She Dreams With Me

I was in seventh grade. Still the new girl at the new school. Still very uncertain, and still very unsure. While so much was a struggle for my awkward self... braces, hairstyling, and these terrible green overalls I loved for some reason... there was one thing I knew for certain:

I wanted to be a cheerleader...just like my older cousins I grew up admiring and wanting to follow in their footsteps. Just like the cousins my own age, the ones who were beautiful and all the boys loved.

And I worked hard, and I practiced, and I did everything right... everything I could.

I still remember when the list was posted. I was sitting in my seventh grade English class, and butterflies had been cycling their way through my system. The list would be posted at lunch, and I would know.

But I actually didn't have to wait until lunch. My friend in class... someone signaled to her from the door that she made it. And she began to jump up and down, squealing in excitement. I don't remember if I found out then, or if I found out when I walked to the lunchroom. I just remember seeing the list posted on the door, scanning the names, looking for mine.

It wasn't there.

The year before, I had tried out and made alternate.

This year... nothing.

And my twelve year old heart was broken.

I tried, but I couldn't make it through lunch. The butterflies in my stomach transformed themselves into a wave of nausea.

So I ran, as fast as I could to the office, to call the one person I knew could help me... my Mom.

There may have been a rule against calling parents, but the secretary had mercy on me, and she let me call her.

And thankfully, she answered.

"Mom," I whispered into the phone, trying to choke back tears... "I didn't make it".

I'll never forget what she said next.

"Do you want me to come get you?"

She was working that day, teaching. But she knew I was in pain, and she dropped everything to come and rescue me.

She picked me up from school and took me to my favorite restaurant where we had lunch and talked.

I'll also never forget what else she told me... That sometimes God has different plans for us that we can't see, but in His perfect will, He allows His beautiful plan to unfold in its own time.

The next year, when I tried out for cheerleading in high school and made it, she was the first person I found, rejoicing with me that a dream had finally come true.

                                 __________________________________________
I love that story because to me, it describes my mom perfectly.

In a moment of heartache, she was there to rescue, to hold me, to listen to me, to love me. She had work to do and could have just told me to hold on until school was over. But she didn't. She was there.

And that is my mom... she is present. She encourages me. She protects me.

One of the things I love most about her is that she doesn't dream for me. She dreams with me.

Pageants, cheerleading, dance recitals, quiz bowl, college, mission trips, moving to the other side of the world... even if my dreams meant a sacrifice for her, whether it be time, money, or a loss of presence.

She dreams with me, and when those dreams come true, she rejoices with me... sometimes louder than me.

She is my best friend, my heart. Talking to her always makes me feel better, and as cliche as it sounds, the older I get, the more I need her. She is the most beautiful woman I know, with a beauty that doesn't come from a bottle but instead comes from a heart that willingly pours into others.

In less than two months (Lord willing), I will have the chance to show her my dreams come true, introduce her to my babies, walk with her to my favorite places in the world. And we will dream together.

She has never asked for anything in return for her sacrifice. She has never made demands.

Instead, she loves. And I love her more every day. 

If Anything but Death Should Separate...

 I want to be her. 

     At 8:05 pm last night, Vicente went to be with Jesus. it was a struggle... a week long struggle as his body prepared to breath its last.... months of fighting kidney disease. Over. The pain is gone. The ache is over. He is free now and more alive than he has ever been. 

     We prayed for healing and for miracles. But I am learning that sometimes the miracle looks different than my human eyes can understand. Today... the miracle was that my Kuya had a good 2 months with his family, lived longer than expected, and died surrounded by those who love him. What was God teaching us out of this? At this moment, I really don't know. 

     I don't feel anything, except sorrow for her. Dolly, his wife of 20 years, the mother of his 5 children. If I ever have the blessing of being a wife to someone, I want to be like her. From the day he arrived at our doorstep, she was right by his side, and she never left. In this past week, she rarely left her position by his bed. Even when she was obviously exhausted. Even when he became more and more difficult. She never complained. She just served. 

     To have and to hold, for better or for worse, sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live. 

     She is my example of vows lived and breathed with conviction, with love, with mercy, with grace, with tenderness. Vows taken seriously. She could have just given him to us to take care of, walked away, and left him to begin a new life. But she didn't. She stayed through every difficult moment, every struggle, every fight. 

     Last night, as he was laying in bed, struggling to breathe, I watched as she sat beside him, took his hand in her own, and held it close to her cheek. She watched him, memorizing every part of his face. Holding on as long as she could. Her eyes were swollen, but tears didn't fall. They would fall later. Right now, in that moment, she only had a heart and mind for him, and she leaned down to kiss his forehead. I hope that picture never leaves my mind or my heart. 

     Even this morning as we waited for the funeral home to collect his body, she would walk by and touch his hair, his face. She is a beautiful example of grace. You know those people who just have that kind of presence... you just want to be near them because their spirit quiets your own? In their presence, you can relax... that is my Dolly. Her gentleness serves. It invites others to rest. I just want to sit beside her and be close to her.

     And as he died, he wanted her. Even in death, he only had eyes for her. She loved him until death, and, I can safely assume, will love him until she follows him home. 

     She has five children... Dave, Divine Grace, Diza, Dexter, and Dizon. She has to figure out life without him by her side. She has to figure out how to be two parents now. She is not alone... her heart belongs to the God who made her. But pray for her, remember her. 

     And may I love like that... with everything I have, asking nothing in return simply because I promised to. She chose love, and she honored her commitment until the end. 

To the Girl Who is Not Perfect (I guess that would be me):

Growing pains.... That's the only way I really know how to describe this week. Stretching, bending, pulling, aching.... painful.

I hate growing pains.

But I need them.

This culture is not familiar, and sometimes I feel like a giant trapped in a very small container with no room to move and struggling to breathe. These people are not familiar. They are different. Even the ones who share the same skin tone as I... I am realizing that we are all different.

Different places, stories, backgrounds, cultures, values.

I want to be in the familiar... with people who have known me since birth, love me despite my flaws, encourage me in my walk with Christ, understand my personality quirks.

Isn't that every human being's deepest desire? To be loved, accepted, understood?

I am learning that what works in my culture may not necessarily work here. I am learning that my tone of voice, my mannerisms, my thoughts, my facial expressions carry more weight than I ever imagined they could. I am navigating through new aspects of my personality I never knew I had... and how in the world do they fit here?

Unfortunately, this learning involves a lot of failing. A LOT of failing, and for the girl who has always tried to be perfect, quite frankly, it sucks.

I hate disappointing people, disappointing myself, failing to "get it", failing to get better.

To be honest, the girl who has always tried to be perfect has had her confidence shot.

And maybe, that's a good thing.

Because for three months, I have been navigating my new culture through my own human strength, my own wisdom, my own intuition.

But my own human wisdom is nothing but sinking sand, and when you build everything on sinking sand, it's bound to fall apart.

And it took falling apart to realize that I am trying to do this on my own, and I just can't.

Because the girl who always wants to be perfect just isn't, and she never will be.

Only He is perfect. Only He is my strength. Only He is the giver of wisdom and grace.

I am learning that sometimes, in His grace, He allows things to fall apart. I am grateful that in this circumstance, He allowed my confidence to shatter and break because I desperately need Him. Without it, I never would have realized how much I needed to change.

I never would have experienced the growing pains.

And now, my heart is growing up. 

For the Moments when your soul is dead...

     Easter... for me it has always meant shopping for the perfect dress, egg hunts, baskets with goodies, and endless rehearsals and critiques to get the musical just right. It meant family coming in for the weekend, Jackie Bagget's fried fish, and most of the men in the church suddenly growing beards.

     That was America.

      Easter this year is different.

      Driving through Manila on Good Friday, the place feels like a ghost town. Shops are closed, cars are absent, streets deserted. Manila on Good Friday is dead.

      Because here, God is dead.

      Last night, they walked all night, from one part of the city to the other to kiss a rosary.

      This morning, throughout the country, men carried crosses and beat themselves with whips to reenact His crucifixion and death.

      God dies on Friday.

       And my body feels heavy with the weight of such a day. There is no wind, the sun is oppressive, and my body just wants to curl in a ball in the corner and sleep.

        It's almost as if my soul believes it.... even though I know it is not true. My God is not dead. But my soul joins in their mourning, their lament, their pain.

       I want to scream as they carry their crosses, "You don't have to do this!"

       And I breathe thanks that God gave me the grace to know my salvation was not one that had to be earned. It was bought, bled for, died for. Yes, the cross is necessary. It's crucial. It's imperative.

       But the Resurrection is everything.

       With the Resurrection came power of death, freedom from chains.

        Because of the Resurrection, the man slowly dying on the first floor has hope for life, and his family knows death is not a goodbye forever.

       Because of the Resurrection, I will see my Lucy again, and any other dear child who will be called home before me.

       Because of the Resurrection... the little ones I love will not have suffered in vain, the sin that threatens to entangle me is conquered, there is hope beyond the present sufferings of this world.

       I listened to nine little girls outside my window, practicing their dance to "I Will Rise" by Chris Tomlin... they had no music, but they sang the words:

                           "I will rise, when He calls my name. No more sorrow. No more pain.
                             I will rise, on eagle's wings. Before my God, fall on my knees, and rise..."

       Nine little girls with their own horror stories, their own heartaches, burdens and fears. Nine little girls who may not have a clue what those words mean right now, but He is planting it in their hearts, writing His name and sealing His hope.

        All because of the Resurrection... they can sing, they can dance, they have life.

        Oh, He is not dead... Dear world groaning and aching, my God is not dead. He is not made of stone or clay or human hands. He is not appeased with sacrifices, penances, suicides and chants.

         And I can no longer allow my soul to be comfortable in a decaying apathy while those around me stumble in darkness.

         "Sunday is coming", we would whisper to each other, in anticipation of Easter Sunday when we would celebrate.

         Sunday has come. The Resurrection bringing eternal salvation. Hope and freedom.

         "Jesus has overcome, and the grave is overwhelmed. The victory is won. He is risen from the dead."

         Wake up my soul... He is alive. He is life. 

Beautiful Things

     I watch them... the joy on their faces, the wonder and marvel at new discovery.

     There is something so beautiful about watching a little girl as she discovers her world... when every flower becomes a garden, every move should be skipped or danced, when music is felt and not just heard.

     There is a beauty that is unveiled... when everything is safe, when she is delighted in, when there are arms for her to fall into for the sheer joy of being held, and then she can run away.

      There is a grace in their movements, a simple trust in their worship.

      And I am amazed... amazed that their little hearts would find me worthy of their hugs and kisses, their "I love you", and their hands.

      I am amazed that even after I am hard on them in ballet class, they still end with hugs and kisses.

     I want that... the innocence that somehow is not destroyed by a cruel world, a beautiful trust, a heart that offers whatever I can, and a spirit that can play safely under his gaze.

     I want to look at the world around me as though it is the first time.

     I want the freedom to laugh and rejoice just because life is beautiful.

     True, there is damage there.

     True, they are broken.

     But aren't we all?

     Sleeping on the first floor are countless examples of the enemy's desire to steal, kill, and destroy, but the graciousness and sovereignty of a God who says, "No"... A God who stakes His claim and does not let go.

     No, He doesn't let go. For all of our damage, our pain, our fear, He stakes his claim and calls us His own.

      The blaze of a warrior and the heart of a child... His will for me, for us, for them. How like my God to use those the world the world does not deem worthy to demonstrate His holiness, His power, His goodness, His grace.

     May I always learn from them... my little heroes, my treasures. May I always be in awe. 

Falling into a Verb

     And this must be what it feels like to fall in love...

     To discover new things about someone every day, treasure every detail, store them somewhere safe in the corners of your heart.

     I hold him close and whisper how much I love him, make bath time an event of splashing and singing, read stories, and whisper dreams in his ear. He lights up at the sight of a car, and he squeals with excitement when being chased.

     His wound... the open wound a surgeon said would require another surgery to close. Once it was full of infection, and really God, a third surgery? But God, my God, healed his wound. It is almost closed, on its own... a miracle only He could have done.

     And I watch him thrive. I watch as his temper emerges, his personality, his goofy run, and his huge grin.

     This must be what it feels like to fall in love....

     I am a small town girl transplanted into a big city where everything is unfamiliar, but little by little, is becoming home.

     I find my staples... my coffee, my sandwich, my burrito, my salad, my macaroon.

     I find myself recognizing turns and corners, walking as if I belong, moving closer to blending, every day discovering something new and wonderful.

     The smell is back... the sulfur, diesel, and random dispersions of chicken. It is a hot summer day and my soul threatens to melt, but this is life now and I learn to stay cool.

     Every day holds something new... a new discovery, a new surprise (man driving down a busy street with an ox and wagon?), a new something that becomes increasingly familiar.

     And this must be what it is to fall in love...

     I write out His character and search through pages to know who He is.

     I see Him... in their faces, on the street corners, and He speaks.

     And sometimes I listen and my soul wants to rebel and be independent, but my heart knows it never will be, and was never meant to be.

      And the more I know Him, the more I need Him with everything inside of me.

      In the midst of the struggle as the foreign moves to familiar, He bends me and stretches me, contorting my spirit into a tool He can use. And it's uncomfortable, intense, awkward, and I am so unsure. But it is also life giving, awe inspiring, humbling, grace flowing, beautiful.

       And it feels like falling in love. 

A Love Not Rejected, A Love Never Withheld

     Praise be to God, who has not rejected my prayer or withheld His love from me... Psalm 66:20

  

     I don’t want to be here, and that makes me angry. My selfishness makes me so angry.

    

     I am angry at the circumstances. It was supposed to be a simple surgery and now my little boy is in the hospital again.

     Infection. Swelling. Emergency surgery. And i find myself again sleeping within the four walls of a hospital bedroom.

     I feel guilty because I am angry. It’s not his fault, and the doctor said this could happen to anyone.

    

    I feel guilty because I just hate hospitals. I hate being the white girl in the hospital with the baby

 

     The only comforting thought is knowing that he probably hates being here even more than I do.

    It’s funny how open I am to assault and attacks when I am already beating myself up.

     “It’s your fault. You’ll never fit here. You’ll always keep failing. “

     And the comparisons add up… small enough, pretty enough, smart enough.

     I accept the attacks because in my anger and guilt, I feel like I deserve it. After all, no one can break me like I can break myself.

     Yet, this morning, he reaches for me when his nurses enter the room. He seeks my face for something familiar, comforting. As long as he is holding my hand, he’s ok.  We watch the tv and he points and says “car” in his sweet little voice. No smile yet, but he feels better. His little body is healing.

     And really, me, God? I get to be a part of this?  I who would have done anything to get out of it.  I am so bitter and angry. Surely there is someone more capable, more worthy of this moment. But His grace allowed me this time, this privilege.

     Gently, He urges me to let go. While he sleeps, I spill everything… my anger, my regrets, my pain, and hand it all over to Him.

     He doesn’t reject my prayers. He does not withhold His love from me.

     A love letter written by a five year old… words misspelled, mostly pictures, as my heart tries to speak what it doesn’t really understand. 

     I give it to him, my picture, my love letter of longings and dreams, trusting him with what is so precious in my eyes. To someone else, it will be the work of an amateur and would render a chuckle or an “Oh that’s cute”.

    He doesn’t reject it. He doesn’t patronize or belittle. He treasures, understanding my limited vocabulary, my human weakness.

     And he does not withhold his love… in spite of my anger, my pain, my refusal to accept what he is freely offering.

     In the face of such love, how do I turn away?

     He offers me this moment, snuggled next to my sweet little boy, holding him, watching him heal. Actually, I’m not really sure who’s healing… me or him. His body, my heart.

     And peace overwhelms.

     We are home. His open wound is smaller. His smile more frequent. He is eating everything, and he is just beautiful. There is a reason we gave him his name. It means “Happy”, which is what he is and has always been since he was a baby.

    He is a little miracle because really, in this country, his infection should have been much worse. It should have caused more problems. But He is healing beautifully, thanks to the work of an amazing and powerful God.

     He has accepted our prayers and answered with grace. His love is overwhelming.