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Fruits in South Cotabato
I'm home for my father's death anniversary. Has it really been a year? During this brief interval—a reunion of sorts with family and friends—the Lord has been kind to make me enjoy the abundance of fruits.
Sunday afternoons
I'm asked what I do on Sunday afternoons after worship service. I take a nap, wake up refreshed, catch up on my reading, and work on stuff for Monday. The to-do list is hardly ever empty. Once in a while, I get to experience sweet Christian fellowship, which feels like drinking from a fresh stream after a long journey across the desert. Consider yesterday, for instance, when I ate solo at a restaurant along Timog Avenue. While sipping my americano, which I had ordered in advance, Pastor Caloy, Ate Berns, and their daughter Abby came in, looking for a space to eat. We ended up eating at the same table. The lunch was filled with stories of God's grace and faithfulness, that inexhaustible topic of those who believe and treasure Jesus Christ. We were all too engrossed in our company that we failed to immortalize it with a photo. I was headed home for a nap (how much more middle-aged can one sound!) when I saw my dear friends Paul, his wife Jac, and the High King of Wales,
Cancer Institute on a Saturday
I like making rounds on weekends. Mark Ando, the new oncology fellow from Cebu, went with me. It was his first time to go on duty. On my way home, I passed by the unkempt gardens at the Cancer Institute. I saw two white butterflies hovering over the grass. My work is a blessing.
A year after
Exactly one year ago, an assassin murdered his father in broad daylight. The camera footage would show a gunman firing predetermined shots to a car; the said gunman would whisk away in anonymity, leaving a man dead in the front seat. His sisters, who were in the car, would recount the events as if it were a movie. My friend was at work that afternoon, scheduling an MRI for a patient with spinal cord compression. “Para akong first year resident ulit!” he would tell me, his statements punctuated by laughter. We had only begun subspecialty training then, barely understanding the ropes of chemotherapy. It was the most harrowing day of his life. He would rush to the hospital, hanging by the railings of a public-type jeep, his face soaked in tears, his soul drowned in anguish. A week later, my own father passed away. Death sneaks upon us unannounced, but at least we can, for the most part, plan when we would cry. Roger and I said we would schedule our moments of “depression.” But we
Context is important.
via Instagram Here’s an ink stain from a repurposed Lamy bottle, now containing #diamineochre, one of my favorite inks to date.