I fantasize romance. I read, watched and heard too many love stories. I imagine my love story will be something more passionate, something worthy of all the time I waited for you.
But, I realized that I want to become more worthy of you. I want to cultivate myself in becoming virtuous in your sight and in the sight of the Lord.
I want to learn compassion. I want to have eyes like Jesus- to see the needs of others and be selfless enough to extend help. I want to learn generosity, a kind of heart that gives and loves without expecting in return. I want to learn calmness in the midst of trials knowing that God is in control. I want to learn humility that I have nothing to boast except the cross. I want to be always delighted in Christ.
And when you finally arrive, when we finally found each other, I can still be independently strong, being still in the Lord and not in you. I hope when we have each other I can still plant my own daisies and flourish them with grace.
I hope I will become more beautiful in the eyes of God as I experience the man I waited for in my life. I hope I am willing to take risks and never be afraid to give everything to you. I hope I will never get tired to listen to your stories and be always present in your small or big victories in life. I hope I will also become the shoulder that you can lean on.
Until the day we meet . . .
I am scared. I am scared firstly, of getting used to talking with you, of having a conversation in the middle of the night and of speaking my mind freely to you. I am scared that I might get conversationally attached if that thing even exists.
I am scared that you won’t listen to me anymore and you won’t respond to my questions.
I am scared that I am only a past time, a convenient friend at your convenient time. Or probably, I am not a friend at all.
I am scared because I am starting to develop a sense of care, of passion and emotions to you. I am scared because you have become one of my constants and I don’t want to lose you anymore.
I am scared that you might be just like my other friends, who would leave in uncertainty.
Please tell me I can trust you. . .
My heart is breaking
. . . When I reflect on what I have become
. . . When I celebrate pride instead of humility
. . . When I curb in my comforts instead of extending my limits
. . . When I enjoy solitude rather than building relationships
. . . When I compare rather than encourage one another
. . . When my dreams become practical rather than extraordinary
. . . When I nurture brokenness rather than rejoice in the light
. . . When hate becomes apathy rather than forgiveness
. . . When trials look like punishments instead of lessons
. . . When faith becomes an emotion rather than truth
. . . When victories become pride rather than testimonies
. . . When a blessing feels like my good works rather than grace
. . . When sin becomes usual and obedience becomes hard
. . . When kindness becomes subjective rather objective
. . . When love becomes expensive instead of free
. . . When cross becomes symbols instead of redemption
. . . When redemption becomes a history rather than the gospel
. . . When Christ becomes an option instead a whole part of my existence.
My heart is cruel even evil and apart from Jesus I am nothing but a filthy rag.
Isaiah 64:6 KJV
 But we are all as an unclean thing , and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags; and we all do fade as a leaf; and our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away.
I am missing home.
I remember white morning glories on the alley of a convenient store. Flowers bloom as the sunshine strike at 7 am.
I remember walking home on a warm summer afternoon. Looking at a purple sky and a peaceful sunset.
I remember lying on a dim pavement street, staring at the milky way. I remember crickets and chirping birds.
I remember the sound of raindrops and the cuddle mornings. I remember home feels like the smell of my father’s hot chocolate.
It’s two in the morning. We just finished a bottle of white wine and a dozen of stories. I included myself in the circle of adults sharing experiences. There were six of us that broke the late night silence of the living room. Loud laughters and happy memories were remembered.
Everyone exuberantly narrated their own stories as their eyes litted up in nostalgia. It was like a never ending narration of experiences. They shared insights and wisdom. Some shared lessons. While, others opened their ears in listening.
I deliberately listened to them. Their voices were full of emotions trying to convey the exact feeling they had with the event back then. Their faces looked tired as the night gets late, yet everybody seemed hyped.
One started to stand. “We’re going to a party,” he implicitly asked our consent. “We better get going,” someone added. We cleared the table, fixed the sofas, then went our own way.
It’s two in the morning. I am going to go to bed.
I can’t sleep. More than my anxieties, the noise outside the balcony keeps me awake in the middle of the night. I hear different stories as I unintentionally listen to some acquainted voices. I close my eyes as the smell of the cigar intoxicates me. I tightly hug my pillow, hoping to find comfort in chaos. Then, their voices fade in the darkness of the night sky.
The rain started to pour on my way to Chinatown. The thunder was loud. The streets were wet. People were hastily getting off the street as they hid themselves to the small canopies of the stores, enough to keep them dry.
I did not mind the rain. Instead, I happily walked around with splatters on my shoes. I searched for nothing in particular. I entered to different shops while my eyes wandered. I found stores selling dried leaves for tea, dried fish, and dried meat. I saw vendors selling Asian fruits like Durian and Jackfruit. Souvenirs were displayed and items were offered cheap. It would have been nice to have bought something, but my eyes were full, my feet ached sore. The rain subsided. I left the place telling myself, “it is time to write.”
I did not sleep well. I remember before I went to bed I was stacking my books, my journals, and mostly part of my 23 years of existence in a box. I dusted off the sad nostalgia of leaving. “I have to do this,” I told myself. I neatly closed the box like it was a casket of my memoir with a lingering melancholy. I remember earlier that day, I was also fixing my clothes, packing too much yet not enough of my life in a suitcase. Again I told myself, “I have to do this.”
7.1288° N, 125.6461° E
I did not sleep well. I remember I was praying before I went to bed. I asked God for deliverance, for providence, for courage, for calmness, for protection, for strength, and for joy. I am scared. I am sad.
I did not sleep well because again, I am leaving. I know I have done this so many times in my life. I have been traveling my entire life to unknown places, I should be used to it. Yet, I am not. It would always be hard to leave. . .
The silence is deafening but at least it does not hurt you with words. The silence makes you wonder a lot of things and entertain your deepest thoughts but at least it does not judge you with your dreams. The silence makes you sad but at least it accompanies you in solitude. The silence is like a safeguard from the perils of heartaches, like the stillness in the unknown, like the comfort in chaos, and like a solace in distress.
Text: Lamentations 3:18-26
17 my soul is bereft of peace;
I have forgotten what happiness is;
18 so I say, “My endurance has perished;
so has my hope from the Lord.”
19 Remember my affliction and my wanderings,
the wormwood and the gall!
20 My soul continually remembers it
and is bowed down within me.
21 But this I call to mind,
and therefore I have hope:
22 The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
23 they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
24 “The Lord is my portion,” says my soul,
“therefore I will hope in him.”
25 The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him.
26 It is good that one should wait quietly
for the salvation of the Lord.
“Lamentations reminds us of the importance not only of mourning over our sin but of asking the Lord for His forgiveness when we fail Him” -Chuck Swindoll