was never meant to be easy. And despite the bumps on the tracks and intimidating corkscrews that often come without warning, boy has it been quite a ride! Good thing that when I was bold, and perhaps stupid, enough to let go of God's HANDrails, He still had his safety hARMness across my heart to keep me from falling out.
In seeing Shella yesterday, with our respective partners, sisters, and even godsons, I have come to see where the 25 years have taken us. How roads are never really parallel because they cross somehow, somewhere... and often at multiple vertices.
Shella and I have come far from being the tomboys of our St. Scholastica's College class in a land across the Pacific all those years ago. Yet heaven had a plan for us both - separate but equal. And sometimes, when our lives intersect and are not quite "separate," like at her godson's superhero birthday party yesterday, I realize that life must be judged as a whole and not in bad or good moments. Therefore, life IS, and should always be categorized, as "nothing short of a miracle."
Exactly a quarter century ago, shortly after meeting Shella in 4th grade, my siblings and I stepped off a plane at SFO for what should have been summer vacation from school. It was supposed to be about visiting our grandparents and relatives, but most importantly, we were thrilled with the idea of going to Disneyland. This is one long summer... a Gilligan's Island sort of three-hour tour.
I am not going to say that life in the USA became easier or better than in Manila because in many ways, it was much more difficult. Gone were the days of maids making my bed, preparing meals, cleaning the house, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, etc... all the same tasks that I struggle with now. However, it appears all America's best efforts to make me completely independent of others has backfired. I find myself more reliant on my family for the most vital, yet under-rated, needs of love and moral support. Instead of cutting the strings loose, I have welded myself to my siblings permanently. I have also found a husband I choose not to live without, in this simple life of essentials that is actually reminiscent of my days in the Philippines.
Life has not always been good... because life was never meant to be easy. And despite the bumps on the tracks and intimidating corkscrews that often come without warning, boy has it been quite a ride! Good thing that when I was bold, and perhaps stupid, enough to let go of God's HANDrails, He still had his safety hARMness across my heart to keep me from falling out.
In seeing Shella yesterday, with our respective partners, sisters, and even godsons, I have come to see where the 25 years have taken us. How roads are never really parallel because they cross somehow, somewhere... and often at multiple vertices.
Shella and I have come far from being the tomboys of our St. Scholastica's College class in a land across the Pacific all those years ago. Yet heaven had a plan for us both - separate but equal. And sometimes, when our lives intersect and are not quite "separate," like at her godson's superhero birthday party yesterday, I realize that life must be judged as a whole and not in bad or good moments. Therefore, life IS, and should always be categorized, as "nothing short of a miracle."
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
God had nothing to do with it
Today commemorates two very important milestones in my life. In 2011, I married the loving man only heaven could have polished and prepared for me. Exactly a year later, on our first wedding anniversary, we received news that my estranged father in the Philippines had passed. Needless to say, April 2nd will forever be a bittersweet day of remembrance.
It was a particularly rough week, this time last year. Just days before, Sean and I were in the hospital for a routine ultrasound during our 9th week of pregnancy only to discover that the fetus had stopped developing a few weeks earlier. I was bed-ridden with grief and the pain medication. So to receive news of yet another tragedy was much more than my heart could handle. And needless to say, my faith was tested - but not in the way many would have expected.
I didn't ask the typical "Why?" or "Why me?" and probably the most obvious, "Why now? All at the same time." Because for the first time in my life, I really believed the cliche that God had something better intended in the future... that He knew what He was doing... that I simply needed to trust His plans. So I didn't ask "Why?" because there really was no need to.
But amidst this mighty calm (though don't get me wrong, a lot of crying was involved in the weeks and months ahead), a different obstacle rear-ended me. Because I lacked the desire to question/doubt His plans while still drowning in the misery of the recent events, I did not have the need to pray. Instead I had convinced myself, that if God could read my every thought and hurt anyway, why was it necessary to fumble through words to express all that rocked in my soul? And more importantly, even though I wanted to, how would I do such an impossible task? No combination of words in any language (in existence or not) could properly represent my thoughts or feelings. So why bother, right?
I reverted back to my younger days when prayers entailed the pre-scripted words passed down through the generations. I continued to say grace before meals. I attended mass regularly and participated accordingly. There were even times when I could complete the rosary before sleep took over. But it was far from the relationship with God that I had been slowly and steadily building through my adult years.
Coming to this realization, I sought help. Not from mental health professionals, not even from the clergy within my local parish. I sent my friend, Robyn, an email soliciting her assistance. In the decade I have known her, she has always been the person of faith I needed to continue my Christian journey despite the difference in our denominations. To say she knows me well, would be an understatement and she was the most likely candidate to approach for the task I had in mind. For the first time in my life, I asked someone to pray for me - and I do not mean, to lift up intentions that I needed - but this time, I needed Robyn to pray for me. To pray on my behalf because I wasn't doing it for myself the way I once was. She was taken aback at the gravity of my request, but as I knew she would, she took on the added responsibility of my prayer life willingly. For this, I will be eternally indebted to her.
Months passed, and as always, I got my the answers while driving alone. Throughout that whole "when it rains, it pours" period in my life, I remember just wishing it all didn't happen at the same time. And especially not around my first anniversary. I must admit that I was a bit disappointed with heaven for not cutting me some slack, and instead busted out their "big guns" of tragedy. Then it dawned on me... God had nothing to do with the timing of it all.
The first trimester miscarriage, for example, was the handiwork of what scientist would describe as natural selection. There was something wrong with the genetic foundation in the early developmental stages and simply ceased production. The heartbeat, according to the doctor had likely stopped weeks earlier and for one reason or another, my body had not processed the termination on its own and kept the fetus instead of dispelling it. Strange isn't it, how so many use science to debunk the existence of God, and yet when science rears its ugly head, we are all so quick to blame Him.
Again, science was to responsible for the death of my father. An alcoholic for a majority of his lifetime, he had also started smoking in his early teens. These vices by themselves would have cut anybody's life span significantly and combined, they proved to be a lethal pair. If anything, he probably lived so much longer than he should have. Given the circumstances, it is a miracle that he lived just short of his 68th birthday. So you see, I don't believe that God scheduled my father to die on my anniversary to make me miserable. It was my father's body that just gave up because the work to stay alive was just too difficult and painful. And in fact, if we must get scientific, it was still April 1 Pacific Standard Time when we found out the news. Technically, he didn't die on our anniversary.
But on a grander scale, a very important revelation has settled within me since: perhaps God did have a reason to postpone his death until this specific date. After all, He knew very well that the relationship with my father had been strained for decades. We hadn't spoken since I visited Manila in 1997 and although the letter I sent twenty years afterward expressed forgiveness and even gratitude, its receipt was never confirmed. God knew that we let life fly by so quickly and my father was definitely the last on my list of worries, even when he was alive. And it is because of these points that I have come to accept the high possibility that his death on April 2, 2012 was no coincidence.
Yes, celebrating my wedding anniversary from now on will be bittersweet knowing that amidst the joyous occasion of the day, there is also a sense of loss because my father's death will forever be linked to it. But I now understand God's reason for allowing the cards to fall as they have: this was the only way He could guarantee that I would think of my dad... at least once a year. A day that would assuage the pain of his loss with the happiness of another successful year with my husband. A reminder that my dad would have turned back time if he could, to dedicate to marriage and family, the way Sean and I have the opportunity to do today and everyday ahead. And a lesson in the importance of communicating love to our parents and children because life is temporary and time passes so quickly.
These lessons, on the other hand, God has everything to do with. And who am I to contest that?
It was a particularly rough week, this time last year. Just days before, Sean and I were in the hospital for a routine ultrasound during our 9th week of pregnancy only to discover that the fetus had stopped developing a few weeks earlier. I was bed-ridden with grief and the pain medication. So to receive news of yet another tragedy was much more than my heart could handle. And needless to say, my faith was tested - but not in the way many would have expected.
I didn't ask the typical "Why?" or "Why me?" and probably the most obvious, "Why now? All at the same time." Because for the first time in my life, I really believed the cliche that God had something better intended in the future... that He knew what He was doing... that I simply needed to trust His plans. So I didn't ask "Why?" because there really was no need to.
But amidst this mighty calm (though don't get me wrong, a lot of crying was involved in the weeks and months ahead), a different obstacle rear-ended me. Because I lacked the desire to question/doubt His plans while still drowning in the misery of the recent events, I did not have the need to pray. Instead I had convinced myself, that if God could read my every thought and hurt anyway, why was it necessary to fumble through words to express all that rocked in my soul? And more importantly, even though I wanted to, how would I do such an impossible task? No combination of words in any language (in existence or not) could properly represent my thoughts or feelings. So why bother, right?
I reverted back to my younger days when prayers entailed the pre-scripted words passed down through the generations. I continued to say grace before meals. I attended mass regularly and participated accordingly. There were even times when I could complete the rosary before sleep took over. But it was far from the relationship with God that I had been slowly and steadily building through my adult years.
Coming to this realization, I sought help. Not from mental health professionals, not even from the clergy within my local parish. I sent my friend, Robyn, an email soliciting her assistance. In the decade I have known her, she has always been the person of faith I needed to continue my Christian journey despite the difference in our denominations. To say she knows me well, would be an understatement and she was the most likely candidate to approach for the task I had in mind. For the first time in my life, I asked someone to pray for me - and I do not mean, to lift up intentions that I needed - but this time, I needed Robyn to pray for me. To pray on my behalf because I wasn't doing it for myself the way I once was. She was taken aback at the gravity of my request, but as I knew she would, she took on the added responsibility of my prayer life willingly. For this, I will be eternally indebted to her.
Months passed, and as always, I got my the answers while driving alone. Throughout that whole "when it rains, it pours" period in my life, I remember just wishing it all didn't happen at the same time. And especially not around my first anniversary. I must admit that I was a bit disappointed with heaven for not cutting me some slack, and instead busted out their "big guns" of tragedy. Then it dawned on me... God had nothing to do with the timing of it all.
The first trimester miscarriage, for example, was the handiwork of what scientist would describe as natural selection. There was something wrong with the genetic foundation in the early developmental stages and simply ceased production. The heartbeat, according to the doctor had likely stopped weeks earlier and for one reason or another, my body had not processed the termination on its own and kept the fetus instead of dispelling it. Strange isn't it, how so many use science to debunk the existence of God, and yet when science rears its ugly head, we are all so quick to blame Him.
Again, science was to responsible for the death of my father. An alcoholic for a majority of his lifetime, he had also started smoking in his early teens. These vices by themselves would have cut anybody's life span significantly and combined, they proved to be a lethal pair. If anything, he probably lived so much longer than he should have. Given the circumstances, it is a miracle that he lived just short of his 68th birthday. So you see, I don't believe that God scheduled my father to die on my anniversary to make me miserable. It was my father's body that just gave up because the work to stay alive was just too difficult and painful. And in fact, if we must get scientific, it was still April 1 Pacific Standard Time when we found out the news. Technically, he didn't die on our anniversary.
But on a grander scale, a very important revelation has settled within me since: perhaps God did have a reason to postpone his death until this specific date. After all, He knew very well that the relationship with my father had been strained for decades. We hadn't spoken since I visited Manila in 1997 and although the letter I sent twenty years afterward expressed forgiveness and even gratitude, its receipt was never confirmed. God knew that we let life fly by so quickly and my father was definitely the last on my list of worries, even when he was alive. And it is because of these points that I have come to accept the high possibility that his death on April 2, 2012 was no coincidence.
Yes, celebrating my wedding anniversary from now on will be bittersweet knowing that amidst the joyous occasion of the day, there is also a sense of loss because my father's death will forever be linked to it. But I now understand God's reason for allowing the cards to fall as they have: this was the only way He could guarantee that I would think of my dad... at least once a year. A day that would assuage the pain of his loss with the happiness of another successful year with my husband. A reminder that my dad would have turned back time if he could, to dedicate to marriage and family, the way Sean and I have the opportunity to do today and everyday ahead. And a lesson in the importance of communicating love to our parents and children because life is temporary and time passes so quickly.
These lessons, on the other hand, God has everything to do with. And who am I to contest that?
Saturday, March 30, 2013
A Tale of Two Ladies
It was the best of times for one, and easily the worst of times for the other. And yet, with a little more information, some personal background, one is unlikely to guess which of the two is truly getting the rotten end of the deal. I, myself, never gave it much thought until last night because I had figured it was a pointless comparison to make.
Rose* and Michelle*, both in their mid-twenties, are less than two months apart in age. They attended the same high school in an affluent Southern California suburb, although their respective families were very mindful of their money in order to scrape by. Rose and Michelle were both good students and athletes, continuing their education in exclusive private colleges after graduation. Coincidentally, though due to very different circumstances, they were forced to leave their respective schools prematurely. This is where the similarities between these two ladies end.
Rose is the sixth of seven siblings who lived in a household with little rules and vague boundaries for the children to abide by. She always described it as being chaotic, with people and pets swarming every corner of their quaint homes. For as far back as she could recall, her parents were estranged and they eventually divorced after accusations of infidelity. Rose made the conscious decision to cut communication with her father after secrets of more serious transgressions had surfaced.
Michelle, on the other hand, is the youngest of two girls from an inter-racial marriage. The rules to abide by were clear and firm, founded by her mother's own traditional upbringing and need to protect her daughters from the lax American society. Though they were raised very differently, Michelle's parents made a good team. The hot-tempered wife entered the workforce and served as the family's bred-winner while her mild-mannered husband played Mr. Mom during his remission from cancer. Both Michelle and her older sister adored him. She shared his love of sports and he was ever-present at all her matches.
It is easy to see which of the two ladies in this story started off with an advantage for the future. One would assume that Michelle's life sets her up for a more prosperous adult life and Rose, with all her baggage, would have too much to carry to ever find peace. But incidentally, that is not the case.
After many years of fighting the current that hindered her, Rose is in a good place. Today, she boasts the possession of a college degree as well as a full-time managerial position at the retail store she has worked at for several years. She also serves as a volunteer at a women's shelter and is in a healthy and thriving relationship with a man she cares for deeply. Despite the obstacles of her youth, Rose has finally found a smoother path to take. One that allows her to rest with greater ease. Unfortunately, Michelle's roller coaster has only just begun to pick up speed.
Her older sister was pregnant at the age of 16 and shortly after Michelle graduated high school, she was already an aunt to two young nieces with different fathers. Although the unexpected additions were welcomed into the family as blessings, it did come at a price. Money was even more scarce, as both fathers had relinquished all rights to their children in one way or another. Michelle found herself with the added obligation of baby-sitting and even though she was more than willing to help out, the additional responsibilities limited her social life: a vital aspect of the college experience.
Tragedy struck suddenly when the dormant cancer had become active in her father's body again a few years ago. The strain and worry of the diagnosis and medical treatments were enough to plunge the whole family into physical and emotional deterioration. Sadly, Michelle's father - her hero and best friend - lost his battle in the summer of 2011. But instead of alleviating tension within the family, it only brought on more stress. And just a few months ago, after an argument with their widowed mother, Michelle's older sister walked out, leaving her two daughters behind. The girls have not heard their mother's voice nor seen her face since the New Year.
Currently, Michelle is still attempting to finish her coursework at the local community college before she can enter a nursing program. She is the one who sends her nieces off to school every morning and rushes home from class to pick them up each afternoon. With her mother still working many hours and enduring a brutal commute to support their family, Michelle also chauffers the girls to extra-curricular activities and prepares dinner for them almost every night - duties of her father many years ago. She rarely has time for herself, much less the energy to pursue bonds with her peers. For as long as I have known her, Michelle has never had a boyfriend.
And if it couldn't get any worse, Michelle accompanied her mother to the hospital this morning for a biopsy to be done on a lump discovered in her breast. I cannot even begin to fathom what thoughts and feelings are going through her head and heart. No words of support will sound reassuring enough to her at this point. Perhaps ever. So what I feel now is expressed in silent prayer and I can only hope that she looks to heaven for an outlet and source of comfort. Because at the very least, she is guaranteed her father's presence there.
What a humbling lesson it has been for me to witness life work in these two women and attempt to grasp the logic in the inexplicable... and accept my responsibility to rejoice with Rose's brightening horizon while holding Michelle's hand through whatever lurks ahead. Because in moments of realization such as these, I come to understand that my wisdom is neither fleeting nor permanent, but non-existent altogether.
____________________________________
* names have been changed to retain the anonimity of each woman
Rose* and Michelle*, both in their mid-twenties, are less than two months apart in age. They attended the same high school in an affluent Southern California suburb, although their respective families were very mindful of their money in order to scrape by. Rose and Michelle were both good students and athletes, continuing their education in exclusive private colleges after graduation. Coincidentally, though due to very different circumstances, they were forced to leave their respective schools prematurely. This is where the similarities between these two ladies end.
Rose is the sixth of seven siblings who lived in a household with little rules and vague boundaries for the children to abide by. She always described it as being chaotic, with people and pets swarming every corner of their quaint homes. For as far back as she could recall, her parents were estranged and they eventually divorced after accusations of infidelity. Rose made the conscious decision to cut communication with her father after secrets of more serious transgressions had surfaced.
Michelle, on the other hand, is the youngest of two girls from an inter-racial marriage. The rules to abide by were clear and firm, founded by her mother's own traditional upbringing and need to protect her daughters from the lax American society. Though they were raised very differently, Michelle's parents made a good team. The hot-tempered wife entered the workforce and served as the family's bred-winner while her mild-mannered husband played Mr. Mom during his remission from cancer. Both Michelle and her older sister adored him. She shared his love of sports and he was ever-present at all her matches.
It is easy to see which of the two ladies in this story started off with an advantage for the future. One would assume that Michelle's life sets her up for a more prosperous adult life and Rose, with all her baggage, would have too much to carry to ever find peace. But incidentally, that is not the case.
After many years of fighting the current that hindered her, Rose is in a good place. Today, she boasts the possession of a college degree as well as a full-time managerial position at the retail store she has worked at for several years. She also serves as a volunteer at a women's shelter and is in a healthy and thriving relationship with a man she cares for deeply. Despite the obstacles of her youth, Rose has finally found a smoother path to take. One that allows her to rest with greater ease. Unfortunately, Michelle's roller coaster has only just begun to pick up speed.
Her older sister was pregnant at the age of 16 and shortly after Michelle graduated high school, she was already an aunt to two young nieces with different fathers. Although the unexpected additions were welcomed into the family as blessings, it did come at a price. Money was even more scarce, as both fathers had relinquished all rights to their children in one way or another. Michelle found herself with the added obligation of baby-sitting and even though she was more than willing to help out, the additional responsibilities limited her social life: a vital aspect of the college experience.
Tragedy struck suddenly when the dormant cancer had become active in her father's body again a few years ago. The strain and worry of the diagnosis and medical treatments were enough to plunge the whole family into physical and emotional deterioration. Sadly, Michelle's father - her hero and best friend - lost his battle in the summer of 2011. But instead of alleviating tension within the family, it only brought on more stress. And just a few months ago, after an argument with their widowed mother, Michelle's older sister walked out, leaving her two daughters behind. The girls have not heard their mother's voice nor seen her face since the New Year.
Currently, Michelle is still attempting to finish her coursework at the local community college before she can enter a nursing program. She is the one who sends her nieces off to school every morning and rushes home from class to pick them up each afternoon. With her mother still working many hours and enduring a brutal commute to support their family, Michelle also chauffers the girls to extra-curricular activities and prepares dinner for them almost every night - duties of her father many years ago. She rarely has time for herself, much less the energy to pursue bonds with her peers. For as long as I have known her, Michelle has never had a boyfriend.
And if it couldn't get any worse, Michelle accompanied her mother to the hospital this morning for a biopsy to be done on a lump discovered in her breast. I cannot even begin to fathom what thoughts and feelings are going through her head and heart. No words of support will sound reassuring enough to her at this point. Perhaps ever. So what I feel now is expressed in silent prayer and I can only hope that she looks to heaven for an outlet and source of comfort. Because at the very least, she is guaranteed her father's presence there.
What a humbling lesson it has been for me to witness life work in these two women and attempt to grasp the logic in the inexplicable... and accept my responsibility to rejoice with Rose's brightening horizon while holding Michelle's hand through whatever lurks ahead. Because in moments of realization such as these, I come to understand that my wisdom is neither fleeting nor permanent, but non-existent altogether.
____________________________________
* names have been changed to retain the anonimity of each woman
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Three hundred sixty five days ago...
Yesterday was particularly strange. My husband, Sean, and I attended a Lenten penance service and upon arrival, the church was packed. Everyone else seemed to have had the same last minute idea to go to confession before Holy Week really got underway.
As I waited in line for my turn with the priest, I attempted to do an evaluation of conscience. My thoughts wandered as always and I soon found myself looking back to last year. Because at that exact day in 2012, we received the heartbreaking diagnosis that our first pregnancy had stopped developing a few weeks earlier. This was just the beginning of most difficult week of my life.
After a couple of days, news about the death of my estranged father in Manila made its way instantaneously across the Pacific Ocean. And to make matters worse, because of the difference in time between the Philippines and the U.S., he died on the day of my first wedding anniversary with Sean.
So as I sat there on the church pew, contemplating the anniversaries of the coming week, I couldn't help be feel beat down and discouraged. But at the same time, how could I not feel empowered by the journey I had survived in the last 365 days? How far I have come from those days of despair and misery, after all.
It is so easy, actually, to hold on to bad feelings and carry it everyday for a year... and for some, for years afterward. How many of us use grief and pain and heartbreak to become hard and selfish? ...idle and unproductive? ...cruel and thoughtless? It becomes the reason we wake up in the morning with a negative attitude and the excuse to treat others poorly. In retrospect, how often do we use our own good feelings to do the same? How often do we allow self-esteem and pride turn into arrogance and greed? Do we use our good feelings about ourselves and our accomplishments to believe we are better that others?
Something I have learned in this life (and was reiterated this time last year): going through difficult times does not exempt me from abiding by the Golden Rule. I have come to a harsh realization also, that there are always people experiencing more tumultuous storms that I am struggling through. Because in spite of the events of last year, I am very blessed to have had the unconditional love and support of my husband and although the already-strong bond between my brother, sister, and I was tested amidst tragedy, we arrived at the other side closer than ever. To be quite honest, I almost feel guilty for coming out of that tornado stronger than before it hit.
So in my fleeting wisdom brought on by an opportunity to reflect, I have come to discover the power of emotion - both good and bad - and its ability to hinder us from what we have been put on this world to accomplish: to be loving, kind people to ourselves and one another.
As I waited in line for my turn with the priest, I attempted to do an evaluation of conscience. My thoughts wandered as always and I soon found myself looking back to last year. Because at that exact day in 2012, we received the heartbreaking diagnosis that our first pregnancy had stopped developing a few weeks earlier. This was just the beginning of most difficult week of my life.
After a couple of days, news about the death of my estranged father in Manila made its way instantaneously across the Pacific Ocean. And to make matters worse, because of the difference in time between the Philippines and the U.S., he died on the day of my first wedding anniversary with Sean.
So as I sat there on the church pew, contemplating the anniversaries of the coming week, I couldn't help be feel beat down and discouraged. But at the same time, how could I not feel empowered by the journey I had survived in the last 365 days? How far I have come from those days of despair and misery, after all.
It is so easy, actually, to hold on to bad feelings and carry it everyday for a year... and for some, for years afterward. How many of us use grief and pain and heartbreak to become hard and selfish? ...idle and unproductive? ...cruel and thoughtless? It becomes the reason we wake up in the morning with a negative attitude and the excuse to treat others poorly. In retrospect, how often do we use our own good feelings to do the same? How often do we allow self-esteem and pride turn into arrogance and greed? Do we use our good feelings about ourselves and our accomplishments to believe we are better that others?
Something I have learned in this life (and was reiterated this time last year): going through difficult times does not exempt me from abiding by the Golden Rule. I have come to a harsh realization also, that there are always people experiencing more tumultuous storms that I am struggling through. Because in spite of the events of last year, I am very blessed to have had the unconditional love and support of my husband and although the already-strong bond between my brother, sister, and I was tested amidst tragedy, we arrived at the other side closer than ever. To be quite honest, I almost feel guilty for coming out of that tornado stronger than before it hit.
So in my fleeting wisdom brought on by an opportunity to reflect, I have come to discover the power of emotion - both good and bad - and its ability to hinder us from what we have been put on this world to accomplish: to be loving, kind people to ourselves and one another.
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