Ministers of the Word

Spent the early morning meditating on 2 Corinthians 6:3-13. Remembered pastors, Bible study teachers, and campus ministry workers who have labored hard for the gospel so I, and others like me, could grow in the love and knowledge of Jesus Christ. I miss them. Have not seen many of them in years. I treasure and cherish them dearly, and continue to pray for their health, protection, provision, and progress in their spiritual walk and ministry.

Matthew Henry writes:

They were slighted by the men of the world as unknown, men of no figure or account, not worth taking notice of; yet in all the churches of Christ they were well known, and of great account: they were looked upon as dying, being killed all the day long, and their interest was thought to be a dying interest; “and yet behold,” says the apostle, “we live, and live comfortably, and bear up cheerfully under all our hardships, and go on conquering and to conquer.” They were chastened, and often fell under the lash of the law, yet not killed: and though it was thought that they were sorrowful, a company of mopish and melancholy men, always sighing and mourning, yet they were always rejoicing in God, and had the greatest reason to rejoice always. They were despised as poor, upon the account of their poverty in this world; and yet they made many rich, by preaching the unsearchable riches of Christ. They were thought to have nothing, and silver and gold they had none, houses and lands they had none; yet they possessed all things: they had nothing in this world, but they had a treasure in heaven. Their effects lay in another country, in another world. They had nothing in themselves, but possessed all things in Christ. Such a paradox is a Christian’s life, and through such a variety of conditions and reports lies our way to heaven; and we should be careful in all these things to approve ourselves to God.

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Preparations

Sean's wedding is a few days away. He is my first, and perhaps only, brother who will be getting married. It is a small beach wedding in the afternoon, along the shores of Glan, with close relatives and friends expected to attend. 

I have no idea how to plan for weddings and largely leave that to others, in the same way I do not interfere with cooking lest the gas range explode. So I was amused to overhear Nanay talk to her friends at 4 am that we—Manong and I—don’t contribute ideas. Because she and her friends meet every day, except Sundays, through Facebook for Bible study and prayer; the upcoming wedding continues to be a concern being lifted up to God. What would we contribute then, except a few typographical checks in the program print out and some food tasting notes for the reception? And there’s the invisible but palpable brotherly support—which really means letting Sean and Hannah decide, until they specifically ask us to do something.

Preparations are underway. Last week, Sean and Hannah talked with Pastor Henry, who dropped by the house for lunch last week. Pastor Henry was our pastor from when we were in Sunday school, and has known us from Adam. Uncle Dot, our youngest uncle from Nanay’s side, is in charge of the flowers and decorations. The church’s music team will play the music in the venue.

Weddings are beautiful opportunities to reconnect with loved ones and friends. In revisiting these bonds, we discover that human relationships endure and grow stronger with time. To see Sean and Hannah experience both the dramatic and mundane steps in their journey to oneness, with just a healthy seasoning of stress, is a source of comfort: they are headed in the right direction, by God’s grace.

So next week, I will limit my clinical and academic work. Over this weekend I will finish my lectures in biochemistry and molecular biology. I anticipate that I may need to run errands—pick up materials and people—the lot of people who drive. Nanay’s friends are coming from Panay and Negros. I might need to meet them at the airport.

People in the house—Nanay and Auntie Nanic, who lives with us on weekends—are in denial. I tell them, partly as a joke, to pack Sean’s things in a balikbayan box. “Ay, hindi anay. Hulaton ta lang nga siya ang mag-hambal,” they say. I suspect Nanay now experiences some separation anxiety, but Sean assures her she can stay at their rented apartment for a steady supply of his glorious láswa.

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Forty days

Lola's lansones trees (Lansium parasiticum) showed up with fruits that left many visitors for her 40-day death remembrance awestruck. We miss Lola Ugol and still look for her when we drop by her home, now silent and solemn, the way houses become when their owners leave them for good.

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Reflections at 4 am

At 4 am, working in the living room with only my laptop illuminating the darkness. Windows wide open to let the morning coolness in. Birds chatter and sing outside, like housewives on the street catching up on the latest news. What are they talking about? Their plans for the day? Their dreams last night? Their excitement for the weekend?

Sing this with me.

This is my Father's world
And to my listening ears
All nature sings, and round me rings
The music of the spheres 

This is my Father's world
The birds their carols raise
The morning light, the lily white
Declare their maker's praise

And also: 

This is my Father's world
Oh, let me never forget
That though the wrong seems oft so strong
God is the ruler yet

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A beatific smile on his face

From Behind the Scenes at the Museum by Kate Atkinson, p. 61:



What a line.

Definitely off-topic but still related: I picture Stephen, the first martyr of the Christian church, as smiling, as he was stoned to death, slowly being welcomed into the arms of his Savior. 

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Currently reading: Kate Atkinson's Behind the Scenes at the Museum

Was hungry the other day, looking for restaurants for lunch. The less people, the better. There was a graduation nearby; people flocked to the mall to celebrate. While going around, saw Kate Atkinson's novel displayed at National, on sale! Forgot about my stomach pangs and snatched it right away. 

The author's foreword:

If you were to ask me what the book is about (which is the most loathesome question you could ask—why bother write the thing if you have to explain it? It is what it is) and if I were forced to answer, I would say, "It's about things." The book is a repository for the past: for mine, for other people's, for the city's, a place of safekeeping for the fragile.

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Bursting in tears

In the final chapter, The Train to Tibet, Paul Theroux writes: 

An early European explorer to Tibet burst into tears when he saw one lovely mountain covered with snow. When I saw the landscape of Tibet that did not seem to be an odd reaction. The setting is more than touching—it is a bewitchment: the light, the air, the emptiness, the plains and peaks . . . It is a safe and reassuring remoteness, with the prettiest meadows and moors buttressed by mountains. It was, somehow, a mountain landscape with a few valleys—a blue and white plateau of tinkling yak bells, and bright glaciers and tiny wild flowers. Who wouldn't burst into tears?

This is one of the best books I've read, and I will likely get back to this piece of art and history soon enough. 

It goes without saying that this chapter, too, resonates deeply with me. My hometown, a piece of paradise inhabited by proud, happy, and smiling people, may disappear soon. A huge mining project in a nearby town has been approved. That will bring money and prosperity to people, sure, but those will mostly go to politicians and people in power. But the land will be destroyed. And the rivers, too. Supporters of this project say this mining project will be sustainable—but who are they kidding? 

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The rain began to leak into my soul

As I return to Paul Theroux's Riding the Iron Rooster on this cool Saturday morning, the feeling of calm-after-the-storm descends upon me. After a tiring week of my kind and gracious grandmother's passing away, I can go about my day without anything urgent floating in the air. I want to tell you more about Lola Ugól, of course. I can start with the story of why nobody—not even her children—knows why she was called Ugól when her real name was Trinidad Zamora Garcenila. But not today. Of course, there are patients to see and faculty work to be done, but those can wait until 10 am. 

For now, I want to savor this moment: the possibilities of a weekend. A quiet morning in the porch, the vanilla-smell of old book pages, the exquisite gray strokes of my Blackwing Palomino, the minimalistic design and engineering of my MacBook Air. These small things and habits allow me to both dwell on and forget about grief. The running joke in the family is that May is a particularly harrowing time of the year: it is when deaths and birthdays happen. 

Escape is not quite the word for what I want to do today. Perhaps, adventure might be appropriate. For the vicarious opportunity to travel distant lands, I am grateful for books, such as the one I'm holding.  In this memorable paragraph which appears in the chapter, The Shandong Express to Shanghai (p. 400), Paul Theroux writes about the pleasures of anonymity in a foreign land. 

I stayed in Shanghai a while longer. I bought an old goldfish bowl at the antique shop. I saw a truly terrible Chinese film: it was violent and thoroughly philistine. It rained. People talked about the power struggle in the inner party. They were not cynical or indifferent to such big changes—the expulsions and resignations—but since they could do nothing about them they had to accept them. The rain began to leak into my soul. I walked through the rat's maze of back-lanes near the cathedral, and got glimpses of ancient China in the drizzle. I was happiest those nights, trudging alone in the rain, glancing into windows, seeing people ironing and making noodles and pasting up the red banners for the Chinese New Year, watching people roistering in cheap steamy restaurants and strangling chickens. It was wonderful to be anonymous those dark nights in Shanghai, when no one could see my face, and I heard a mother scolding a child with 'Where have you been?'

More than sight-seeing, I like snooping around best in places where nobody recognizes me. Fulfilling this curiosity with a heightened sense of observation and note-taking amplifies the joy of travel; it also helps one forget, but also, eventually, remember. 

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Paul makes a wise choice

It's too bad that, as a canine, he is perpetually disenfranchised from participating in democratic exercises.

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A day in contrast

Driving at 6 AM along the Gensan-Polomolok border, I see a tricycle on the outer line. It is jam-packed with five people, excluding the driver. As I inch closer, I notice that a motorcycle, propped up vertically on one wheel, is strapped on the tricycle's metal sidecar. Yellow ropes keep the motorcycle from falling off the road. The men reinforce the motorcycle to the tricycle with their arms. In their late twenties, wearing shirts and denims, they grin, smile, and laugh. Are they bringing home this brand new vehicle at home? If that's the plan, why don't they ride on it? Perhaps I'll never know. In the meantime, an olive-green Vios, which I'm presently trailing, slows down. A window opens. A teenager, her hair tossed by the wind, emerges with a camera phone. Realizing they are being recorded, the men wave in the light, intermittent rain. They are having a great time.

As soon as I arrive at home, in time for the Sunday service, I receive a text message that M has died. He was around my age. He had an aggressive kind of lung cancer. He has left behind a wife and two children.

Ours is a bittersweet existence.

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Glory in the ordinary

My high school classmate and friend S dropped by my clinic to have her blood pressure checked. Told her she was a newly diagnosed hypertensive. It runs in her blood. These past months, she could only count the nights when she's had a good night's sleep. How could she if, at any given moment, one of her daughters would cry? Her maternal instinct does not allow indifference; her reflex reaction is to land on her two feet to be with her children. Mothers are amazing.

I thought of S when I read this passage from Glory in the Ordinary by Myra Dempsey:

Even in life’s mundane tasks, God is shaping us into a people who beautifully reflect his glory to the world. Left to our own devices, we will never naturally drift toward holiness. We rely totally and completely on God to rewire us and re-mold us, making us more like his son, thereby making us more and more holy. Because he loves us so perfectly and immensely, there isn’t a moment of our existence that he won’t use to accomplish just that. Those late-night work hours, those early morning feedings, those middle-of-the-day grocery store runs, they are all clay cutters in the hands of our perfect potter, wielded with precision to trim away all that does not drive us deeper into him. He knows that we are only alive in him, that all of the joy and purpose we crave is found in him alone. Nothing is wasted, dear friend, and you are not in a green room waiting for that call up to the main stage.

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"Life is surely muted and compromised...": on the pandemic life

From a blog I've just subscribed to, La Vie Graphite: an eloquent meditation on pandemic life:

Enduring these months is a learning experience of what to eliminate or change. There are shortages and there are pinched resources. Less money, in the face of inflation and reduced pay, but less to buy. Three full tanks of gas in my car, in six months. Having less causes a discipline of needing less. As the workplace began requiring a weekly on-site workday, I’ve simply treated my department like a quarantine: A straight-out eight-hour day, with granola bars and thermos of coffee. There are no places to go for lunch, anyway. Then it’s become two days on-site. More granola bars for the perpetual motion. I just want to get the work accomplished, plain and simple. Perhaps it’s an imposed austerity, but the workplace is the place to get work done; there is no more socializing, and it’s hard to tell how much longer the situation will last. I’ve noticed myself working faster and more strategically, as I cram all I can into those hours. Working from home is no less industrious, but it’s much safer. Most of us are under pressure to make the best of a bad situation. I’m grateful, at least, to be working. Life is surely muted and compromised, but I’m always brought to step back and consider this context when I see the clusters of those encamped in the city park with no place to call home. The pandemic forces us to learn to not take tomorrow for granted.

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A surprise visit

A teacher from high school dropped by the clinic yesterday, just as I was about to close shop. She was surprised that turned out to be a medical oncologist. 

"I thought you took up neurology," she said. "But why 'Bottled Brain' then?"

Ma'am T said she visited my blog daily until her phone was stolen. She couldn't access it anymore. 

I'll help her bookmark this page the next time she visits. 

The Hiligaynon word for the day is ma'éstra. It means "teacher or instructor."

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Sun-kissed in Camotes Island

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Sane and wonderfully tender

I often get asked how I deal with patients who cry in the clinic. There are no easy answers. But I assume that most of my patients and their families know more than what they'd be given credit for. They might not know the nitty-gritty details of treatment and prognosis, but they carry with them a vague, often accurate, idea that what they have is "not good." When they enter the consultation room, I don't immediately get into the details. I warm them up with questions of where they're from and what they do. I establish a connection. Where I practice, that involves asking if they know a common person. It helps that I speak the vernacular for a more nuanced, intimate back-and-forth. They hardly get surprised when I break the news: that they have cancer. But my speaking to them confirms the fact of their disease. They cry, usually quietly, grappling for a handkerchief or tissue paper. I have a stack of napkins on my desk that I offer to them in a few minutes of silence. I assure them it's okay to let it all out.

There's a common belief that it is detrimental to the body and soul if one keeps the pain inside. Grief must be expressed and let out. I'm sure there are psychological and theological reasons for this. In my experience, encouraging outpourings of grief is cathartic and ultimately beneficial. 

This is a bit of a stretch, but this daily reality of my private practice seems to find resonance in Dr. Edward Donnell's The Christian Life, a chapter in the book, "John Calvin: For a New Reformation" (ed. Derek W.H. Thomas and John W. Tweeddale, Crossway, 2019). I love John Calvin. Each time I read him or about him, I learn something new—as a Christian or, in this case, as a cancer specialist. I must note that cheerfulness is not defined here as being happy-go-lucky. It is, in my reading of this text, a deep-rooted joy. 

Yet Calvin's humanity and pastoral wisdom shine out when he explains that cheerfulness can coexist with anguish. The point of a cross is that it hurts terrible, and this is is the paradox and glory of Christian suffering. He has no time for what he calls the "iron philosophy" of Stoicism. The Lord himself shed tears over his own trials and over the misfortunes of his disciples . . .  As Calvin describes, "If all fear is branded as unbelief, how shall we account for that dread with which, we read, he was heavily stricken [Matt. 26:37; Mark 14:33]? If all sadness displeases us, how will it please us that he confesses his soul 'sorrowful even to death' [Matt. 26:38]?"

Dr. Donnell concludes, 

This is sane and wonderfully tender pastoring. 

In practice terms, this translates to me saying, "It's okay to cry." I end with a word of encouragement, ask their permission if I can pray for them. As they leave, I take care not to give false promises of cure, but I don't withhold from them sufficient hope to carry them through the days before they see me again on their next consult.

An aside: napkin versus tissue paper

The main difference between napkin and tissue paper is that the napkin is a soft piece of fabric material, used to wipe the face before and after eating. On the other hand, Tissue Paper is a soft easily absorbent paper used for cleaning purposes. Both are available in different colors.

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On blogging

I stumbled upon Alan Jacobs’s blog. I’d been there before, but I hadn’t read it with sufficient curiosity to keep me going. Until now. An author, university professor, and blogger, he writes about cultivating his blog as a kind of a garden. He uses his blog to “generate and try out new ideas, get feedback from readers, develop the ideas a little further…” He writes about blogging as someone who seeks to understand this medium. Reading him is inspiring and instructive.

Part of me wishes I’d thought blogging through. When I published my first post in 2004, I didn’t think Bottled Brain would live long—at least, long enough to be older than high school students. Had I been a wiser 16-year old in that internet café in the row of houses near the UP Shopping Center, I should’ve planned out what content to put out. I could’ve chosen to write about a niche topic rather than post flotsam and jetsam about books, pens, faith, family, travels, and medicine. I could’ve planned to turn my posts into book chapters, which I’d subsequently publish. 

But I didn’t. Today the blog looks more like an online diary than a well thought out website. Perhaps that is why I find it so charming. Because it is my space—my own dot com domain—I can write anything. My friends and family are my audience. There’s no pressure to please or impress. There’s a sense in which I write for myself; my delight in the writing overflows to delight others, too. That is my hope.

What I can learn from Alan Jacobs is to make sense of my logorrhea. One of these sunny days I’ll find the time to organize my posts. Surely, several themes will emerge: my experiences in medicine, my thoughts about Christianity, my fountain pen collection, and so on. Maybe I can do something about them.

Moving forward, I envision more posts more about medicine, medical education, medical humanities, biochemistry, and technology in this space. I should also post more quotes from books I'm curently reading. Who knows? I might just develop new material from these! 

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A Blackwing Pencil (Palomino)!

Snapshot of a page from my journal, currently a Midori Traveler's Notebook (Passport):



I turned 35 last April 22. I went on a short trip to visit my godmother. My aunt and Nanay were with me. I could tell you many stories, but the short of it is: we had a blessed time. During the tour, I found my grail pencil, something I've been meaning to buy but I never had the chance to—until this trip!

It's a Blackwing pencil (Palomino). This is the favorite writing instrument of Mary Norris, the New Yorker copy editor, and Austin Kleon, the book author and blogger. 

I adore the writing experience! Praise God for this blessing—and for 35 years of His goodness and faithfulness.

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Christ is risen!

Woke up to a rainy Sunday morning. Drove Nanay to Rizal Park to buy flowers she subsequently arranges for the pulpit. She couldn't bear the sight of a flowerless pulpit, especially on Easter, the most joyous of all Christian celebrations.

Christ is risen! What a glorious, marvelous, and comforting truth! 

Meditating on the centrality of the resurrection to the Christian life, Dr. Albert Mohler writes:

As Paul well understood, Christianity stands or falls with the empty grave. If Christ is not raised, we are to be pitied, for our faith is in vain. Those who would preach a resurrectionless Christianity have substituted the truth of the gospel for a lie. But, asserted Paul, Christ is risen from the dead. Our faith is not in vain, but is in the risen Lord. He willingly faced death on a cross and defeated death from the grave. The Resurrection is the ultimate sign of God's vindication of His Son.

He quotes Dr. John A. Broadus:

It was the signed manual of the Deity, it was the seal of the Sovereign of the Universe affixed to His claim, it declared Him to be all that He had ever professed to be, and so it establishes the truth of all His teachings and the truth of the whole Christian society. The great fact that Jesus Christ rose from the dead is the central fact of the evidence of Christianity. 

Have a meaningful and Christ-centered Easter Sunday, dear friends!

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Photo above was taken yesterday when the sun was up and the April shower plant was showing off its blooms.

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Moderating a class forum from Lola's garden

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The coming-home ritual

Coming home from work, where two lovely patients had just died, I am welcomed by Paul in the garage, his nose toward me, his body crouched near the ground, just as I open the car door. I give him a belly rub, which leads him to roll over, enjoying the sensation of human contact. "How are you, my boy?" I ask. He responds by choking on his saliva, his tongue wagging. After two minutes of this welcome, he follows me as I enter the house. Distracted by the clanging sounds in the kitchen, he leaves me and bothers whoever happens to be there. Paul's love language is bothering humanity.

Dogs are God's gift to us. Despite the nightly destruction of Nanay's cherished plants and cacti and the tearing away of shoe laces and chewing of electric cords, Paul brings to our home a youthful joie de vivre, a reminder to not take things too seriously. 

Now—where is he?!

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