Past Life

The past month flew by in a bliss I almost didn’t notice it (probably because I was too busy floating). But before I say hello to August, let me just say that July has successfully climbed the charts as my, by far, most favorite month of the year. (Or, possibly, of my entire 24 years of existence.)

July came and went, and I’m never the same.

And it made me smile to realize that some of the most important milestones in my life happened in the month of July — coincidence or planned, I wouldn’t know for sure. But I always believe in God being mindful of the details and timelines in our lives, and how they mesh together with everyone else’s. So yeah, perhaps He’s got His hand on this after all. :)

It was July last year when my parents allowed me to move out of the house and experience full-blown “adult” independence for the first time. I can still remember how it felt being a spoiled little girl stepping out of her cage, a bit nervous, a bit unsure, a bit too careful, but excited just the same. It has been a year, and what do you know, I can actually say now with conviction that I’ve grown to a large extent, and in a lot of aspects too (sadly, not in height, sorry naman). But still. :P

Apparently, the annual Hillsong Conference happens every July too. And I wouldn’t re-tell my Hillsong dream anymore in detail, and how I feel about it every time July comes by, as I did the previous years. But just a rundown, I had my passport fixed about three years ago because of that Sydney dream, but ever since, something always comes up and stops me from flying to Oz. My passport expires in less than two years. I have 11 months til the next Hillsong Conference. The desire to go there is still here, intensifying each year that passes. Get the picture? :)

I wish Trish can read this now. She would always comment on my Hillsong drama and tell me she’d “see me there in Sydney next year“. She never got tired saying that every year. This year could be the right time to say it again. 11 months. I can wait.

On another note, I usually hate transitioning from one month to another ‘coz to a lot of us it means month-end reports, deadlines, and bills to be paid. I hate to see July go, but I’m excited to tear down another leaf off my calendar because it only means I could be getting closer and closer to The Dream. ;)

Well, bye July, for now. Hello, August, what do you have in store for us?

I’m stressed. (Ok, Ganns, you got that one right.) And I’m hurting. And it’s sad that sometimes, the very thing that used to unload your stress, or the very thing that protects you from pain, becomes The main source of pain.

I’ve tried a lot of ways to deal with pain, trust me. I’ve done drinking (ain’t gona happen again), wasting away money over unnecessary shopping, wallowing in depression and ranting about it over coffee with girlfriends, getting myself overly preoccupied with work, feasting on carbs and junkfood over some chickflick marathon.. you get the picture. In the long run, however, I’ve learned that nothing really cures pain more than this: to be still, be acquainted with that deep longing inside, and know, in spite not understanding, in spite not having a full grasp of the picture, that He is God.

It’s not the easiest road to take. Sometimes you wish there’s some medicine that you just have to take and all the pain will simply go away. Sometimes you feel that it’s less painful to be distracted with other things, than trust a God you can’t see or understand. But a time just comes when you know there’s no point concealing it, no point pretending you’re okay when you’re not.

This afternoon, I faced pain head on, no turning back. It wasn’t easy, opening up wounds that never did mend, allowing frustration to sink in, and acknowledging the reality that there are things that just.. can’t be. And it hurts big time. It involves a lot of crying, and a lot of shouting inside an empty apartment, and a lot of questioning if God hears.

For the first time in a long while, I wanted something so bad and I know I couldn’t have it.

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Almost exactly a year ago, I texted something to a group of friends ala forwarded message style. The thing is, that text wasn’t forwarded to me — I did it myself. And I even posted it up there for the sake of documenting it.

Now there comes a time in a girl’s life when she finds herself wishing that someone will just come to her rescue and tell her that it’s okay not to be tough.

That she doesn’t have to protect herself from getting hurt anymore because he’s already there to protect her.

That she doesn’t have to worry about getting her heart broken again because he’ll do whatever it takes not to let it happen.

Here’s the funny thing. Just now, I received the exact same text. From someone I met just about three months ago.

Unbelievable. Creepy, even. Almost.. magical.

I’m doing a little project (more like a dare), with a friend. Let me tell you about it soon. Meanwhile, help me out.

What can you say about paperclips?

Tell me anything. Thoughts, funny incidences with a paperclip (whatev), life changing decisions made with the help of a paperclip, jokes about paperclips, innovative ways of using paperclips, etc. Comment away. :)

I dreaded Fathers’ Day to come. I was scared to find out how I was going to feel being father-less in an occasion such as this for the first time. So let me tell you how my celebration of Fathers Day went.

In church, I’ve always been the designated person to do audio-visual presentations, so by default, I was tasked to make one for Fathers’ Day (which was shown in church yesterday). I hesitated at first, jokingly said “why would I? I don’t have a Dad!“, but decided to do it because I know that that’s what Daddy would have wanted me to do. Besides, SBC dads have always been like second fathers to me. It was a privilege doing something to honor them.

For obvious reasons, I cried doing the AVP Saturday night. And while it was being shown during the worship service, I cried watching it even though I’ve seen it over a dozen times already. I cried thinking about Dad, and how incomplete the occasion was without him. I cried thinking about how different things would have been if he was still around — he would have given me a big hug after the AVP was shown, told me something like, “Gawa mo ba yun, nak? Ang galing talaga ng anak ko! Kanino ka ba nagmana?” (even though the AVP was nothing spectacular). I cried seeing some of his pictures being flashed on the screen, and having people come up to me to tell me how great a person and a father Daddy was. I cried while Pastor Lito was praying for them fathers, thinking that it would have been Daddy doing that special fathers’ day prayer. I cried playing the keyboard up front, and seeing the monobloc chair where Daddy always sat, empty since he died, as if no one wants to occupy it because of an unspoken agreement that the seat was supposedly Dad’s.

As the worship service came to a close, I hugged my Mom and my brother, and while we jokingly greeted each other, “Happy Father-less Day to us”, we know, and we need not say it, that we have a lot of reasons to celebrate Fathers’ Day. Specifically this reason: God has blessed us with a great Daddy, and even though he’s now gone, we still have The Great Father in heaven, the same one who’s keeping the whole universe together, who holds our lives in His hands. For us, that’s more than enough.

As I said, I’ve learned that crying does not change the situation, but simply a release so that one has more room to fill with strength to cope, and to move on — at least that’s how it has worked for me. Come to think of it, no occasion will ever be the same again. There will always be that empty seat in Christmasses, and birthdays, and anniversaries, to come. As Miss Noemi always puts it, I’m entering my “new normal”. This is how it’s always gonna be from now on, and I need not be sad about it. We will always miss Dad, but there will always be that unexplainable joy that comes with knowing that even though he’s not here with us anymore, his memory lives on whatever happens and wherever we go.

I told my Dad I want this song, Butterfly Kisses, played on my wedding day (fine, if there’d be any, that is). We even practiced dancing to this one already, one Saturday afternoon in his church office, only we ended up banging our heads ala Beatles’ style, dancing variations of cha-cha (my Dad sucks at dancing hehe), and laughing throughout the music. *sigh* I miss him.

But at least I can always play this song and be remembered of that afternoon. :) And at least I can always close my eyes, think of that dream wedding, and picture Daddy there, dancing with me for the last time before he gives me away.

Happy Fathers’ Day, Daddy. I am who I am now because of how you and Mom raised us up and how you lived your lives. I love you and I thank God for you.

And to all the fathers out there, Happy Fathers Day! And to all the daughters, and Daddy’s little girls out there, this song, that my Dad and I would have danced together with on my wedding night, is for you. Listen away. :)

[audio:https://past.chasingdreams.net/audio/Bob%20Carlisle%20-%20Butterfly%20Kisses.mp3]
Audio: Butterfly Kisses by Bob Carlisle. Lyrics after the jump.

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Unlimited second chances — we see this all the time. It can be regarded as the idea behind everydays. You wake up, spend the day, do what you can, live to the fullest, and set aside other things for tomorrow because 24 hours is just not enough. You retire in bed knowing that tomorrow is another day, to make things right, to make the right choices, and if any, to accomplish the carryovers of the day that was.

But sometimes, second chances only come once. And then it ends there. No more third or fourth chances. No more begging for another chance. Just that one make-or-break chance to correct the wrong choices of the past and make things right — and then the moment is gone forever. Just that one flicker of hope which you can either blow away or try to keep burning — and then the flame dies down.

In my life I have failed many second chances, some of them haunts me until now in the form of should-have-beens and what-ifs.

(And I couldn’t help but think that today, we just lost ours.)

But one has to keep moving, to keep breathing, to leave the torments of yesterday behind and focus on what lies ahead. After all, today’s another day. And, if God wills, there’s still tomorrow to look forward to.

At this point, I’m left without a choice but to accept that I am a writer. Coz sometimes, I wonder.. if I’m not a writer, then what am I? If I’m not going to write, what else am I to do? If I can’t be good at writing, where else can I be good at?

It actually takes a lot of courage to admit these things to myself (which I have to do every single day by the way), much more to disclose these thoughts to an audience that includes professional writers and bloggers around the world who are brilliant at what they do.

I am what most people would call a jack of all trades, master of none. In wikipedia, this means

A person who is passably competent with many skills but is not outstandingly brilliant with any one particular skill.

Let me explain further.

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In the spirit of tradition, here’s another delayed hallmark greeting. :P (I’m an expert at being late.)

Anyway, exactly a year ago, I posted something with the same title. Now, I’m re-using it not because I can’t think of anything else but because after all these years, she‘s still super. :)

They say, if you’re a guy and you want to see how it’s like to be with a girl for the rest of your life, go see her Mom. More often than not, she’ll eventually end up like her, looks and all. In my case, I find that hard to believe, because (1) my Mom’s always composed, I stutter all the time; (2) she always remembers, I always forget; (3) she’s a great cook, I can only make scrambled eggs and instant pancit canton; (4) she’s a very strong woman (I’ve probably seen her cry about 5 times my whole life) and I, meanwhile, cry over the littlest of things (like a sappy movie, or a senti song, or a sick hamster); (5) she knows what she wants and she makes it happen, when I’m indecisive and coward most of the time.

I could list down a few dozens more, but I’ll stop here. The thing is, if indeed the theory was true, (that eventually, I’ll end up like my Mom), then yay for me. Looks like I’m going to have a bright future, after all. :P

I’m not the only one who wonders how my Mom manages to be strong and keep on with her life gracefully in spite of (physically) losing Daddy. Whenever I ask her how she does it, she would simply quote a Bible verse about God being the strength of her heart, or about finding peace in His promises, or of trusting Him even in times when she don’t understand. I told you, she’s super. I mean, it’s one thing knowing and saying these basic truths, another thing to really hold on to them and make them your lifestyle everyday. She’s amazing.

One thing for sure, if I get to have my own kids, I’d want to raise them the way my Mom (and my Dad) raised us up. Except that I’d probably allow my daughter to have a boyfriend at 18, unlike, uhm, them. Haha. (I’m not bitter okay.) Ultimately, I’d love it if one day, I’d hear my kids say that they’d want to be like me, too. (Gaah. I have to start working on that one now.)

Thank you for being the Super Mom that you are, and for imparting to us your genes, which gives us the potentials to be super too.

Happy Birthday Mommy! I love you.

Rule of the Game: I once admitted abnormally using and abusing parentheses in my blog posts or when I’m chatting with people, such that when I’m using them, I feel like “those parts that are enclosed in parentheses are invisible to everyone and I’m the only one who can see them”. So hey, let’s apply that one now just for fun (and because it’s raining and and I’m alone and I might say stuff I’m not supposed to say because they’re too emo or something, and I don’t want my boss to read this icky thing after sortof advising me to use my head more and my heart less).

Is it working? Yay. Ok. Good.

Disclaimer: Some parts of this post are semi-fictional, some are described just as they happened, some are figurative, and some written because I’m suffering major emo attacks (and mostly because of you). So, I duno. (Stop reading here?)

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And this time I mean it that way, and this way:

Holly Golightly: You know those days when you get the mean reds?

Paul Varjak: The mean reds, you mean like the blues?

Holly: No. The blues are because you’re getting fat and maybe it’s been raining too long, you’re just sad that’s all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid and you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?

Paul: Sure.

From Breakfast at Tiffany’s, through Normi.

Here’s more QLC drama for you. I swear it’s a vicious cycle. It never ends. Pfft.