Ok, situational pop-quiz.
It's Tuesday night. As part of the Christmas party committee, a few officemates and I went to a resto-bar to finalize the venue booking. The events manager played the gracious host and offered as serving after serving of the menu choices. Later on, the bartender placed before each of us a shot glass with layers of liquid. Being the allergic-to-alcohol, non-drinker dork that I am, I had to be explained what was in it. Vodka, Kahlua, Bailey's. It was named something crass I don't feel like typing down right now. Anyway, here's the clincher. The waiter brought a lighter and lit each cocktail on fire. I mean, honestly - allowing a klutz within inches of an open flame indoors? What were these people thinking?!
So, question is: will anyone be surprised if I told them that at one point during the night, a significant portion of my table was on fire? Literally. Blue flame crawling on the table's surface. Someone burning the knuckle of her index finger.
Tell me, that is still considered unexpected, right? Hypothetically. >_<
Looking back now, I guess I should have given them fair warning to not light up mine. I think it should be my civic duty to responsibly inform all unknowing people the hazards of being in my company. As my dear roommate said, anywhere I am is a hard-hat zone.
Now, maybe firesuit-zone, too.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Fallen
Though news of any accident involving myself may not come to most people as "news" but mere "eventualities", I'd just like to mention it right here as a preamble so we can get that over with right away.
I injured myself tonight. I just came from watching a movie with Tal, Karl, and Gary and while walking home just off the Shangri-La curb, I tripped. Tripped on what exactly - I'm still not sure. But I twisted my right ankle, landed on and scraped my left knee, almost ripped my denim at its point of impact, scratched the heels of my hands in my attempt to break the fall.
So instead of walking our way home, we had to take a cab. And when I was getting on it, I took a misstep with the injured foot and almost did a repeat performance. Apparently, I just can't get enough of the concrete. It's not enough that I walk on it. I have to be one with it.
I am adept at falling.
I guess it's natural to acquire a sense of deftness in something you always get to do. And it's not the act itself that I have accumulated skills in. After all, falling is less of something you make happen than something that happens to you. But skills in handling the post-impact.
Here's the thing. Once you've found yourself from an upright walking biped to a sad subhuman who fell on all fours - the first thing you want (or you're likely) to do is to scream expletives in the loudest decibel your lungs can manage. I've encompassed the expletive spectrum from kolehiyala "goshes" to mild euphemisms to outright good old vernacular curses. The devil-pertaining Visayan ones are particularly accessible. The anger and frustration is expected. It's acceptable even if the anger is directed at inanimate objects like crooked floors or uneven carpeting. Also acceptable if you're directing them at yourself. Of all the stupid, thoughtless, careless things to do.
But of course, while superficially satisfying at the particular moment of impact, cursing does not dull the pain. At some point, you just have to stop and pause. Find out where it hurts. Find out if something was broken, torn, or strained. Or all of the above. This self-assessment often requires tentative movements. A lot of wincing also follows, so this is not really a part where poise is a standout presence. It's very probable that there's a trail of mess everywhere. Maybe even blood.
Once you are aware of the damages, you relocate yourself. Assuming that most of the venues of these inelegant occasions happen in open public. So you go and find yourself a quiet corner or a curb where you sit down and try to soothe your pain. Friends, if they are around at the time, can help you. Sometimes you can not fully appreciate their sympathies right then and there - because you're hurting, goshdarnit, and no one will really understand. At least, never totally. But eventually you realize how pathetic-er it is to be pathetic alone than to be pathetic with friends.
There will be a time - unimaginable as it may be - that the pain will subside and you'd be able to consider other things. Still related to the pain, yes, but other things nevertheless. Like your self-esteem. Or its consequential degradation thereof. It occurs to you now how many people have seen you make a fool of yourself. The embarrassment of it all. The implacable awkwardness of vulnerability. What will they think? Poor you. What a klutz. But trust me, unless this was one of those rare hopeless situations - there will always be a little pride and defiance left in you to to question who the hell are they, anyhow.
Hopefully, there remains enough sensibilities for you to get up from that corner, to stand up and leave. Limp painfully if you must, but get a move on and be somewhere else. Because - come on - staying and wallowing in self-pity is just plain inexcusable disservice to one's self. It's not really anyone's fault. Falling is only bad when there's no one to catch you but the cold hard concrete.
I may have taken a figurative turn in all this logorrhea somewhere, I'm not sure. I've always had a poor sense of direction. Don't mind me. I'm just the klutz with liniment on her ankle and betadine on her knee.
I injured myself tonight. I just came from watching a movie with Tal, Karl, and Gary and while walking home just off the Shangri-La curb, I tripped. Tripped on what exactly - I'm still not sure. But I twisted my right ankle, landed on and scraped my left knee, almost ripped my denim at its point of impact, scratched the heels of my hands in my attempt to break the fall.
So instead of walking our way home, we had to take a cab. And when I was getting on it, I took a misstep with the injured foot and almost did a repeat performance. Apparently, I just can't get enough of the concrete. It's not enough that I walk on it. I have to be one with it.
I am adept at falling.
I guess it's natural to acquire a sense of deftness in something you always get to do. And it's not the act itself that I have accumulated skills in. After all, falling is less of something you make happen than something that happens to you. But skills in handling the post-impact.
Here's the thing. Once you've found yourself from an upright walking biped to a sad subhuman who fell on all fours - the first thing you want (or you're likely) to do is to scream expletives in the loudest decibel your lungs can manage. I've encompassed the expletive spectrum from kolehiyala "goshes" to mild euphemisms to outright good old vernacular curses. The devil-pertaining Visayan ones are particularly accessible. The anger and frustration is expected. It's acceptable even if the anger is directed at inanimate objects like crooked floors or uneven carpeting. Also acceptable if you're directing them at yourself. Of all the stupid, thoughtless, careless things to do.
But of course, while superficially satisfying at the particular moment of impact, cursing does not dull the pain. At some point, you just have to stop and pause. Find out where it hurts. Find out if something was broken, torn, or strained. Or all of the above. This self-assessment often requires tentative movements. A lot of wincing also follows, so this is not really a part where poise is a standout presence. It's very probable that there's a trail of mess everywhere. Maybe even blood.
Once you are aware of the damages, you relocate yourself. Assuming that most of the venues of these inelegant occasions happen in open public. So you go and find yourself a quiet corner or a curb where you sit down and try to soothe your pain. Friends, if they are around at the time, can help you. Sometimes you can not fully appreciate their sympathies right then and there - because you're hurting, goshdarnit, and no one will really understand. At least, never totally. But eventually you realize how pathetic-er it is to be pathetic alone than to be pathetic with friends.
There will be a time - unimaginable as it may be - that the pain will subside and you'd be able to consider other things. Still related to the pain, yes, but other things nevertheless. Like your self-esteem. Or its consequential degradation thereof. It occurs to you now how many people have seen you make a fool of yourself. The embarrassment of it all. The implacable awkwardness of vulnerability. What will they think? Poor you. What a klutz. But trust me, unless this was one of those rare hopeless situations - there will always be a little pride and defiance left in you to to question who the hell are they, anyhow.
Hopefully, there remains enough sensibilities for you to get up from that corner, to stand up and leave. Limp painfully if you must, but get a move on and be somewhere else. Because - come on - staying and wallowing in self-pity is just plain inexcusable disservice to one's self. It's not really anyone's fault. Falling is only bad when there's no one to catch you but the cold hard concrete.
I may have taken a figurative turn in all this logorrhea somewhere, I'm not sure. I've always had a poor sense of direction. Don't mind me. I'm just the klutz with liniment on her ankle and betadine on her knee.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Ticked Off
There's a standard phrase that Luz and I say out loud before we (frantically) leave the room in the mornings.
"Money, phone, key."
It's our checklist of the things that we should not leave behind. Sometimes, there are variants of this. Mostly, additional things like "flash disk", "MRT card", "handkerchief". But the core three are the staple ones. It would be such a day's cumbersome complication if one is left behind.
I remember Tago has a good version of this during travelling. But Tago, being himself, calls it "Valuability check!" - which is like a cue for us to ascertain the current location of wallets, cameras, cellphones.
The whole checklist is a good conceptual attempt, in theory. Not necessarily fool-proof, though. Especially in the case of me and my esteemed roommate. Maybe it's because we're often in a hurry to leave. There's something about the MRT - fifteen minutes can sometimes mean a difference of easily getting on the first train or shoving your way just to get into the third.
We're experts in cutting it close. It is like bluffing our ways to our 8 am call time. But you have to give us a little credit. From the Shaw station, we go our separate ways and wave our goodbyes after inserting our tickets in the platform. Luz goes northbound to QC, and I go southbound to Makati. Commuting is bound to leave you a little frazzled and forgetful.
Our friend's sister-in-law - whom we haven't met personally - lives one floor up from us. She knows us, though. As a matter of fact (but not of pride), we're known as the two girls who always forgets something and comes back up into the elevator to get it.
Once we were almost at the village gate before we figured out what we forgot and had to retrace our steps back to our building. Also, it's not unusual to find me waiting for the elevator while putting on earrings, wristwatch, bracelet. It's efficient use of slack time, you've got to admit.
So this morning, I went over the ritual. I paused at the door's threshold and reminded myself out loud. "Money, phone, key." Mentally making tick marks, I went out and headed out into my thursday.
I decided to blog about this because upon arriving at the office this morning, I found out that - of course - I forgot my phone.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Normalcy
She seemed like just another normal kid.
She sat on her bed indian-fashioned, still wearing her jammies. She watched Ice Age with us in the tiny tv screen. She laughed at Sid's antics. She has a dimple on her right cheek that shows whenever she smiles.
Very polite kid, too. Without any prodding from her parents, she offered us candies. She angled the screen towards us so we could see the movie better. She addressed Luz and I as "ate".
As with most ten-year olds, she likes cartoons. Spongebob Squarepants, Jimmy Neutron, Ariel the Little Mermaid. Some other Japanese animations I'm not familiar with.
She told us of her pets and the story behind each of their funny names.
She seemed like just another normal kid. Except for the IV bag of chemo medicine inserted in her vein. And her inch-short hair sticking out in every direction. Her dad stroked her hair and remarked how they should have it fixed. With a small pout, she said, "Kalbo na naman..."
When the nurse came to take off her IV, she tried her best to keep still - just grimacing a little when the adhesive stuck to her skin. When we asked if it hurts whenever they stick a needle into her, she shook her head. It's already been over a year, she said, and she's already gotten used to the monthly treatments.
She missed a year of school, though. When she was diagnosed, she almost became a cripple. The nonchalant way she said it was unnerving: "muntik na nga po ako malumpo nung nagkasakit ako nung isang taon."
Another two years of treatment and she could be well again.
Just a little after the credits of Ice Age rolled, she asked her mother if she could take a bath already. We then said our goodbyes to the family.
And as we watched her wave goodbye, she seemed like just another normal kid.
She sat on her bed indian-fashioned, still wearing her jammies. She watched Ice Age with us in the tiny tv screen. She laughed at Sid's antics. She has a dimple on her right cheek that shows whenever she smiles.
Very polite kid, too. Without any prodding from her parents, she offered us candies. She angled the screen towards us so we could see the movie better. She addressed Luz and I as "ate".
As with most ten-year olds, she likes cartoons. Spongebob Squarepants, Jimmy Neutron, Ariel the Little Mermaid. Some other Japanese animations I'm not familiar with.
She told us of her pets and the story behind each of their funny names.
She seemed like just another normal kid. Except for the IV bag of chemo medicine inserted in her vein. And her inch-short hair sticking out in every direction. Her dad stroked her hair and remarked how they should have it fixed. With a small pout, she said, "Kalbo na naman..."
When the nurse came to take off her IV, she tried her best to keep still - just grimacing a little when the adhesive stuck to her skin. When we asked if it hurts whenever they stick a needle into her, she shook her head. It's already been over a year, she said, and she's already gotten used to the monthly treatments.
She missed a year of school, though. When she was diagnosed, she almost became a cripple. The nonchalant way she said it was unnerving: "muntik na nga po ako malumpo nung nagkasakit ako nung isang taon."
Another two years of treatment and she could be well again.
Just a little after the credits of Ice Age rolled, she asked her mother if she could take a bath already. We then said our goodbyes to the family.
And as we watched her wave goodbye, she seemed like just another normal kid.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Flashbacks
I dreamt about my mother the morning of her birthday. In the dream, I was with my brother and sister seated around a small table. We were sharing fond memories of our mother. Retelling stories of personal incidents during her life and our childhood. My mother was not in the dream per se. There was just a sense that if it were a video, her presence was there as an inset. And it was not creepy or mournful or even sad. She was there as if to listen to what we had to say.
And we had so many stories to share about her - even to each other as siblings. Because my mother was a great mother. I've always said that I sincerely wish everyone of my friends have met her. So they'd understand what I mean. A few minutes of talking with her - anyone would've known that she was a special person with a warm and welcoming heart. And maybe if people have known this, they'd understand why losing her has changed me so much inside. I do think that my close friends who have met her understand better why it has been so difficult for me to handle the loss.
You would have loved her, too. You see, we were the kind of children who rushed to go home after school not because our mother ordered us to but because we wanted to spend time with her. We're the kind of children who got envied because our mother read us stories before afternoon naps, sent us stuffed toys in school during Valentine's Day, baked us our own birthday cakes, helped build art projects, taught us calligraphy on weekends. She made us learn and recite nursery rhymes and well-loved poetry by Marlowe, Whitman, Longfellow. She bought me classic books like Wuthering Heights and Little Women. Also pocket dictionaries.
She was funny, gregarious, intelligent, sociable. My love for reading and writing were her influences. When she read out loud to us, she glided her fingertip along the line she was reading and so even before I actually knew how to read, I was familiar with the "shape" of the word in print. She gave me my first diary when I was eight and encouraged me to write my thoughts everyday. I've always kept a journal ever since - in the forms of juvenile scented notebooks, standard 80-sheet ruled notebooks, of .doc and .txt files, of blog entries, and more recently, a Moleskine.
In the dream, my siblings and I talked around a table. We don't do that anymore, but we used to have them all the time when we were growing up. My mother was the kind of parent who wanted to hear our opinions. The first time we transferred provinces, she all sat us around the table and told us of the many changes and adjustments that we will have to go through during the period. I was ten at the time, seated with the others in the table, asked of my concerns, and treated as an adult. And this happened often because we moved quite a lot.
And even when we were already working, she was the mother who would pick sampaguita flowers from our backyard and put some of the blossoms in my bag so that it'd smell fragrant. In fact, when I was packing my things in Azeus, I saw one of the sampaguita branches she gave me which I kept in a box. I don't know why I kept it. But I'm glad I have the dried up flowers in my treasured possessions. There was also the mask I had to wear when she was already in reverse isolation in ICU. I'm still conflicted whether to keep that one. I find myself constantly in this place where I want to forget but I need to remember.
My mother was also very human - with weaknesses and contradictions. Until the very end, she regretted not being able to give up smoking. And it was one thing that she always asked forgiveness for. To us and in her prayers. I have seen her try to quit all throughout those years. Many, many times. Often dramatic memories when she would ask us to throw out all cigarettes, lighters, ashtrays and she'd end up in tears. Weeks or days or hours later when she couldn't resist the temptation, she'd pick up the habit again.
As a kid, I never understood how hard it could be. Naively, I drew an anti-smoking poster and stuck it on one of the ref magnets complete with text copied from health books about how smoking is bad for the health and with a real cigarette stuck in the center of the paper for added effect. I think it was Papa who took the cigarette from the poster and smoked it. What irony. Yeah, we were a comedic family.
A part of me believes I'm meant to be single forever so I'm not keeping a list anymore of what I am looking for in a person, but if I were - smoking is a deal-breaker for me. I'm not being judgemental or self-righteous. In fact, it's because I'm being selfish. I don't ever want to go through all the magnificently long drawn out pain of losing a loved one because of this habit. I have gone through it with both of my parents. And it felt like you had to helplessly stand and see them kill themselves willingly and hate themselves for it. It is hell and it is as if your heart is wrenched out from chest. No, no. It would have to be somebody else's wife. Somebody else's child. I won't sign up for that all over again.
My mother would disapprove of this notion, I know. She always told me that I had a tendency to be inflexible in a sense that I have no in-betweens. Black and white - no grays. I am stubborn and she was worried that my extreme likes and dislikes would make me miss out on some of the things in life.
The way things stand, I'm set to miss out on a lot of things in life, anyway. Having a wedding where your parents give you away. Or having a family with a mother to guide you in raising a child. And a more trivial thing: my new office emphasizes on work-life-balance and they have these family day activities every now and then where you bring... well, family. I absolutely dread it. Because I can't bring anyone. Just yesterday, I had to call up an aunt I haven't spoken with for years just to ask if she could confirm my information to the bank where I was opening an account. It was funny and awkward and just utterly pathetic.
One of things my siblings and I talked about is that during those times when we were all living apart from each other - and it was not very unusual that our family of five were in five different cities at the same time - home was always where our mother was. Home was not a fixed city or even a tangible house. Home was where my mother can listen about our day, give us a hug, talk to us, let us know how much we were loved. And no matter where we're coming from - a toxic semester in college or a long day at work - we all knew where home was. Or who home was.
And it still stands true. We'll all be going home someday to where she is. In the meantime, I'm trying to live my life with intention. So I could have something worthwhile to tell her when I see her again.
Happy birthday, Mama.
And we had so many stories to share about her - even to each other as siblings. Because my mother was a great mother. I've always said that I sincerely wish everyone of my friends have met her. So they'd understand what I mean. A few minutes of talking with her - anyone would've known that she was a special person with a warm and welcoming heart. And maybe if people have known this, they'd understand why losing her has changed me so much inside. I do think that my close friends who have met her understand better why it has been so difficult for me to handle the loss.
You would have loved her, too. You see, we were the kind of children who rushed to go home after school not because our mother ordered us to but because we wanted to spend time with her. We're the kind of children who got envied because our mother read us stories before afternoon naps, sent us stuffed toys in school during Valentine's Day, baked us our own birthday cakes, helped build art projects, taught us calligraphy on weekends. She made us learn and recite nursery rhymes and well-loved poetry by Marlowe, Whitman, Longfellow. She bought me classic books like Wuthering Heights and Little Women. Also pocket dictionaries.
She was funny, gregarious, intelligent, sociable. My love for reading and writing were her influences. When she read out loud to us, she glided her fingertip along the line she was reading and so even before I actually knew how to read, I was familiar with the "shape" of the word in print. She gave me my first diary when I was eight and encouraged me to write my thoughts everyday. I've always kept a journal ever since - in the forms of juvenile scented notebooks, standard 80-sheet ruled notebooks, of .doc and .txt files, of blog entries, and more recently, a Moleskine.
In the dream, my siblings and I talked around a table. We don't do that anymore, but we used to have them all the time when we were growing up. My mother was the kind of parent who wanted to hear our opinions. The first time we transferred provinces, she all sat us around the table and told us of the many changes and adjustments that we will have to go through during the period. I was ten at the time, seated with the others in the table, asked of my concerns, and treated as an adult. And this happened often because we moved quite a lot.
And even when we were already working, she was the mother who would pick sampaguita flowers from our backyard and put some of the blossoms in my bag so that it'd smell fragrant. In fact, when I was packing my things in Azeus, I saw one of the sampaguita branches she gave me which I kept in a box. I don't know why I kept it. But I'm glad I have the dried up flowers in my treasured possessions. There was also the mask I had to wear when she was already in reverse isolation in ICU. I'm still conflicted whether to keep that one. I find myself constantly in this place where I want to forget but I need to remember.
My mother was also very human - with weaknesses and contradictions. Until the very end, she regretted not being able to give up smoking. And it was one thing that she always asked forgiveness for. To us and in her prayers. I have seen her try to quit all throughout those years. Many, many times. Often dramatic memories when she would ask us to throw out all cigarettes, lighters, ashtrays and she'd end up in tears. Weeks or days or hours later when she couldn't resist the temptation, she'd pick up the habit again.
As a kid, I never understood how hard it could be. Naively, I drew an anti-smoking poster and stuck it on one of the ref magnets complete with text copied from health books about how smoking is bad for the health and with a real cigarette stuck in the center of the paper for added effect. I think it was Papa who took the cigarette from the poster and smoked it. What irony. Yeah, we were a comedic family.
A part of me believes I'm meant to be single forever so I'm not keeping a list anymore of what I am looking for in a person, but if I were - smoking is a deal-breaker for me. I'm not being judgemental or self-righteous. In fact, it's because I'm being selfish. I don't ever want to go through all the magnificently long drawn out pain of losing a loved one because of this habit. I have gone through it with both of my parents. And it felt like you had to helplessly stand and see them kill themselves willingly and hate themselves for it. It is hell and it is as if your heart is wrenched out from chest. No, no. It would have to be somebody else's wife. Somebody else's child. I won't sign up for that all over again.
My mother would disapprove of this notion, I know. She always told me that I had a tendency to be inflexible in a sense that I have no in-betweens. Black and white - no grays. I am stubborn and she was worried that my extreme likes and dislikes would make me miss out on some of the things in life.
The way things stand, I'm set to miss out on a lot of things in life, anyway. Having a wedding where your parents give you away. Or having a family with a mother to guide you in raising a child. And a more trivial thing: my new office emphasizes on work-life-balance and they have these family day activities every now and then where you bring... well, family. I absolutely dread it. Because I can't bring anyone. Just yesterday, I had to call up an aunt I haven't spoken with for years just to ask if she could confirm my information to the bank where I was opening an account. It was funny and awkward and just utterly pathetic.
One of things my siblings and I talked about is that during those times when we were all living apart from each other - and it was not very unusual that our family of five were in five different cities at the same time - home was always where our mother was. Home was not a fixed city or even a tangible house. Home was where my mother can listen about our day, give us a hug, talk to us, let us know how much we were loved. And no matter where we're coming from - a toxic semester in college or a long day at work - we all knew where home was. Or who home was.
And it still stands true. We'll all be going home someday to where she is. In the meantime, I'm trying to live my life with intention. So I could have something worthwhile to tell her when I see her again.
Happy birthday, Mama.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Transubstantiation
I've heard a very interesting story today. A true one at that. Juicier than any of the showbiz tsismis. More incredible than any of the Ripley stories.
So a long time ago, there's this wife with a womanizing husband. What else is new, right? But this happened a really long time ago so instead of seeking annulment on the grounds of psychological incapacity or hiring a private investigator to follow him around - the wife instead consulted a Jewish sorceress to ask what to do.
So in keeping with her weirdness, the sorceress asks for a consecrated host in payment for a magical potion that will supposedly help the wife. A consecrated host - well, you know - it's the same host we get at communion. So the wife heard mass and after receiving communion, she removed the Host from her mouth and kept it in a knot in her veil. Just then, the Host began to bleed profusely. It bled so heavily that people thought that she was really, really sick. Or with a very deep wound or something. So she freaked out - naturally - and went home. She placed the wrapped Host in a wooden chest where she kept her clean linens.
When her philandering husband came home, he discovered the secret of the hidden Host because the chest was all lit up. Just absolutely beaming with brilliant light. In fact, it was so bright that it illuminated their whole house! The parish heard about the incident and after a couple of years, the Church recognized it as a legitimate miracle.
Amazing, huh?
But I just wanted to share what the priest reminded everyone - that physical miracles like that is not what people really need to see. The miracle that people - especially unbelieving ones are looking for, is the miracle of change in the lives of those who claim to follow Christ.
It's been mentioned that those who go to Church and openly pray but live un-Christian lives are so much worse than those who do not go to Church at all. Because they convince people that the Church does not change lives. But just breed a bunch of hypocrites. People shouldn't go to mass because they feel like they're being good. People should go to mass because they want to be good.
And that rang true in my head. Because I try not to miss mass not because I feel like I'm being better than those who don't go. But because I feel I need it more than others.
So what was the lesson from this Sunday's homily? Apart from the miracle of change in our lives - steer clear of sorcery when addressing marital problems.
So a long time ago, there's this wife with a womanizing husband. What else is new, right? But this happened a really long time ago so instead of seeking annulment on the grounds of psychological incapacity or hiring a private investigator to follow him around - the wife instead consulted a Jewish sorceress to ask what to do.
So in keeping with her weirdness, the sorceress asks for a consecrated host in payment for a magical potion that will supposedly help the wife. A consecrated host - well, you know - it's the same host we get at communion. So the wife heard mass and after receiving communion, she removed the Host from her mouth and kept it in a knot in her veil. Just then, the Host began to bleed profusely. It bled so heavily that people thought that she was really, really sick. Or with a very deep wound or something. So she freaked out - naturally - and went home. She placed the wrapped Host in a wooden chest where she kept her clean linens.
When her philandering husband came home, he discovered the secret of the hidden Host because the chest was all lit up. Just absolutely beaming with brilliant light. In fact, it was so bright that it illuminated their whole house! The parish heard about the incident and after a couple of years, the Church recognized it as a legitimate miracle.
Amazing, huh?
But I just wanted to share what the priest reminded everyone - that physical miracles like that is not what people really need to see. The miracle that people - especially unbelieving ones are looking for, is the miracle of change in the lives of those who claim to follow Christ.
It's been mentioned that those who go to Church and openly pray but live un-Christian lives are so much worse than those who do not go to Church at all. Because they convince people that the Church does not change lives. But just breed a bunch of hypocrites. People shouldn't go to mass because they feel like they're being good. People should go to mass because they want to be good.
And that rang true in my head. Because I try not to miss mass not because I feel like I'm being better than those who don't go. But because I feel I need it more than others.
So what was the lesson from this Sunday's homily? Apart from the miracle of change in our lives - steer clear of sorcery when addressing marital problems.
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