thoughtI know, I know. It’s Monday. It’s also called cheating. But last weekend was so wonderful for me to skip writing about, so I won’t, even though I probably lost some of the details. A lot of things have happened now; I’ve written thousands of words, there’s a new Miss Universe, some of my most-awaited packages have arrived (including a new purse) and well, I’ve stuffed myself with sweets thanks to my brother bringing home some cake last Saturday. I’m not who I was. And that’s how it’s supposed to be.

Anyways, back to last Sunday

I god-mothered a child whose parents I hardly knew (but now I do, somewhat, please don’t take this in a bad light. I am just really wondering why you’d ask me, of all people, but I am grateful for the trust, and I am praying for your little baby). This event, held outside the church, was my dad’s first outdoor baptismal service, and being the greenhorn that he is, had asked for the counsel of the ladies (mom, the deaconess and Prodelyn, who was beautiful and simple and spunky at the same), who got his back. Always. It was the first out of the three commitments we had this last Sunday of November, and after feasting on the buffet lunch, off we went to the next.

The next, I must say, was probably the only event I was looking forward to go that day. It was none other than the unveiling of the marker of Atlag United Methodist Church, which happened to be set on their 116th Anniversary. If you’re wondering what this place is (Google it and you can easily spot it from the map) and why it had this special marker, please jump to their Facebook page. I am proud to say that I served 25+ years of my life here, and I still am, in one way or another.

I had the glorious opportunity of watching my good friend, Miko Galang, a soprano, show off the beauty of her talent after the marker was unveiled. The feeling, I must say, was probably like getting high on drugs, because it threw all of my feels out there, like I was lifted up when she set her vocals onto another bar. I was literally stunned and smiling and relishing that moment, and then I realized I have never been to any of her shows. Oh, wait, I was. But it wasn’t as mind-blowing as this.

Everyone felt like family, thanks to the good connections my parents made, and I’m like everyone’s adopted child / sister / pet. But I had to run back home to feed Chiba, and as I removed my feet from my shoes, I was determined not to go to the last event, which was something I hardly had interest about.

Boy, I was glad I came.

Dinner For a Cause isn’t something inviting. Especially if it was tagged as a Sacrificial Dinner. Sacrificial. Dinner. I mean, is someone getting sacrificed or are we not getting dinner? The title was so vague and the truth is, my brother and I were joking that we’re only getting water for the night, which was OK. And my apologies, but I was sarcastic all the way, only giving parts of my heart to the wonderful man who donated two parts of his land for the local Methodist community to use (one of which remained stagnant for years, shame), and, perhaps the most powerful revelation of the night, our guest speaker, Mrs. Olive de Leon.

She was a spunky woman, perhaps in her late sixties, with bright orange hair and a red blouse, wrapped with a black scarf to keep the cold away. She spoke with a trembling voice, and a sniff, and it made me wonder whether she was crying, but it was soft and truthful and genuine, the kind of voice your lola will use when speaking something so intimate. She stood on the platform with her back hunched a little, admitted that she will be drifting away from her “script,” and then, BOOM. God moved. God moved in this little, frail woman whose husband had Stage 4 Cancer. God moved in the powerful lines of Psalm 50 which was something like an awakening for me. God moved and there was a rush of tide inside my chest when I listened to her stories, all ad libs, all from her memory, and it wasn’t even as shiny and new, but she spilled it like a dam breaking into an open, and I was blessed.

I was so filled that night that I was praying if I could get close to her and ask for her blessing. But then again, how could I, when she herself gave her time, away from her sick husband, spoke truths, and asked for nothing in return? HOW DARE I?

Which is why I didn’t.

I came home last night with a lot of things inside my head. Some of which are still swirling there, alive and curious, talking to me and making me think. I thought about families. I thought about respect. I thought about that baked macaroni which was so delicious I would have gone for another heaping. I thought about my dad’s fat hands when he swayed them to the tune of the choir’s amazing songs. I thought about why Atlag UMC has no choir now. I thought about how my mom looked nice in her black blazer. I thought about my brother, who had a bad stomach. I thought about my bed. I thought about God, and what He can make out of me, and that He’s always right, and that He has eternity in mind.

For once, I have confirmed what true submission was: that God is God. That God is right. Even if we have done everything to please Him, He would allow things to speak of His glory, and it will be through the wounds on our skin and the cracks of our hearts. And we don’t have a say. We can’t retort back. We can’t reason out, “I don’t deserve this.” God is right. God is thinking of eternity. And as I left, albeit a bit disappointed, those words rolled inside my head before I sleep. No, it wasn’t fear. It was an assurance. It was victory. I saw it in Mrs. Olive’s eyes. Her husband has won his victory. She won hers. Not overcoming death or the pains stringed along with it, but stomping on fear like a footstool, and truly, genuinely believing, with full, childlike faith, in God’s heart.

Happy weekend. Happy weekstart. It doesn’t matter. You are where you are. Walk from there.