Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen, Herr Zebaoth

On mornings like this, as the sun rises to begin a new day, a heaviness weighs upon me. I squeeze a pillow under my blanket, then slowly leave my bed to turn off the air conditioning and make myself coffee. Paul lies on the living room floor, oblivious to my presence.

The tasks are many. I pray for strength to carry out the good work that God has set before me (Ephesians 2:10). When I turn on my cell phone, kept at bay in an empty room, I imagine a string of notifications, missed calls, and unread images. I let my phone be. I do not rush to it -- that bewildering machine that distracts and entertains -- but make time to grind the coffee beans and wait for the water to boil.

Dawn is my favorite time of the day. Full of possibilities and calm, it allows me to gather my thoughts. Gathering is necessary because my mind is a clutter, no matter what shelves I put up to compartmentalize and organize my thoughts. Friends know me as a morning person. I do my best thinking when everyone is asleep, and there is a cool freshness, albeit short-lived, around me. A few hours later, humidity and heat will prevail, but I will have been done with my prayer and meditation. 

Perhaps people in my profession are familiar with -- and have grown used to -- the weight of stories of pain and suffering. Perhaps this is the "good work" set before me today, one in which I can honor God through quiet compassion. I need God's strength to get me through the day. I need a perspective that sees past the cancerous tumors.  

Music helps. This morning I discover Johannes Brahms's  Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen, Herr Zebaoth. 

 

 

Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen,
Herr Zebaoth! 
Meine seele verlanget und sehnet sich
nach den Vorhöfen des Herrn;
mein Leib und Seele freuen sich
in dem lebendigen Gott.
Wohl denen, die in deinem Hause wohnen,
die loben dich immerdar. 

The English translation is: 

How amiable are thy tabernacles,
O Lord of hosts!
My soul longeth, yea, even fainteth
for the courts of the Lord:
my heart and my flesh crieth out
for the living God.
Blessed are they that dwell in thy house:
they will be still praising thee.  

  The song longs for heaven, where God dwells, and there is no more pain and suffering.

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Up and running

The La Salle Creative Non-Fiction Workshop for doctors is up and running. On its sixth iteration -- yes, it has since taken on a life of its own since its launch during the pandemic -- we now have allied medical professionals (nurses and a radiation technologist), not just physicians. The combined demographics allows a richer discussion. 

On our first session last night, we discussed promising works of creative non-fiction -- one in poetry, the other two in prose. 

As always I learn a great deal from my co-panelists, Prof. Marjorie Evasco and Dr. Joti Tabula. Joti is this year's workshop director. This annual meeting is a reunion of sorts, the only time of the year when I'm able to talk about writing and language. I love the practice of close reading the text -- looking over and beyond the content of the piece, but in the micro details of language, the unseen ambitions and threads that weave through the literary draft. What we work on are our fellows' drafts. Calling them that -- "drafts" -- allows a kind of liberty to offer recommendations for revisions, pinpoint the strength of the piece, and introduce questions that the authors can further explore and develop.  

Next week, we'll have two sessions to discuss the remaining creative non-fiction pieces.  

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Novem

October was a quiet time here: only two posts, compared to the bare minimum of four I had set out earlier this year. I simply had nothing worthwhile to write about, and life--outside life--happened. 

My body feels, and demands, that the final quarter is, and should be, a reason for rest, a wrapping up of the year's ambitions, a kind of slowing down. The past months were inundated with tasks and to-do lists, with travels and getaways squeezed in between. 

But November is here, reminding us that the year of our Lord 2025 is nearing its end. 

I will devote my time to recharging for the busy December season. With no intention to participate in more activities than I can handle, I have every intention to enjoy my books, write some stories, and see old friends. 

Where I come from, November means visits to the dead, not trick-or-treating. Halloween has recently become a fad in the cities, with children being made to dress up and demand candies. That all feels artificial to me. When I was a child, November was when I would go with uncles and aunties to the cemetery, hopping over graves--fearing that an arm would shoot up from the ground and grab my feet--and endless happy greetings with people I was required to "bless." Those were happy days!

When I drive to hospital to this morning, I expect heavy traffic near the cemeteries. Proximity permits remembrance. Soon I will write stories about my loved ones; creating stories allows me to have conversations with them. They come alive once more. 

We will visit our dead later today, or tomorrow, in Marbel and Banga, though the usual practice has been to do the pilgrimage one day earlier, when the traffic is more tolerable.  

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Why I've been remiss in posting anything for the past weeks

I know, I know. I should write something here. What happened to the supposed "weekly newsletter" I'm supposed to churn out regularly? Life got in the way. I have a life outside this blog, you see. What a liberating, comforting thing to write about. The remaining days of 2025 are a hazy mix of memorable meetings with old friends (not old old, if you know what I mean, but people I've known for many years),  travels to places that feel different to where I live, a deluge of work in clinics and the academia, with several things in between, and an ever-growing tsundoku, which includes a brand new ESV study Bible, a heartfelt novel about piano competition and friendships by Riku Onda, a meditation on Psalms by Ray Ortlund, and many more. 

So here's a quick update. And like this lady from Kariuzawa, 40 minutes (?) from Tokyo, I say, "Hello!"

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Gregorio C. Brillantes, 92

Gregorio Brillantes "died at 92 on the morning of Sept. 26." I learned about his passing from Kuya John, who lives in Australia and who shares honest and valuable, often one-liner, book recommendations. (Consider his latest message: "Hindi na ako happy kay R.F. Kuang," referring to the novel, Katabasis.)  I left a copy of The Collected Stories of Gregorio C. Brilliants, published by the Ateneo Press, in Kuya John's gorgeous Sydney home, to help him stave off homesickness—and perhaps to encourage it. 

Brilliantes's stories take you to streets of old Philippine towns, with kioskos, municipal halls, quiet afternoons, school days. He writes like no other. My imagination turns sepia-colored. The stories I had read were set largely during wartime and Marital Law years. In these stories, I could feel the humidity and scorching heat that are distinctly Filipino. I could hear the piano and listen to the rustling of the acacia leaves. He is a writer who makes me want to write. I read him to jumpstart writing the secret fictions I develop in my typewriter; these stories will never see the light of day but I write them for pleasure anyway. 

Death is a sad thing. Some of my favorite short story writers—Mavis Gallant and Alice Munro—are dead. But in my mind and heart, they live, truly and actively—and this is the wonder and joy of reading, isn't it? The possibilities—even of time travel—are endless.

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Sir Mike

… The promise of closure fleeing what remains
Of this extravagant, fatal, blinking life.
— Maya C. Popa, Fireflies


We all felt the same thing when we heard the news: first the blow, unexpected and jolting, then the sorrow. Sir Mike’s passing was announced in our gadgets as a brief note interrupting the otherwise uneventful chats about birthdays and the upcoming annual convention this October. The message was clear and somber: Sir Mike, our dear mentor and big brother in medical oncology, has died. He was in his forties.


I confirmed the news with batch mates and friends, and they confirmed the news with me: is this true? His passing remains difficult to believe—and harder still to understand. He was perfectly fit, was in great spirits, had a good support community. Nobody that night had real answers, merely clues that would be confirmed by a poster asking for prayers and an announcement of a funeral mass. The background was white. The JPEG showed a photo of Sir Mike smiling. He had a mischievous grin. I remember that he had a funny sense of humor, laughing at and with us, more like a big brother than a stern consultant. But he could be dead serious when he dissected cases, and always earnest and kind when he shared his experience as an early-career medical oncologist. Beside his photo were the dates of his birth and death— bookends to a life well-lived.


Writing about Sir Mike in the past tense is painful because it feels . . . wrong. Gone too soon, leaving this mortal coil prematurely. Why do the good people leave us behind? We are all in shock and in grief.


The best we can do for our departed loves ones is to keep them alive in our memories by speaking and writing about them. It’s my great honor to have been taught and mentored by a great man whose legacy—his compassionate care for his patients, his kindness, humility, and faith—will last many lifetimes.

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Old issues

 

Happiness in bulk is what I call the printed New Yorker, Paris Review, and London Review of Books copies that arrived in the mail two days ago. These back issues date back to as early as February 2025; the most recent is the September 6, 2025 issue.  The delay has something to do with logistics. The efficiency of PhilPost isn't exactly outstanding, but it has never lost any New Yorker issue since I had started my subscription two years ago. The magazines arrive late, too late sometimes that I question whether they are forthcoming. But on days when I least expect them, the mailman would knock on the gate, Paul would bark his welcome, and whoever is at home would receive the package and deposit it somewhere in the living room. If it's my mother, she would say, "Ano na naman ini? Daw library na kita diri." I think all homes should be like libraries, with shelves upon shelves of books. Nanay thinks otherwise.

 

My subscriptions come with unlimited access to the online issues and archives of these magazines; so I don't feel like I'm shortchanged. Reading the expired issues take me back to the recent history of the world and remind me that nothing, not even longstanding regimes, last forever. 

 

I understand that it's hard to make the case for the existence of printed versions of these materials, except that these physical magazines should exist because they are meant to. I can't do anything else when I flip through the pages except to read or scan them. There is far less distraction. The ads are predictable, static, and actually beautiful. Words on actual paper demand attention. The sound of the pages as I flip them, the visible creases of folding or rolling, the industrial and scholarly smell of ink on paper give me pleasure. 

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Reading updates

Books on my bedside table (which is actually Manong's--I was given permission to occupy his bedroom while he's away): Thomas Pynchon's V, Joan Acocella's The Bloodied Nightgown and Other Essays, Gregorio C. Brillantes's The Collected Stories, JRR Tolkien's Letters. My Kindles (I have the Paperwhite and Oasis, which are such deliciously wonderful reading devices!) are also near me: technically, they carry with them an entire library! 

 

As you know I read voraciously and widely, and with no clear pattern or organization, and unless I write about them I tend to forget their states of reading completion. But books, in this way, are lovely: they do not feel left behind or emotionally injured; they simply welcome you back when you return. 

 

Tolkien writes to Camilla Unwin, his publisher's daughter, who asked him, "What is the purpose of life?" as part of a school project (letter 310 in the book). 

 

If you do not believe in a personal God the question: 'What is the purpose of life?' is unaskable and unanswerable. To whom or what would you address the question?

 

He continues: 

 

So it may be said that the chief purpose of life, for any one of us, is to increase according to our capacity our knowledge of God by all the means we have, and to be moved by it to praise and thanks. 

 

I also like the letters to his sons, such as this tender letter to Michael (letter 38a), which starts with, "My beloved boy" and ends with "Your own dear Father."

 

You can repay me, as much as I could possibly ask, by adhering to your faith, and keeping yourself pure and sober, and giving me your confidence. Every good father deserves the fraternal friendship of his sons when they grow up.  

And his reminders and honesty to Christopher Tolkien (no. 54):

 

Pray on your feet, in cars, in blank moments of boredom. Not only petitionary prayer. But remember me: I have a good many difficulties to face. 

 

I like passages where he writes about CS Lewis, his dear friend, as you'll read in his letter to Christopher (no. 57): 

 

I saw the two Lewis bros. yesterday & lunched with C.S.L: quite an outing for me. The indefatigable man read me part of a new story! But he is putting the screw on me to finish mine. I needed some pressure, & shall probably respond; but the 'vac.' is already half over ...

I also like his brutal honesty about the endearing and frustrating irritations we have in our dearest of friends, as we read in his letter to Anne Barrett of Houghton Mifflin Co.: 

 

C.S.L. of course had some oddities and could sometimes be irritating.

 

And then there are passages where he writes more about his irritations: he hates being interviewed and photographed while at work, he disapproves of the the illustrations of his book (he calls himself a "pedant"), among other things. Consider his letter to Rayner Unwin (no. 277). The context of the letter was that in 1965, Ballantine Books produced a paperback version of The Hobbit in the US, without incorporating his revisions to the text, with a cover that he had disapproved of. The woman in the letter was a representative of the publishing house:

 

Why is such a woman let loose? I begin to feel that I am shut up in a madhouse. Perhaps with more experience you know of some way out of the lunatic labyrinth. 

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Tears

Some people are surprised when I tell them I have a class to catch, and could I see them on my next clinic day perhaps?

“Class”? You’re still in school? What are you studying? is the usual reply.

I say I’m a teacher, which doesn’t quite get the message across. Then I clarify that I’m a pro-fe-ssor, which elicits responses akin to admiration. “Professor Catedral” has a nice ring to it, like a smart, fancy, and profound human being. But nobody calls me that, unfortunately. In reality, though, much of academic life is answering emails, meeting with wayward students whose absences warrant me to be creative with their make-up tasks, and attending committee meetings that often start late and could have been just as productive as emails. But these in-person meetings are almost always moments of human connection, with the warmest and kindest of teachers, and with generous servings of crispy turon for snacks—so why not?

And I’m an assistant professor (some meetings), not a full professor (many meetings, I imagine).

The job of teaching does get easier with repeated practice. I like to think I’m a better teacher now than I was last year. Unless I find a valid reason to prepare them all over again, I rehash most of my lectures, repurposing and improving them to fit the moment for a specific batch of students in a specific point in history. My teaching-learning strategy is a hybrid of synchronous and asynchronous activities. On these last two weeks I shared my video recordings of lectures to my students. The topics are technical—better read than listened to. My students would doze off if I gave hour-long lectures in class. While they wash their dishes or prepare for sleep, they can listen to my spirited discussion about the hallmarks of cancer, the principles of cancer treatment, and the side effects of systemic oncologic treatment. They’re adult learners (I hope) and should have the internal motivation to learn things at their own pace. After some time, I meet them in person, expecting they’ve done their homework.

Last Thursday afternoon, I gave my last lecture for the oncology module of the (Internal) Medicine course this academic year. What I had originally outlined as a 40-minute summary lecture extended well into the afternoon, with my students asking me deeply profound and smart questions, both personal and technical, that they could all be topics of an essay collection.

For that afternoon, I intentionally shared stories about my patients to give the personal side to otherwise technical concepts.

I illustrated Weinberg and Hanahan’s Hallmarks of cancer through a story about my young patient with ALK-positive lung cancer. That allowed me to to talk about targeted treatments, crippling the process of oncogenesis, especially invasion and metastasis. This man had superior vena cava syndrome and was at the brink of respiratory failure because the lung mass was obstructing his airway. When he took alectinib his symptoms disappeared; he is now back at work.

When I spoke about honoring the patient’s wishes, I told them the story of one of my first patients in the city: a university professor, a single mother, who had stage IV rectal cancer. I shared to my students my mental picture of her: always well put-together, with her flowing dress and lipstick, and her remark: Hindi halata ang colostomy bag, Dok, no? She chose not to see me for a year; she felt great after all the treatments and decided it was the best course of action to resume her life. The cancer was quiet for all those months, but she came back, jaundiced, in pain. She told me: I’m ready to get treatments again. I want to live long enough to see my son graduate.

Her sister would return to the clinic and would tell me how the senior high school graduation went: the patient was inside the car, looking out the window, seeing her son get his diploma. She would die the day after, her prayers answered: she had set her son up for success. And all was well. 

I delivered the lecture in the fourth floor auditorium with tiered, theater-style seating, and I could see my students’ faces. Many were in tears..

I went on and on—getting through my slide set and remembering my patients, forcing myself to hear the sound of their voices and laughter—until I was done. Any questions? I asked. 

Several students raised their hands, but not all at once. They asked me things I still ask myself. How do I deal with so much pain and suffering? How do I react to patients who do not have the funds for their treatment? Do I ever get sad and frustrated?

There was some personal confessions, too. The students opened up their hearts, becoming vulnerable, understanding that ours was a safe, sacred space. A student told me I was her grandfather’s doctor and she thanked me. Her Lolo had passed away. One student said his mother died when he was 16 years old. I asked him, You must miss her, don’t you? She must be your reason for taking up medicine. She must be so proud of you.

I was asked: Do you cry?

I said, I schedule my moments of drama.

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Lunch fellowships in church

On the first Sundays of the month, after communion service, my local church gathers together for fellowship lunch. Each family brings food to share. Visitors are welcome to join. If you leave, people will insist, smiling and pleading, that you stay and have a small bite, at least. This has been going around since my earliest memory of being in church and is one of the highlights of the church's monthly calendar. 

After getting food, you find a table and chair, small and colorful, borrowed from the nearby pre-school classrooms. (Our church has a school ministry.) You have a chat with others. If you hardly know anyone, someone else will approach and welcome you. A familial warmth circulates in the atmosphere. The formal communion in the worship service overflows in the informal lunch tables. Everyone feels at home such that nobody hesitates to eat with their hands, should the food require it.

That seems like a nightmare for introverts, but there's a table for the quiet and shy. They usually recognize each other and gather together. The fellowship lunch for them may feel just as welcoming. We have people in church who are naturally predisposed to quiet; the people at church would simply come over and ask, "Hi, are you good? We have more food." Our church excels in hospitality and generosity. 

The local church is amazing to me. In my life, God has brought me to places where there are churches that preach the Gospel and that happen to serve amazing food. Food equals warm welcome in Filipino Christian culture. 

On this Monday morning, as I prepare for work, I remember the lunch fellowship we just had: a feast for the body and soul. 

I love what Alistair Begg wrote:

The world is full of people struggling to find where they fit or striving to maintain their position in a company, society, friendship circle, or even their own family. God does not ask you to struggle or to strive but simply to enjoy. If you belong to God's people by faith in Jesus, then you have been rescued by His name, you have been freed from share, and you are part of His people. It is here that you fit, here that you find your home.

So yes: the church feels homey because it is home. 

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How to resize embedded photos from Flickr

Some website housekeeping, in case I forget. 

If you were here this week, you must have noticed that the photos have not been loading properly. I figured, with some AI help, that it could be due to this CSS/xml script I added to automatically resize the image widths of my embedded Flickr photos. 

/*----- POST IMAGE -----*/

    .post-body .separator {}

    .post-body .separator img {

      max-width: 100%;

      height: auto;

      margin-bottom: 15px;

    }

.post-body img,

.post-body .separator a img,

.post-body iframe,

.post-body video,

.post-body embed {

  width: 100% !important;   /* always match the column’s width */

  max-width: 100% !important;

  height: auto !important;  /* keep the correct proportions */

  display: block;           /* eliminates stray inline gaps */

}

/* === EXCEPTION: keep Flickr photos at their native width ============== */

/* Full-width for regular images and the usual video hosts */

.post-body img,

.post-body .separator a img,

.post-body iframe[src*="youtube.com"],

.post-body iframe[src*="youtu.be"],

.post-body iframe[src*="vimeo.com"],

.post-body video,

.post-body embed {

  width: 100% !important;

  max-width: 100% !important;

  height: auto !important;

  display: block;

}

/* Let Flickr’s own script control sizing */

.post-body iframe[src*="flickr.com"],

.post-body a[data-flickr-embed="true"] {

  width: auto !important;      /* keep native width */

  max-width: 100% !important;  /* still responsive if wider than column */

  height: auto !important;

  display: block;

  margin: 0 auto 15px;         /* centre + bottom gap */

}

  .tr-caption-container {

      margin-top: 10px;

      margin-bottom: 15px;

    }

    .tr-caption-container td {

      width: 300px;

    }

    .tr-caption-container td img {

      max-width: 100%;

      height: auto;

    }

    .tr-caption-container .tr-caption {

      color: #555;

      font-size: .9rem;

      font-style: italic;

      background-color: #eee;

      padding: 5px 0;

      border: none;

    }

I did some tweaks—the closest I've been to vibe-coding—but AI couldn't seem to grasp the situation. With some common sense, I realize the issue could be the caption container. I never put captions in photos; I describe the pictures in the text. I deleted that part of the code and retained the following.

/*----- POST IMAGE -----*/
.post-body .separator {}
.post-body .separator img {
max-width: 100%;
height: auto;
margin-bottom: 15px;
}

/* === EXCEPTION: keep Flickr photos at their native width ============== */
/* Full-width for regular images and the usual video hosts */
.post-body img,
.post-body .separator a img,
.post-body iframe[src*="youtube.com"],
.post-body iframe[src*="youtu.be"],
.post-body iframe[src*="vimeo.com"],
.post-body video,
.post-body embed {
width: 100% !important;
max-width: 100% !important;
height: auto !important;
display: block;
}

Problem fixed—but I don't claim credit entirely. 

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Airport

While waiting for my flight to Mindanao on a Saturday afternoon, I pick a seat near Gate 2 and eat what will go down as the best meal of the day—even better than Shangri-La’s eat-all-you-can breakfast buffet or the wagyu steak supper I will have later that night. It is 12:20 pm. I devour the Hen-Lin pork-with-shrimp siomai and asado-bola-bola siopao, my back hunched as I carefully arrange the food on my lap, careful not to spill any sauce on my pants. There are no decent restaurants at Terminal 2. Renovations are on going, leaving passengers to decide where to eat and drink—or whether to do those at all.

I resume reading Mark Vanhoenacker’s Imagine a City: A Pilot's Journey Across the Urban World. The writer takes me to Sapporo, in a chapter entitled City of Snow. His prose easily transports me to Hokkaido, where I, a man from the tropics, enjoyed the otherworldly sensation of being frozen early this year. As I savor the rare moment of quiet in the airport, the man seated near me stops scrolling his phone and asks me what I’m reading.

I respond in Cebuano after detecting his accent. 

Bisaya diay ka, he says, smiling. He says reading makes him sleepy.

I talk about the chapter I’m in, and about reading in general—that it gets easier the more you do it.

Ang akoang anak mahilig pud mag-basa-basa.

He says he’s flying to Bohol to visit his family. He talks about his family, especially about a son in Southern Leyte. He asks me what I did in Manila.

I had a meeting, I say.

Overnight ra ka?

Oo.

Unsa man trabaho nimo, Sir?

I tell him I’m a doctor.

He says his son wants to be a doctor, too. Dugay mahuman ang pag-eskuwela, Dok? 

It’s quite a long time, I say, citing the usual stats: 4 to 5 years of undergraduate degree, another 5 years of medical school, and many more after that, depending on one’s career path.

Ang akoang anak, gusto niya mag-surgeon sa utak. Nganong utak man jud ang gusto niya?

Ah, neurosurgery. Challenging na, pero exciting. I-encourage lang nimo, kung ana gyud ang gusto niya.

He says his son is set to graduate as top of his class. He is hard up financially but wants to support his son’s dreams. He says, Paningkamutan lang namo.

Daghan na scholarship karon uy! Mag-apply ra siya. Naa na’y mga state universities nga di kaayo mahal ang tuition.

Lagi ba, Dok?

Soon we hear the announcement: the flight is on time, boarding has commenced.

Mauna na ko. Congrats sa imong future doktor, I say to him as I shake his hand.

As I slowly inch my way to the back of the plane, I realize I did not even ask for his name. But he is a good father blessed with a good son, and there are probably many more like him—parents praying for a better life for their children.

After take off, I open the book and, lulled by the rhythmic turbulence, eventually sleep. 

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Rest

  

There are fleeting moments, as in the past days, when the desire to rest and refrain from work gets overwhelmingly powerful. Stepping out of the house brings about a weariness—fatigue and sadness combined. Those moments don’t last long, usually a few minutes upon waking up, before daylight, but they do make me wonder about the reasons why I do what I do. 

Perhaps because it has been raining in this part of the world, usually in the afternoons—a welcome respite from the equatorial heat of lunchtime. I love rains. They make me think deeply. I enjoy the rain when I’m at home, looking out the window, listening to the white noise of water crashing on the roof, observing the soil and grass getting wet, the flowers and leaves dancing as they receive the drops from the skies.

Perhaps because we’re nearing the end of the year. We’re closer to December than January, a fact that surprises me even as I write this. Time moves quickly as a whole, yet the acceleration of time remains  unobserved despite the hour-by-hour schedules I sometimes have to keep up with. The cares of this world, if I’m not careful, can drown the rhythms of the moment: weeks feel like days, or the reverse. I know my to-do list for the day, but I often forget what date it is, unless I check my phone. 

But the body keeps the score. And I must rest. 

Active rest is hard. I must have heard it from the late Tim Keller, whose voice I still listen to most times of the week on way to work, that rest involves idleness (doing nothing), meditation (studying Scripture and praying), and avocation (doing something else other than work, like a hobby unrelated to one’s primary job). I schedule moments of rest because I realize I’m not a machine. When I feel rested, I become more effective in my work. These rest periods may look like a 20-minute nap at home before I start my clinic, or an extended period of travel, like a week spent with friends and their families, or a weekend with my brothers, who now each live in Europe and Australia, or a quick drive to the farm with my mother.

But rest—the real, abiding, refreshing rest—is primarily spiritual. I love what the Redeemer City to City says about the topic:

True rest can only be found in Jesus Christ. We must stop looking to occupation as our main source of identity and fulfillment. Our true identity is a beloved child of God. Salvation is not based on our achievement, but on Jesus’ finished work on the cross. As Tim Keller writes, “the ultimate source of the tranquility we seek is Jesus Christ, who—because he has toiled for us on the cross—can offer us the true rest for our souls (Matt. 11:28–30).”

When we turn away from idolizing our career and look to Jesus, we regain a proper perspective on vocation and rest. Similar to work, rest was part of God’s original design for creation. God took a break (Gen 2:2-3). Likewise, God commanded His people to observe the Sabbath, a day when no one was to labour (Exodus 20:8-11).

Some people apply this passage by taking a day off each week. However, practising Sabbath is much more than a vacation. In reality, we cannot experience a Sabbath day if we do not have a Sabbath heart. In The Rest of God, Mark Buchanan writes: “A Sabbath heart is restful even in the midst of unrest and upheaval. It is attentive to the presence of God and others even in the welter of much coming and going, rising and falling. It is still and knows God even when mountains fall into the sea. You will never enter the Sabbath day without a Sabbath heart.”

It’s amazing to me that Jesus offers a welcome embrace for the world-weary and overworked among us: “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matthew 11:29).

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Neneng

I'm coming back. I left my phone charging by the main door, read the Neneng's text message, timestamped at Wednesday, 9 pm. 

I don't read it until early morning the next day. My phone is in perpetual sleep mode when I'm at home, but I do check it in regular intervals for urgent messages, which I don't, in my profession, get a lot of. 

She came back to the house that night, but we were all asleep, the gate locked. From the street, you can see a dim illumination from the wide front glass window, giving our home the aura of an old library: quiet and peaceful, shielded from the worries of the outside world. It probably didn't help that Paul, who forgets his job description as canine guardian at night, couldn't be bothered to bark, despite Neneng's plea. Paul is so adorable but it gets in your nerves when he ignores you intentionally. 

I must remember to remind Neneng to get us a new doorbell soon.

Neneng, whose real name is Generose, clocks in at 7 am to cook us breakfast, does household chores and groceries, and leaves in the afternoon, after she finishes cooking dinner. In our town, we call that the "stay out" arrangement: she reports for work at day time and comes home to her family at night. There are moments, such as a few days ago (because of a medical urgency involving Nanay), when we'd ask her to spend the night on occasions when we'd away. For house-sitting. There's not a lot of work to be done at home, but Neneng works incessantly, fixing and cleaning and wiping corners we often forget about. 

Get some rest, Neng! Turn on the aircon in Manong's room and take a nap. You're not getting any younger, you know?

But she won't hear of it. Sige lang bala. Daw magkasakit ako kung wala gina-obra.

This morning, on her day off, she knocks on the gate to retrieve her phone. I don't see her phone near the main door. 

Try ko nga i-miss kol.

The phone, it turns out, is inside Nanay's room. Last night, Nanay must have moved it from the living room to her bed room to keep it safe. 

As I hand the phone over to her, she tells me, Nakapasa na si Jezelle ba. Jezelle, her daughter who just took the board exam for medical technology; Jezelle, who borrows some of my books (Elena Ferrante's My Brilliant Friend, for instance) and returns them neat, with covers wrapped in plastic with loving care.

Nanay gets up and basks in the great news. Neneng says her husband Uncle Toto teared up with joy, and she did, too, and so did the entire family, who had been praying for Jezelle's success.  

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Freddie and phones

I like my devices old, cracked, and bruised. I find these imperfections charming, like of badges of honor: an old phone has lived up to its task, and it has done well. Also: old devices don't attract attention. I can leave them on the table, untouched by any competent thief who has appraised their value—close to nothing.

I've had no real desire to get a new phone, until Manong asked me if I had a phone to spare. He plans to use the phone in Sweden where he will live and study for the next few years. I figured I could easily get a new phone with my postpaid plan, and I'd hand over my old phone to him. 

I got myself a new phone today—an iPhone 16, the basic variant—to replace my trusted five-year old iPhone 11. I've long since lost count of the iPhone variants in the market, but I remember starting with an iPhone 5, then 6, and transitioned from a prepaid TU-200 promo by Sun Cellular (the "in" thing at the Philippine General Hospital during my years of training) to a postpaid plan. 

My visit at the mall was unceremonious, like getting my driver's license renewed. I had to do it out of duty. I picked the phone that was the most available and that would fit best in my pocket. I left the store with the new phone in my bag, without buying so much as a case and a screen protector. The walk from the mall to the parking area felt strange; the silence was palpable. 

Then I remembered Freddie, my dear friend and medical oncology colleague and father of my goddaughter, who insisted to pay for my screen protector and case after he accompanied me to get my unit at at Robinson's Manila. It was in December 2019. He was more excited than me. 

"Please, Lance, have mercy on your new device. Put a screen protector," he said. 

This is the same Freddie who, until now, inches towards stores that sell all sorts of phone cases, sometimes preferring the transparent plastic to the faux-leather cases with covers that can hold one's credit cards—like the ones old people use in Hong Kong. This is pretty much the same Freddie who changes phones every few months; I get alerts in Viber that he has a new number, and therefore, almost always a new device. 

I remember that, after buying my iPhone 11, we headed home, taking the train from LRT Pedro Gil Station up to MRT Boni (my stop) and MRT Shaw (his). This was the era when the trains would break down mid-trip and sweaty, harassed passengers would be forced walk along the train tracks. The video footage would then be shown in TV Patrol, when people still watched TV. 

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Downtime

One thing I’ve learned these past years in bringing friends together: planning trips on a whim, on a joyful, last-minute impulse, often gets things done.  My high school classmates and I did this when we planned a trip to Taiwan in 2024. During a christening after-party, we agreed to book cheap flights in February for a trip that would happen in September. The trip eventually materialized, except that Daphny and Vanessa had to rebook their tickets due to other work commitments. That cost them more in the end, but, at that point, they were far too committed to the out-of-town reunion and feared they’d miss out on all the fun. I look back at the trip now with fondness and joy. How far we’ve come, literally, from our Marbel hometown.  

Planning is good. What makes it bad is doing it over-the-top. For men and women in their late thirties, a category that sounds older more than how it actually feels like (I’m of the 28-year old mindset that I get surprised when people drop the po/opo on me), over-planning leads to over-analysis. A wealth of valid excuses not to leave home exists and can be deployed successfully: children, meetings, work activities, other personal commitments. 

And then there’s the sense of exhaustion after a long week at work, which is just as valid. I feel that by Saturday, I’ve reached my quota for human interaction. I want to enjoy the comforts of home, clean my fountain pens, play around with my typewriter, play some music, and tackle my tsundoku. I replenish my social battery in silence and solitude. 

But there’s a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven. Seasons of impulsive decision-making are triggered by the environment. Case in point: sitting together with like-minded friends at a birthday party last week. Lining up to get food on the buffet table, I told my classmate Katty, “I miss the beach.” She said she felt that, too—and could she bring her kids along? Perhaps the beach was merely a pretext for a kind of hunger for rekindling old friendships: I do miss my high school classmates and am curious about how they are doing. They live nearby but we hardly ever see each other.

Which brings me to another thing I’ve learned in bringing people together: adding a personal touch to invitations is more effective than impersonal chat group invitations. I had very little expectations that they’d agree to go at all: three people was the bar I’d set for the getaway. But I was surprised to hear Ryan and James and Wendy agree to come. Several people were on the fence, and others replied they could not make it, deploying the reasons I’d written about, including an elective surgery one classmate would undergo. I asked Willie to make reservations for rooms in a resort in Glan, Sarangani. Willie possesses an unlimited reserve of energies for planning these things. I have ideas; he executes them, with brilliant ideas of his own. There’s another lesson here: it’s good to have someone like Willie to put everything together. The room reservations, the food to bring, the carpooling arrangements. 

 

On a Friday after-work afternoon, I found myself alone at the resort. Not entirely: there was a family sitting quietly by the coast, waiting for their ride home.

My classmates would arrive many hours later. They were at work, finishing last-minute tasks. I took a luxurious nap inside the two-story house. The noise of the airconditioner lulled me to REM sleep. 

When I awoke, I looked out the balcony and saw Daphny standing by the shore.  

“Gutom na ko,” I told her, as we walked along the coast, enjoying the last rays of sunset. “Let’s find something to eat.” 

We did not bring any food, and the resort’s restaurant was closing early.  August is downtime for tourism.

Willie, Katty (with husband Dunn and kids Mark and Addie), Angeli, Ryan (with wife Kathleen), James (with wife KC), and Wendy would be bringing the meals and drinks. And many stories, which would keep us awake until midnight.

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Solitary walks

 

Craig Mod describes himself as a writer, photographer, and walker. He takes solitary walks all around the world, mostly in Japan, where he has lived for more than twenty years. His book, Things Become Other Things, is largely based on those walks, a distillation of his writing much reflected in his website. I thoroughly enjoyed his walking memoir. His prose is terrific. His wisdom and kindness radiates through the pages. He shares about a life based on a scarcity mindset and discovers, when he lands in Japan in his twenties, that people in that country exist with a mindset of abundance. The closest Japanese word for it is Yōyū. As far as I understand it, the Filipino concept of kapwa seems to approximate what it means—sharing one’s life with others; the neighbor is an extension of one’s self.

Craig is so interesting, and I cannot recommend subscribing to his newsletter—it’s one of the best there is. I’m subscribed to Roden and Ridgeline. He writes about things that resonate with me: cameras, book printing, solitary walks, and humanity. His thoughts about living in an age of distraction are wise and generous.

He also gets me thinking about walking and biking, things I can possibly do in my hometown. Nature is just around the corner—we have mountains and lakes and seas and valleys. And, in all honesty, I haven’t explored my city completely. (A few days ago, my classmate Jeff drove me home from Daphny’s birthday party, and I was surprised that thriving neighborhoods now exist in places that used to be devoid of human dwelling. I told him, “Sigurado ka nga Marbel pa ni, Jeff?) Craig’s photography is amazing, too! He works with Leica and the iPhone; the photographs he features in his newsletters and his book are topnotch.

How strange it is that we never walk as we ought. When one’s foot touches the ground—one foot after the other—the spirit is connected to the ground, the mind is alert, the soul is comforted. But then, there’s the heat and humidity, and the clear and present danger of South Cotabato drivers who can squash you to pieces.

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Tetsugakudo Park

It's a scene from Perfect Days, I say to Luther and Jaylord, my friends for more than twenty years.  

They don’t understand the pop culture reference off the bat, but they listen, perceptive as ever. As we walk around Tetsugakudo Park, hiding under the shade to shield us from the summer heat, I explain: It’s a movie directed by Wim Wenders about a man who cleans toilets and lives a simple life. He reads a book at night and wakes up early in the morning. He takes a break at lunch, eats onigiri (or am I imagining that part?), and enjoys “the sunlight that filters through the leaves of trees.” The Japanese call it komorebi. The film won’t make sense anywhere else but in Japan, a country that isn’t quite like any other place I’ve been to.  

We briefly rest on a bench and sip iced tea we got from a vending machine. I look up and witness the gentle dancing of trees, tickled by the intermittent whispers of the summer wind.  

 They look great in the fall, Luther tells me, pointing to the trees. Earlier, walking with me from his home in Shinjuku, where I am given five-star accommodations, to Jaylord’s new apartment, he showed me the queue of trees lush with greenery and told me they are cherry blossoms. He pointed out the reservoir of flood waters beneath the park grounds, a feat of Japanese engineering and thoughtfulness. I learn so much from Luther, one of the smartest and wisest people I know. He breezes through difficult subjects while the rest of us struggle to even pass. 

Jaylord says to me, Would you believe people come to us for help with English? It's crazy. Luther chimes in, In college, writing those papers gave me a very hard time! Now I'm consulted to check their grammar!

I’m visiting Tokyo for the weekend, a trip I brought upon myself after I booked round-trip tickets on a whim. Luther and Mau’s son Leroy had been asking about cells and doctors. It was really Mau—I fondly call her Mrs. Mau now; I had the privilege of emceeing their joyful wedding reception in Tagaytay—who got me thinking of visiting Tokyo. Of course I wanted to show myself to Leroy. I packed a white coat and a stethoscope, things that would show Leroy I'm a cool uncle. The last time I saw Leroy he was a little boy, being carried around, barely talking.  I have other dear friends who live in the area. Jaylord and wife Raine had just been married. I hadn't seen Razel since college graduation! Mich is taking her master's and is set to be married soon to another dear friend, the number one reader of this overly popular website (for context: the daily traffic is 2 views per day.)

My friends have lived in the city for several years. They look the same as when I had last seen them in person. I can’t quite remember when that was, for the past has a way of obscuring the boundaries of time. I feel like we’d just seen each other last week. 

I’ve come to a point in my life where I equate travel with reconnection and disconnection. I’m past the midpoint of my lifespan, considering the average Filipino lifespan to be 72.19 years (as of 2022). I might as well spend time with friends who have known me since before: a rekindling of relationships, if you will, for these people are precious to me and have walked with me during my faltering, emaciated, but joyful days of college. Would I wait until retirement to do that, when my knees will falter and my mind will have a hard time remembering flight details? Electronic connections are inferior to face to face conversations. I realize that a few days spent with friends is soul-nourishing, but it can only happen with temporary and deliberate disconnection from my every day routines. Work can be crushing, no matter what limits I set. True rest, I’ve realized, is primarily spiritual. Augustine wrote about our hearts being restless until they find rest in God. But rest is also aided by physical disconnection, a sense of unreachable-ness sometimes achieved through a four-hour flight and a tourist visa. 

Discovering places still gives me joy, a sense of childlike wonder at the peculiarities of a place or culture. A college professor once told me that travel is just as educational as a four-year university degree. But I can say the same about being in the company of these friends, whose worldview is shaped by an abundance sustained by the grace of God, overflowing with their love for others and in their competence to deal with the realities of life.   

Luther and Jaylord, both brilliant engineers and meticulous planners, ask me where I want to go.

I tell them, Anywhere with you, an answer that makes them scratch their heads.

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Morning walks

I feel Paul's awareness of me as I walk past him to make myself coffee. At 4:30 am, he's half-awake, dreaming perhaps of the adventures he'll have during the day. I'm not sure if dogs dream like us, but I like to think they do. There are times when I'd hear Paul barking quietly, like he's responding to someone in a whisper. His rapid paw movement, his version of stationary somnabulism, generates the reaction in the house that sounds like, "Awww, look at The Other Guy." Paul is so smart I think he understands Hiligaynon. When we need to put a leash around him, we refer to him as The Other Guy and speak to each other quietly, just so he won't know we are out to get him. 

Dogs don't live as long as people do. They don't look forward to anything much except the precious time they spend with their masters. Who Paul's master is depends on the time of day: it used to be Sean, until he went abroad. Then Manong took over the ritual, until a few weeks from now, when he leaves for colder pastures. I realize I'll be the one left to do the dog-walking, a task I don't necessarily consider a chore, but given the emergencies and responsibilities I have at work, it does take a lot of time. It delays my departure significantly. On the average, I've calculated, using data derived from my brothers' experiences, that it takes at least 30 minutes to satisfy Paul's walking needs: enough time to allow him to defecate in his flower bed of choice and to permit interaction with the other dogs in the neighborhood.

 

There are days when walking him is impossible. 

On rainy days he refuses to move. He hates stepping on wet earth. On some days, he escapes our grasp in protest: he is so smart he knows we're planning to shampoo him. He retreats to the garden or hides below the sofa; running after him is frustrating. On busy days, when meetings, patients, and classes inundate me, I would open the gate and let him roam around. Our neighborhood is safe. We don't fear that he'd be dog-napped. Strangers don't find aspins (previously, askals, though we've been told that's no longer politically correct) particularly lucrative. Paul will return after some time, panting, but his joy is inferior. He likes our companionship. He wants us to walk him. He wants to walk with us.

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Tokyo and Olympus

I can't wait to write about the weekend I met friends in Tokyo, but that, too, will have to wait. As with any meaningful trip I came back refreshed and delighted. And grateful. I get emotional thinking about the blissful weekend with Luther and Mau and son Leroy; with Razel who hasn't changed much after two decades; with Jaylord and his wife Raine whom I was meeting for the first time; with Mich and her fascinating stories of love. Sure, Kariuzawa and Odaiba and Shinjuku were amazing, but the rare chance to reconnect with friends-turned-family--to see God's providential and kind hand move in their lives, both personal and professional, was even more so. 

*

I now have my first prime lens: Olympus M. Zuiko 45 mm f/1.8. 

 

I discovered it through Robin Wong's Youtube. Reviews are generally and overwhelmingly positive. The lens is a delight. The first time I tried it, I kept toying with the focus ring, which didn't so much to help with any focusing. Then I discovered that's what a prime lens is: a "fixed focal length photographic lens (as opposed to a zoom lens), typically with a maximum aperture from f2.8 to f1.2." Thanks, Wikipedia. I told Mike all about my discovery--that prime lens can't zoom in or out. One must physically move the camera toward or away from the subject. When I bought it, I thought "prime" meant "high value." Mike is clearly judging me now. 

 I took it out with me on my walk around the neighborhood. I was curious how the lens would perform on low light. With the camera hanging on my neck and my hand pulling Paul's leash, I went around the block. 

Here are the unedited photos taken in auto mode, because, in all honesty, where would I find time to post-process these? 

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