Theo and Monseigneur Welcome

I’m reading Theo of Golden, a novel by Allen Levi. I’m relishing each chapter, short but punchy, leaving me with a sense of lightness and hope. I first learned about Allen Levi through Russel Moore’s podcast. Dr. Moore calls that interview his favorite. I remember driving from Marbel to Gensan, engrossed by their conversation being broadcast through Apple Carplay. I resolved to get a copy of the novel right away – that is, I ordered an ebook through Kindle. Since then I’ve treated myself to one or two chapters at a time.  

Theo, born and raised in Portugal, visits a quiet town called Golden. I’m almost halfway through the book, and I don’t want to give spoilers here. But let me just say that Theo is a old, rich man whose presence transforms the neighborhood and reminds readers of what kindness looks like.  

Interestingly, I’m also reading Les Misérables a by Victor Hugo, a masterpiece that I’m half ashamed to admit that I have only started reading this month. That gem of a novel is in my Kindle. (FYI, the Kindle is a great device to help with insomnia – not that I have issues with sleeping – according to the New York Times Wirecutter review.) 

A remarkable character who has moved me is called Monseigneur Welcome (Bienvenu), the bishop who allows Jean Valjean, the thief and pardoned prisoner, to enter his house and sleep. I know from the musical that Jean Valjean proceeds to steal from his house; the bishop forgives him anyway. How is he able to do that? 

I suppose part of the answer comes from an earlier chapter, where Victor Hugo writes about the bishop:

“A moment later he was in his garden, walking, meditating, contemplating, his heart and soul wholly absorbed in those grand and mysterious things which God shows up at night to the eyes which remain open.”

I love stories that give me, or remind me of, hope.

 

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Here's Paul occupying my reading nook. There's my Underwood typewriter and Romalyn Ante's poetry collection, Agimat, given to me by another poet, Prof. Marj Evasco. The tennis racket? That's a mosquito killer.

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Internal calm

I read Psalm 25 for my meditation this Monday morning, the start of another week marred by rising oil prices and, on a personal note, illnesses that hit close to home: two of my distant aunties have been diagnosed with terminal cancers. A friend's father has died because of a progressively worsening malignancy. 

Verse 4 reads, "Make me to know your ways, O Lord; teach me your paths." David prayed that God would move in his heart so that he would yearn to know God's ways, His paths. The poem's imagery alludes to a journey: there's a beginning and end to it. The beginning is the call to follow the way and leave all worldly cares behind; the end is God Himself. I suppose the words "ways" and "paths" must mean something else, as well: a pattern of living based on God's precepts and commands that God's chosen children are called to live by.  The Christian journey is a pilgrimage towards hills and valleys, with pain, sorrow, and joy intermingled. But the Christian does not walk alone; God empowers him. On his own, he will inevitably fail. 

I love the honesty and vulnerability of this Psalm. There is no arrogance in it, a fact that must have been surprising to the people of surrounding cultures who had first heard this song: the king publicly asks for forgiveness for his transgressions, and proclaims his desperate need for God. Instead of boasting, David shows humility. Verse 4 reads, "Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; for you I wait all the day long."

Dane C. Ortlund--one of my favorite Christian modern writers of our era, the same man who wrote my favorite book, Gentle and Lowly--helps me make sense of the Psalm. His book, In the Lord I Take Refuge, settles my heart and mind towards the long week ahead, a tool and a guide and, yes, a friend to my heart. Meditating on this Psalm, he writes, "When life overwhelms us, when the bottom is falling out, this is where Scripture takes us to God. We do not achieve internal calm by securing external calm. We find internal calm by looking to God." 

I took the photo on my way to Lugano, Switzerland, where I told the driver, who lived in the German-speaking part of the country, that I was from the tropics and I wished to escape the sun--a fact that puzzled him.

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When the dog escapes

There’s this entry in Thoreau’s journals where he writes about him chasing his father’s pig. The pig escapes and runs around the neighborhood. He spends the day trapping the animal, which is eventually caught with neighbor’s help. The pig, which he wrote about when he was 38 (my age today), is reminiscent of our Paul. Our dog, who is unleashed 99% of the time, except when he needs to be washed, flees the house as soon as he finds an opening—usually when the gates are opened for the car to enter/exit, or when Nanay goes out. Instinctively, Paul knows my mother moves slowly, and he proceeds to insert himself in the little window of opportunity. Chasing after him only emboldens him: he thinks you are playing with him. He does not go far (although sometimes he does), but looks back after running a few meters away. When you run in the same direction, he runs a few meters more, then looks back, as if saying, “Come on!”

Paul does find his way back after a foray into the neighbors’ gardens, panting hard, and looking for his tub of water, which he drinks hungrily. But his outdoor adventures can last for as long as an hour. The danger of leaving him outdoors is that he sometimes gets distracted by the smells. Our neighbors reported to us that they saw Paul cross the highway. They added that he seemed to know how to do that safely.  

I have discovered that the best way to bring him home is to dangle food and shout, “Hmmm, sarap-sarap.”

When I do that, Paul looks at my direction. Seeing that I am enjoying a gastronomical feast, he runs back home, expecting his share. I proceed to lock the door and trap him. 

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Monday date with my mother

Nanay asked me if she could go to GenSan with me. She needed to do her yearly pilgrimage to a government agency to show proof of life so she could continue to collect her pension. Her appearance could be done online, with a neat app that's been downloaded in her iPhone, but her log in details and her birthday did not match--a fact that took me at least 30 minutes to confirm. "Are you sure this is the number, Mom?" A question I must have blurted out at least four times, each meriting an fiercer response than the previous. 

 "Of course, I'm sure! I wrote the number carefully." 

I told her there was nothing else we could do but show up in the actual physical office. Today, we did that. I located the building through Google Maps, which led us to a narrow street where a funeral parade slowed the traffic significantly. It turned out that the building we were looking for was a few blocks away from my GenSan clinic. On a good, cloudy day, one can simply walk in the direction of Starbucks then take a quick left.

The office was accommodating, the parking spacious, and the staff courteous. We finished in less than an hour, a rarity in government offices. We logged on her app. I helped her take a selfie. The confirmation message read, "See you next year po." 

Driving my mother around is really how I show my love for her. She doesn't like what I cook, in general. But driving: that's what I do best, but only if I'm in the mood.  

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Why does Paul keep showing up in our dreams?

The scene is clear in my head: a crow—a large bird, which could have been an eagle—swoops down on Paul and kills him. Paul looks at me helplessly in the kitchen, where it happens. I shoo the bird away, but I'm too late. Paul's blood coats the floor. I awoke in cold sweat until I realized it was all a dream.

A similar incident happened in Manong's dreams. Paul is captured and taken to the dog pound. Manong rushes to save him from execution. 

Manong, now in Scandinavia, but who was Paul's primary dog walker, also told me a happy dream about Paul playing in the snow. 

Why does Paul keep showing up in our dreams? 

When I made coffee this morning, Paul was lying on the living room carpet, perfectly safe from birds that might try to kill him. 

A few months ago, Paul charmed Mich, who visited from Manila/Japan, into giving him a belly rub. 

He befriends birds and frogs that visit our home and only really despises Victor, the dog who lives two streets away. Otherwise, friends and family seem to like him. The neighborhood kids rush to him to stroke his head. I overheard a girl telling another scared girl, "He doesn't bite! Just call his name." 

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Cars

Half-awake, I lingered on my bed with bits of my dream still intact: Sean showing me a dirty steering wheel, me driving the car out of what looked like a covered parking garage, me pouring a tub of soapy water onto the Honda Civic to clean the car as Sean watches me. I can't explain my dream exactly, but there it is: my car and my brother. Two concepts I intimately connect in my subconscious, apparently. 

I turn to Sean when I have questions about cars: he, like my father, likes machines. We talk about cars when we speak over the phone. He sounds more and more like my father, even the way he punctuates our conversations with, "Love you, Manong." 

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Dream

After a harrowing but pleasantly surprising workout session—leg day in the middle of week—I got my passport size photos printed. (It's the PhilHealth accreditation renewal season, that time of year when I have to contend with government bureaucracy.) The man asked if I needed a soft copy; he'd charge me 50 pesos more. 

"No, thanks. Just the pictures, please," I said. 

Outside it was raining—gentle and calming, the kind of weather that makes you think of hot Milo and pajamas. But adding rain to the rush hour to students and employees on their way home often exacerbates the traffic condition in the city, particularly along the highway where government construction is on-going, has been going on for years on end. 

I headed to the bookstore. I picked books in the discount bin. Agustín Fernández Mallo caught my attention right away: The Nocilla Trilogy. I hadn't heard of the author before, but the cover was interesting. People ask me how I plan my reading: there is no plan. 

The trilogy begins with "Dream." Each short chapters reads like prose poetry. The author is both physicist and poet. It's not the most linear book. I return to previous chapters to make sense of the current narrative. For instance,  a reference to Kelly and her friends going surfing prompted me to remember that it was Kelly who was diagnosed with sarcoma in her left femur. To read this book I must encircle the names of characters. They reappear. The narratives are interconnected. Holding a Blackwing pencil as I read makes the reading even more pleasurable. I encircle the names of characters. This was the technique I used to make senses of the many Aureliano Buendias in Garbiel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. 

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