..The Size of Your Cross..

One day, I woke up and glanced at myself in the mirror. I have no complaints, despite of my untamed hair ready to be nested by birds. As I closely neared my face to my image, I noticed some pimples on my already mole-content face it looked like a replica of big dipper. My chinita eyes slowly widened just like in anime, the bathroom walls twisted I feel like I’m in Milky Way as my tonsil is visible uttering the word “Nooooooo!”. Well of course, that’s an explicit over rated reaction. I prayed to God that if my moles are impossible to be removed by an eraser, He can just stop telling my pimples to go away. I won’t complain if it looks like a Big Dipper.

The Heavy Cross.

I’ve been working as a nurse for years. When I left home, I took the big risks. My mom used to think that I was crazy. Crazy enough to leave my US application just like that after passing all the Foreign Exams that cost her much. Crazy enough to leave my family, my friends, and the comfort of home. I took the biggest detour of my life. Three months after I left, my grandmother died. I was in reverie if I did the right decision. For I will never see her again. Never to hug and kiss her the day I had those last embrace. I felt like it was a heavy cross too much for me to bear. My being rebellious, I thought, was taking its toll on me. I wanted to stop being a nurse.

Days unfolded, yet, every day is a struggle to recuperate. Until I learned to forgive myself. And managed to dance with the thought that I cannot undo the time, so I will make the best out of those decisions I made. I wanted to be a nurse again. Be the best nurse for my patients. I’ll make my grandma proud.

I don’t know how to elaborate the nature of my job. It knows no holidays. It knows no seconds, minutes, or hours. Because every moment counts. It doesn’t care if your tummy is growling, especially if your patient is deciding to which it will bind: life or death. It’s not oblivious of the sunrise, or sunset, or raindrops. When your patient is off from the ventilator, when he starts to mumble words, or even just a slight movement of his finger, then he becomes your sunrise, your sunset, your drizzle. More beautiful than the one you can ever paint. You forget the many aching muscles and the emotional upsets. You forget how heavy your cross is. Because you learned to embrace it.

The Lighter Cross.

I do not handle patients lately. No more night shifts for almost a year. No more adrenaline rush when the patient goes on flat line. No more bed baths and smell of sh*t. I have a lighter cross to carry. The ironic thing is, I missed my days of patient’s contact. That feeling of relief when you wipe your forehead and say, “whew, that was close”. That feeling of relief when your doctor says, “we have a pulse”. The “lighter” Cross seemed not suiting me well. I miss my other Cross, the one that gives me growling tummy, the one that provokes my adrenaline rush. Even if it means missing the sunrise, and the sunset, or the raindrops.

So in one cold afternoon, while the 31-bed new ICU is basking in solitude, I sat down in desolation  and conversed with the Lord.

“How’s your Cross lately?” He smiled.

Errr, lighter, I squint. Can I ask You a question? But don’t get mad.

“I’m listening.”

Why did you gave me those pimples? You know, in the bathroom, front of the mirror.

“Ahh. Those pimples. You always complain of those moles in your face. Big Dipper, right?”

Errr, yeahhhh. I bit my lip.

“I heard you bargaining to keep those moles and that I take those pimples away, instead. Well, your moles might be a heavy cross for you. So I gave you a lighter one. Your pimples. They are just temporary, it’s an easy, "lighter" cross. But you wanted me to keep that “heavy cross” instead of the lighter one.

Kim, I designed you in a way that you may be able to carry the right cross for you. Not too heavy, not too light. I gave you paths that are fitting in your journey while you are carrying that cross. Not so rocky, not so smooth. Just enough so you can pass through it. I gave you people to help you carry it through. Not so many, not so few. Just good enough so they can bear your pains and joys.

That one day, you’ll knock at My doorstep, giving back the Cross I gave you. I wanted to see those eyes, those smiles that glitter in pure surrender while I am listening to you saying, “God, thank you for the size of my Cross. It fits so well.”

..Your Daddy's Got A Name: An Open Letter to the Daughter of PSI Ryan Pabalinas, Fallen44

(c) Daddy's Girl

Hi!
I'm Rolenkim.
You don't know me. I don't know your daddy, either.
But recently, I did.
The Philippines did.
I lost my father when I was 9.
He's not a soldier like your dad, but I know how it feels to lost one.


Why do leaves have to fall?
Why do the sun has to set?
Why does the day turns into night?
Why God takes the good people away?
Is heaven not big enough that He's afraid they'll run out of space for good people?
I asked the same questions when I was a little girl like you.
But God has always been this "quiet".


When I learned of your father's passing, I cried.
I remember you.
I remembered that little girl in me.


I can imagine him kissing your forehead before he leaves for duty.
The way any dad does to their baby girl.
He may not be doing it everyday before.
But he'll be kissing you everyday...now.
Because he'll never leave you anymore.
He's in the air that you'll breathe.
And you'll breathe his love.
Anywhere.
Everyday.


Be strong.
This is what I've been telling to that little girl who lost his dad years ago.
Someday, I hope you can write your story.
Your dad's story.
And how he tried to make your world, my world, a better place.
Be proud.
Your daddy's got a name.
The Nation calls him Hero.


P.S.

Dear Sir Pabalinas:

It's sad to have known you this way.
But thank you!
Thank you for the life that touched the hearts of the world.
That touched mine.

You left the pain worth remembering in the lives of the Filipino people.
Especially to the heart of your little girl.
I know you'll still kiss her.
The way you do whenever you leave for call of duty.
I bet you'll be doing it everyday...now.
Because you'll never leave her anymore.
You're in the air she'll breathe.
And she'll breathe your love.
Anywhere.
Everyday.

My salute to you.
And to the 43!

..Details, Love and the Ambubag..

(c) Love and Other Drugs

It’s been almost half an hour that I've been precariously unloading the contents of the cabinet to look for the *ambu bag. I emptied the equipment inside the cabinet one by one and put it back one by one only to find out that there’s no ambu bag inside. I searched for the belly-shaped bag as Ate Claire clearly instructed that there is one left in the cabinet for spare purposes. But no ambu bag to my avail. My legs are cramping already and the cold room aggravated my headache. I restarted the task of emptying and arranging the stocks to find the most-prized ambu bag. It’s a “do or die” search. I am at the verge of giving up when a box caught the corner of my chinky eyes. I read the package that says “Resuscitator”. Duh Kim, shame on your ability to collate synonyms.

That simple act of complete lack of audacity made me smile as the bus’ engine started. Too often in life, we are too fond of the details. In my mind, it's fixated that an ambubag is a belly shape thing with thin tube at the end connected to a mask. We create a picture of our own “what-should-be”.

We wanted to love someone according to the details we've set in our mind. He should own a house, ride a car, speak words of wisdom you feel like the muscles of your arm weakens as you imagine him wearing a sexy apron as he cooks in the kitchen, and well, it’s an added blessing if he looks like Derek Ramsay and owns the same abs. Even the lucky girl you’ll be if:  A) he doesN’T cheat, and  
A-1) he doesN'T tell lie(S). Single ladies, I understand your predicaments!

Don’t get me wrong. We need plans in our life. Just like you need a blueprint in building a house. Because if you don’t have any, it’s hard where to start. The loophole in having plans is that we become too entangled with the details. What if God plays the trick? What if the details you set are not His details for you? What if He sends you a Resuscitator in your effort to find an Ambu bag? What if He sends you a Man in your effort to find a Guy?

Sharing this reflection I received from a good friend:

"When we ask the Lord for answers to our prayers, we have to be prepared to take care of the things we will receive or the situations we'll find ourselves in. God is good, but He will only give us what is good for us. Have you thought about what will happen when God answers your prayer?" 


~God, keep my heart open to your possibilities. Keep my heart ready for my Resuscitator. Keep my heart ready for my Man.



*An ambubag is a hand-held bag device commonly used to provide  breaths to patients who are not breathing adequately. Other names are Resuscitator or Bag-Mask-Valve

..The Longest 20 Minutes..

I rubbed my palms nervously after I removed my overcoat. I felt the cold cross pendant hanging around my neck as I started to unlock my necklace. The inside of the room seemed too narrow as the light is accentuating the coldness I feel. It has been months that I've been postponing this.

I laid my shivering body on the slender metal bed. I wrapped the blanket around me and took a deep sigh. I can’t feel my toes as the machine started to move towards the close-space tunnel. I understand what claustrophobic patients feel. The earplugs I wore didn't serve its purpose as the ticking sounds prompted the ventricles of my heart to pump faster. I kept my eyes close, my head still, and my hands clenching each other. It’s the day of my brain MRI.

I know my eyelashes are moving though I am sure that my eyes are still close. I can’t figure out the space I’m occupying, and the voice that I can’t comprehend from the outside of the room. Thoughts are streaming in my mind and I was afraid if the machine will be able to read them one by one. The first thing that came in my ongoing scanned mind is that, “God, whatever the result is, please don’t let me die a poor virgin”. Thank goodness the machine is not capable to record those thoughts. The ticking changed to a harsh, my-eardrum-will-explode-anytime-by-now swishing sound. And then it slowed down. I moved my toes just to ensure I’m still alive. I remember the 5 kids I wanted to raise, the man I want to sleep with and wake up each day, the lists of my dream travel, the articles I wanted to publish, the books I wanted to read, the words I wanted to learn, and the life that is waiting for me outside this room. I feared to open my eyes.

The sound took a halt. Another one started to create its own melody. This time, more gentle, if it’s an acceptable description. I remember the throbbing headaches I endured. Apart from that, I remember the insurmountable pains I never knew how those came to passing. How I am still fighting the good fight in the race of life. My lashes are still moving, but now dampen by welling tears.

The test lasted for 20 minutes, the longest 20 minutes by far.

 But it felt an eternity to see your life unfolding right before your close eyes.

*Let me search You in the depths of my heart amidst the cold darkness and harsh sounds of life.

..The Face of Christmas..

I was in the elevator flipping my old Nokia phone. Let me describe it to you: I received it months before I graduated in college, some of the white face cover is peeling off and you have to hold the battery pack to counteract the law of gravity. Why I'm still using an obsolete phone? Because the worth of the one who gave it to me is far more than the worth of the phone itself. The woman smirked at me as I carefully  flipped it to answer a call. In a world that puts greater weight on material things, I felt I was measured by the face value of my phone. To put an end to the uncomfortable look out of using my "advance" Nokia mobile, I took my iPhone5 and read the reminder I kept for sometime that says "Don't give up your joy". Believe me, the smirk disappeared. 

It has always been a repeated question in the many Christmas Eve Mass that I have attended asking, "What if the Inn-keeper knew that it was Mary, the bearer of God's promise who is knocking at his door in that unholy hour?" 

Was she also a victim of a world that puts an emphasis on face value?

This Christmas, I pray that we all look back to that little world of manger. He could have given Mary the suite room booking  in Makati Med to deliver Jesus. But why He had chosen the simplest, humblest way?

I can only think of one.

God wants us to Simplify.

It's not what we have that makes life beautiful. It's what we can give that makes the lives of others worth living. Because between the silent of the night and the roar of heaven, God is teaching us to be more kinder than we can, more loving than we should be, more grateful than you already are, and  far better than good. 

I pray that you will see what gravity cannot take away: LOVE, PEACE, SURRENDER.

Merry Christmas!

..Finding Love and the Size 7 shoes..

I was out one day to look for a gift for our Thanksgiving Party. I happened to visit a store which really has good finds for clothes and shoes. A pair of white strapped sandal caught my attention primarily for its simplicity. I fit the right part with a marvelous smile as it looked so perfectly well with my foot. With time constraint to be back at the hospital before the curfew, I hurriedly took my size and paid it. Days unfolded fast and came the day to flaunt my new foot wear. I slipped my right foot and fixed it righteously. Then came the left part. I wondered why I can't fix it well since I managed to do it without sweat to my right foot. The big shameful realization hit me like an ice bucket challenge. 

I paid for a different pair of what I seemed to be a size 7 shoes.

Since I made it to a point not to give up my joy in whatever circumstance I'm in, I took a deep breath, not just once but how many times until I find laughing at myself.  

While I was on the bus going to the party and the sunset is so melodramatic I can't figure out where it took its stunning spell of beauty, I tried to extract the lessons from the loophole of hurrying things in life. 

Especially in love. 

Lesson # 1.

Just like buying that shoes, not because it fit well on your right foot, you have to forget the left one. In any relationship,  I believe in the cliche that goes "it takes two to tango". And in order to do the tango, the two should compliment each other. One has to give, the other to give in return. He must be interested in your passions, and you propel him to excel in things he believes make him better. 

Even if that means watching NBA together.

I don't think you can move forward gracefully with a different pair of shoes.

Chemistry is not a subject. It has to be in the subject(s).

Lesson #2.

Not because Time is ticking like a bombshell you have to sacrifice the entire reasons for committing to someone. I remained single for years because I believe you can't force love to take place. It has to happen naturally. Not "just because" everyone's getting hitch I'll hook up with someone else. Over my dead curves ( I mean my nose bridge) haha  

If you do so, you might just end up paying the price and later realize it's not worthy enough.

And useless enough.

Lesson #3.

That day, I wore slippers instead going to the hospital. Its comfort is still my refuge.

Choose the kind of love that makes you feel good about yourself despite of your many inadequacies. The one you can walk with distances you never thought you can manage to traverse. Because his presence enables you to aim higher. Distance then, becomes a number.

Sometimes, among the many shoes you're looking for, you'll realize that the slippers in the silent corner wins your heart over a stiletto.

Find a good slippers.

I'll keep that mismatched pair of shoes. One day, I'll snuggle in bed with my "best pair of slippers" and I'll whisper in his ear how I came to finally find our perfect fit after all the mismatches.

..The Soft Rants Of A Girl Who Writes: An Anniversary Special..

Four years ago, I fell in love. A cup of coffee, an empty space, my flair for words, my comfort with solitude, chewing some courage, digesting the light of my every experience, and the passion that resonates within me gave birth to my 4-year blogsite.

I was worst with writing back then. There were times when I cannot spell properly and for someone who loves to read and memory gap hasn't taken its toll on my healthy brain cells, it's quite disappointing that I have to Google it. There were times that despite the racing heartbeat to make an article, I ended up signing out and goes to sleep. There were times when I would say, "God, I can't write!"

 But my tenacity to express eluded my fears and setbacks.

Who cares if I will tell my stories? Who cares if I cannot use the right subject-verb agreement?  This is my platform, my stories are the prose I am able to rant. I'm going to write until the day comes that I won't be able to scribe.

I remember the words of Mother Teresa in one of the documentaries of her life. "If I didn't pick up one man and carried him in my arms, I wouldn't have able to carried the hundreds and thousands of poor in the streets. Take a single step in faith."

179 posts, 4 years of sharing fearlessly, 4 years of "still learning" in most humble ways, 4 years of being in love every day with what I'm doing, 4 years of still choosing to be in love with the gift He endowed to me. And it started with a single article 4 years ago.

I am an unadorned woman, probably lacks many skills when it comes to written media. But for the past years of blogging, I learned that I can trust my intuition. I learned that I can trust my heart. That if you want to touch lives, you have to be brave to learn to unravel the daily lessons that mostly comes in disguise of pain and discomfort, the dark lengths and corners, the inevitable gloomy days.
Because everything that happens has something to do with making us stronger, more resilient with what is coming, more trusting with the grace that won't leave us and will never leave us until we finally able to say that life is always and has always been beautiful if our hearts are open to be empowered.

Thank you once again for the years we've been together. For the unholy hours I would publish my posts and you would read it along with your cup of coffee or your worn out pajama. For forgiving my injustices when it comes to grammar and all. For allowing my own experiences to guide you in your struggles. For taking my life's lessons as your pointing arrow to either follow it or making it better.

Thank you for knowing me by reading my stories.

In my austere simplicity, I knew I am loved.
So I'm giving it back through the girl who writes.